One for Sorrow

Chapter Thirty-two

The gold and silver tableware being arranged under John’s supervision on the main table in the Hall of the Nineteen Couches was worth the price of any number of inns equal to the Kaloethes’ establishment, which explained why a small army of guards was posted inside and outside the elongated, two-story high building where the most important imperial banquets were held. John only wished he could explain why Justinian had ordered him to oversee a task his assistants could carry out by themselves when John had more pressing matters to pursue.

He was contemplating the placement of a gold platter big enough to hold an entire pig, a platter Leukos had once confided had cost the imperial treasury 1,440 nomismata, when a series of piercing screams echoed through the long room.

Most high officials would have looked around for their personal bodyguards, but John, still ingrained with the habits of his military days, ran immediately toward the commotion.

Near the entrance two guards were struggling to hold a skinny child who was thrashing around like an eel.

John demanded an explanation.

“This little slave seems to think he has an audience with the Lord Chamberlain,” replied one the guards.

“He’s done well to get inside the hall. Sometimes initiative is rewarded. Let the boy go.”

The guards released the boy, who seemed suddenly overcome by awe.

“S-S-Sir…I…I…”

“What is your name, boy?”

“B-B-Beppolenus, sir.”

His tunic was bloody and there were bruises and blood on his face.

“Who beat you?” John glared at the guards, who muttered their innocence.

The boy wiped his face and rubbed his hand on his tunic, leaving red streaks. “X–Xiphias, sir.”

“You’ve come to tell me your master beats you?”

“No, sir. I’m to say…I’m here to tell you….the visitor you asked Xiphias about. He did come to speak with the Keeper of the Plate. Xiphias was lying. And…and the man spoke to Xiphias.”

“Indeed?”

Tears welled up and the boy wiped his eyes, smearing blood across his face. “Xiphias doesn’t know I’m here.”

“From your appearance I see he still clings to his old habits,” John said. “I shall accompany you back.”

As the boy turned to go, his swollen lips formed a smile of satisfaction.

***

John could not be certain Beppolenus was telling the truth. On their way to the workshop he couldn’t extract any coherent details from the boy. On the other hand, John knew from his own experience that Xiphias was a violent liar.

There was the time Xiphias, in one of his daily rages, smacked John across the face with a candlestick. Then Xiphias hauled him in front of Leukos, blood gushing from John’s nose, and claimed John had hurt himself when he and another young man had decided to engage in a sword fight with candlesticks.

The accusation that the twenty-five year-old John would have stooped to such childish stupidity hurt more than his smashed nose. It was particularly ridiculous because John, a man who had fought as a mercenary, could have easily killed any of the palace-raised apprentices had he decided to attack one.

John felt long-smoldering fury over that and other incidents as he strode into the Keeper of the Plate’s office. Perhaps it was time for Xiphias to suffer for his misdeeds. John prided himself on being a fair man, and he had not taken revenge on Xiphias now that he had power to do so. However, lying to the Lord Chamberlain, who was investigating a murder….that was a serious offense.

However, Xiphias was not there.

“He ran away like a scared dog,” one of the older apprentices told John, not trying to conceal his smirk of satisfaction. “As soon as Beppolenus went to tell you, right after Xiphias finished beating him.”

“This is true, Beppolenus?”

Beppolenus chewed his lip nervously. “Well, yes, sir. It was time. I mean, I was too scared before but after he hurt me I got angry.”

Leukos and John had from time to time talked about Xiphias and so it was that John knew the man, a bachelor, lived in rooms on the edge of the Copper Quarter. The neighborhood took its name from the metal-working establishments clustered there and John had grown familiar with it during his apprenticeship, when he had often visited workshops to deliver orders from the palace.

Xiphias’ building was a four-story structure of smoke blackened brick. John was greeted in the vestibule by a withered woman, dressed in soot colored robes, who gave the impression of having been smoked herself.

“Xiphias?” she wheezed. “You must have come for the rest of his things. I hope you brought a cart.”

“Is Xiphias here?”

“If he was here, you wouldn’t be moving his things, would you?” She looked at John through clouded eyes that apparently could not discern that he was not dressed like a laborer.

“He’s gone?”

The landlady coughed, then spat on the floor. “And good riddance. After all these years, this morning he says he’s leaving. Immediately! Well, he paid me what was due, so you can get on with it.”

“I’m here to speak with Xiphias, not to move his possessions. Where has he gone?”

“Did he tell me? Of course not, the ingrate. Didn’t I put up with his friends, in and out at all hours? Not that he didn’t make it worth my while.”

“He had a busy social life?” John couldn’t imagine that. It had always struck him that Xiphias hated humanity in general. Then again, he probably didn’t consider slaves and eunuchs and underlings quite human.

“Well, he was a single man, you know,” the landlady observed.

Apparently Xiphias had not only fled his workplace but also his residence as soon as Beppolenus ran off to see the Lord Chamberlain. Perhaps John had been wrong to doubt the boy’s story.

“Show me Xiphias’ rooms.”

The landlady cackled. “I don’t know how you’re going to move anything without seeing them. You’re a slow one, aren’t you? But I don’t suppose they employ you for your brains.”

The rooms were on the first floor and looked out onto a walled garden behind the building. They were well furnished. If much had already been moved out the place must have been extremely cluttered. John questioned the woman further.

A couple of men had loaded up a donkey cart.

“When was this?”

“Right before you arrived. I don’t know how you didn’t see them. You must be blind.”

“Mithra!” John muttered under his breath.

He raced outside. There were the usual crowds beneath the colonnades, some hurrying, others loitering in front of shops. The air was heavy with smoke and the sounds of the city.

There was little chance of catching up with Xiphias. Nevertheless, John started down the street, moving away from the palace on the theory that a fleeing man’s first inclination would be to put as much distance as possible between himself and what he feared.

John’s boots slapped loudly against the cobbles as he dodged wagons and horses. It was easier to navigate around the congested and slow-moving traffic than through the crush of pedestrians.

He overtook a covered litter borne by four hulking slaves. As he went by he caught a glimpse of the curtain opening a crack to allow a heavily powdered and rouged face to gape in amazement at what must have appeared to be a wealthy aristocrat gone mad.

He had spotted a high-sided donkey cart swerve abruptly into an alley, the driver applying the whip.

Was it Xiphias? Had he spotted John coming after him?

John managed a burst of speed and as the cart completed the turn and began to accelerate, he caught up, gained a handhold, and pulled himself on to the cart.

As he crashed down, toppling crates, he realized instantly that his pursuit had been in vain. This wasn’t the cart carrying Xiphias’ belongings.

Brushing feathers off his garments, he cursed, his oaths drowned by a cacophonous cackling.

He was certain that whatever Xiphias kept in his rooms it had not been chickens.