Seven for a Secret

Chapter Twelve

Home, to Menander, was a tenement behind the Church of the Mother of God. Francio remembered some urgent business and took his leave of John and Anatolius as soon as it became apparent that Crinagoras insisted on accompanying them.

The church and tenement were not far from the workshops of the artisans John had visited that morning. The rain had stopped and the lowering sun turned puddles and wet roofs red.

As the trio made their way through the russet light, the poet declaimed at Homeric length. “I need to stride the streets and fill my lungs with the same air as the simple folk.”

He gesticulated so wildly his toga flapped and billowed like a sail. “Yes, those of us who make our living by our wits have yet much to learn from those humble souls who have nothing more than their stained and work-worn hands between themselves and an empty stomach.”

He skirted the filthy, bare feet of a man sitting in a doorway, ignoring an outstretched, skeletal hand.

“Uncharitable bastards!” The croaking cry of the beggar followed them down the street. “May you rot!”

John swiveled on his boot heel and glared back. One look at the Lord Chamberlain’s expression and the beggar found an urgent reason to leap up and scuttle away.

Anatolius gave John an inquiring glance.

“Perhaps I’m not in a charitable mood,” John told him. “Besides, you’re always telling me I shouldn’t be filling every palm I see on the street.”

Crinagoras looked pained. “I’m not so sure that I can find inspiration in a beggar. Certainly not from such a foul and insulting beggar. A ragged child, perhaps. For even the homeliest subject can become poetic in the hands of a master. Consider if you will Virgil’s encomium to his salad. I intend to recite it at Francio’s banquet since plain fare is the menu.”

He paused and picked his way around dung lying in their path. “I have improved Virgil’s work just a little,” he went on, “in order that his archaic verse may fall more sweetly on today’s ears. After that I shall recite one or two of my latest creations about life in the city, as it was before the plague arrived. These are darker times.”

“And this is the dark alley down which we go, according to the boy at the reading.” Anatolius plunged between two buildings leaning confidentially toward each other.

Crinagoras stopped and moaned. “Oh, but really, Anatolius, it will ruin my poor boots!”

The morning’s rains had turned the passage into a swamp. Straw and half-decayed vegetable leaves littered the black surface of water broken by scattered islands of even less appealing ordure.

“Never mind your boots,” Anatolius told him. “You can write a verse or two acclaiming their heroism.”

“What an excellent idea! My friend, though entombed in the cold sepulcher of the law, your poetic soul still blazes like an eternal flame.”

Crinagoras hitched up his long toga and tiptoed forward. He uttered a faint squeal as the water rose to his ankles. He took another cautious step and then flailed one hand at a swarm of huge green flies that had suddenly decided his face was more appetizing than an unidentifiable lump next to a wall.

The hem of the toga flopped into the mire. He grabbed at it. Slipped. Started to fall forward.

John’s hand shot out, grasped Crinagoras’ arm, and pulled him upright.

The grim smile he gave the poet was more appalling than the glare he’d directed at the beggar. “If I’m distracted any further by your eloquence, Crinagoras, I might not be able to catch you next time.”

***

The wood-framed tenement where Menander lived sagged toward the stolid brick back of the Church of the Mother of God as if in search of support. The entrance hall beyond the open doorway was unlit and its close air smelled of boiled onions.

In the dimness, the trio passed a woman seated at the bottom of the steep stairs. As they stepped around her, she raised her hand as if to beg, but instead drew a line on the plaster wall with a stub of charcoal.

The boy who claimed to have helped Menander home had given precise and accurate directions. At John’s insistent knock, Menander threw open the splintered door of his third floor room.

He was, as Francio had described, an impressive figure, a stern looking man, broad shouldered, with bristling brows and white clouds of hair gathered around a craggy face. Though he was gaunt and bent, his flinty eyes were still level with John’s.

Menander filled the narrow doorway. “If you are here about the money, you will have to come back next week. I am in the process of selling a few costly items and will pay you then.” He spoke in carefully modulated tones.

“We’re not here on such business,” John replied. “I wish to ask you a few questions. I am-”

“Now I recognize you. John, the emperor’s Lord Chamberlain, isn’t it? My apologies. I was not expecting to see someone of your station in such a place.” Menander stepped aside to allow his callers to enter.

John’s first thought was that he had stepped back into one of the storage areas in which he had spent the days when he worked for the Keeper of the Plate. Menander’s room, however, although it contained gold and silver, boasted a wider variety of precious objects. Glassware, furniture, statuary, wall hangings, and silks were piled in disarray. The congested space was bisected, floor to ceiling, by a loosely packed wall of treasures that sparkled and glinted like the iconostasis of a large church. John realized his filth-encrusted boots were defiling an expensive floor covering but Menander did not appear to notice.

“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Menander said. “If you don’t mind, we shall remain in my atrium.” He glanced toward an irregular gap in the glittering wall. “My office, in the back there, is rather cluttered.”

As far as John could tell, the nearest couch sat atop two others. The trio remained standing. Anatolius appeared bemused by the scene while Crinagoras gaped like a child.

Menander coughed. “As you see, I am blessed with many of the world’s goods. Yet, for all that, I live simply.”

John introduced his companions.

“Crinagoras I know,” said Menander. “I found your poetry reading today most satisfying, young man. Your words will stay with me for some while. They provided food for thought.”

Not to mention food for the stomach, John thought, noting a large wedge of cheese sitting on a silver plate.

“I’m certain Crinagoras is pleased you took something away from his reading,” John said. “Do I understand correctly that you were, some years ago, removed from the emperor’s court?”

Menander looked surprised at the sudden change in topic. “That is so, Lord Chamberlain. There is no point in hiding the reason why a former silentiary occupies such cramped quarters.”

Anatolius murmured polite regrets.

“It is all too common, young man,” Menander replied. “I was fortunate to escape with my head and this meager portion of my possessions. Not that I had more than a few cart-loads left, by the time I’d paid out enough bribes to get my treasures out of the palace. There was no truth in the charges. I do not blame our esteemed emperor, Lord Chamberlain. I am convinced Theodora’s vile hand was in it.” He smiled sadly. “I was very close to Emperor Justin. You’ll recall that he opposed Theodora’s marriage to Justinian for some time. After all, she was a former actress and hardly fit to wed his nephew, the future emperor. Theodora unfortunately has a long memory. Many of us who expressed admiration for Justin found ourselves exiled from the palace. Is there any foulness, any evil or crime in which she is not involved?”

Menander was a brave man to say this, or else intoxicated, John thought. Not to mention fortunate. Justinian was utterly unpredictable in his treatment of enemies. One might be summarily executed, the next merely stripped of titles and privilege and often welcomed back into the emperor’s good graces within the year. Those with lives spared by the emperor’s whims, along with families whose property had been confiscated either as punishment for misdeeds or for reasons known only to the imperial couple, comprised a shadowy, dissaffected army.

“How exquisite,” exclaimed Crinagoras, plucking a small item from the marble curls of an ancient Greek bust. He held up a red, pressed glass icon, displaying the face of Christ no larger than a man’s thumb.

Menander snatched the icon away. “Be careful! That’s an hour of my life you held there! Perhaps two short hours of winter daylight, if I can get the right price.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?” Crinagoras blurted out.

Menander pursed his lips in annoyance. “During my years at the palace I collected many things, some for their beauty, others because they fascinated me. Now I live by selling my treasures off to a dealer in such goods. I measure the time I have left by what remains to be sold.”

“A melancholy calculation,” observed John. He didn’t add that by his reckoning the artifacts within sight would finance a large number of lifetimes, let alone the remaining years of a man Menander’s age. Though, to be fair, there was no telling what sort of costly vices a former member of the court might have acquired.

“What is most melancholy,” Menander said, “is considering which shall be the last cherished item sold.”

Crinagoras beamed with excitement. “I’ll find a few choice verses in your situation, Menander. It must be like living inside a water clock that’s slowly emptying!”

“Isn’t there a profession you could pursue?” Anatolius put in.

Menander’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Work? At my age? Besides, I have a profession. I am a silentiary. Unfortunately for me, there is no call for my services at present.”

It was true, John realized. There was only one emperor in the city employing men who could cut an impressive figure while standing beside a palace doorway.

“Don’t you worry someone will steal these beautiful things?” Anatolius asked. “Treasures like these would normally be kept closely guarded. This building is hardly secure.”

“There you are mistaken, young man. I chose this abode carefully. You must have noticed it abuts the church. Practically every tenant works for it, so I am surrounded by lectors and sub-deacons, by those who fill the church lamps, dust the icons, and polish the reliquaries. Weak though my physical fortifications may appear, my riches are protected by a mighty fortress of devout and honest Christians.”

“Indeed,” said John. “But those who are employed by the church do not share your palace background. Do you keep in touch with former friends? With others who have been banished? I’ve been told that you are well known among those who have lost their places at court.”

Menander stiffened. “I have no complaint against Justinian whatsoever. If you are fishing for rumors and sordid gossip-”

“That’s not my purpose. What makes you think so?”

The old silentiary stared at the red glass icon in his hand, set it on the plate next to the cheese, and sighed. “I am sorry, Lord Chamberlain. I spoke hastily, I admit. The last time someone began making inquiries about my acquaintances it soon became apparent he was far too interested in hearing scandalous tales about Theodora and grievances against the emperor. I’m not naive. I understand the ways of the court. When I realized what he was after and tried to put him off, he was not very civil.”

John asked the name of the inquirer.

“He called himself Procopius. He accosted me at the Baths of Zeuxippos. He claimed to be writing a history and said he was employed by the general Belisarius.”

“I believe Belisarius is currently in the city. He was recalled under a cloud.”

“Let’s hope he remains in disfavor then. No doubt the emperor can’t wait to start some new, ruinously expensive military venture now that the plague is over. Perhaps we were luckier being ruled by the plague. At any rate, this Procopius was an unctuous and unpleasant little man.”

Crinagoras sniffed. “I’ve heard of Procopius. I understood he was planning to pen some turgid prose about Justinian’s architectural projects. The subject is as inspired as the typical legal document.”

“I am not interested in rumors,” John said. “I can hear as many as I wish at court. But I do seek information about a man named Glykos. What do you know about him?”

“Glykos? He was a tax collector, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. He owned a house on the palace grounds, opposite the excubitor barracks, not far from-”

“I’m familiar with the house, Lord Chamberlain. By sight, that is. Glykos himself, however…”

“It’s his wife and child in which I’m interested,” John replied. “Glykos was one of those men the emperor had executed following the riots. His wife and daughter were spared, but thrown onto the street. The girl was named Agnes.”

Menander shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’ve never encountered anyone related to Glykos. The mother and daughter most probably turned to begging or prostitution. They could well be dead by now what with the rioting then and the plague just past. Or they might have departed from the city. If so, they could be anywhere.”

“Is it possible they assumed another name?”

Menander’s eyes narrowed and he pulled himself up straighter. For an instant John glimpsed the formidable demeanor that must have served the old silentiary well in the days when he presided over the great bronze doors leading into Justinian’s reception hall.

“I assure you, I have never heard a word about the unfortunate mother and daughter, whatever name they might have chosen to go under, even if they are still alive.”

Crinagoras gasped.

Glancing around, John saw the poet hastily put down a small, rectangular mosaic, an icon depicting a golden cross.

“What’s the matter?” Anatolius asked.

Crinagoras eyed the icon warily. “It’s been taken over by a demon,” he stammered. “I…I…turned it toward the light and it changed from a cross to a…to…well…”

Menander laughed. “It serves you right, young man. Didn’t I tell you not to disturb my belongings? May you have nightmares!”

“I have seen mosaics like that,” John said. “Where did you obtain this one?”

“I don’t remember, Lord Chamberlain. I’ve had it for years.” He gestured around the treasure-packed room. “It’s hard enough for me to keep track of the value of all this, let alone recall where every item came from.”