Seven for a Secret

Chapter Nine

Despite a chilly drizzle which left the streets dark and damp under an overcast sky, a wave of heat washed over John as he stepped through a brick archway and into a wide courtyard. The heat emanated from a low, open-sided structure housing the circular hump of a brick-built kiln.

The workshop of the glassmaker Michri sprawled near the crest of the ridge overlooking the Golden Horn, at the edge of the Copper Market not far from the Great Church. John had been here before to commission glassware for imperial banquets and ceremonies.

Any other Lord Chamberlain would have delegated that part of his official duties, but John enjoyed inspecting glass goblets destined for imperial tables. These were things of substance. John missed the weight of a sword in his hand. The secrets of the court, measured advice, subtle political maneuverings, most of the matters he dealt with now, were insubstantial and the results of his efforts uncertain. It might be more satisfying to shape molten glass into a pleasing shape or turn up the soil of a field. In another life, he had envisioned himself retiring to a farm.

The maw of the kiln gaped momentarily red as a man, no doubt one of Michri’s assistants, added wood to its glowing innards. Under the roof of the shelter the air steamed. The smell of wet stone and earth mingled with that of burning charcoal.

Michri stood at a long wooden bench and examined a translucent blue wine jug. When he noticed his visitor he put the jug down and stepped forward.

He was a hulking barrel-chested man upon whose massive shoulders was balanced a head as smooth and hairless as a blown glass egg. Whether the lack of so much as a shadow of an eyebrow was due to a lifetime’s proximity to flames or whether the glassmaker shaved to avoid being singed while at work, John had never inquired.

“Salutations! A visit is always an honor, Lord Chamberlain.”

John acknowledged the greeting. “I fear I have no commission for you, Michri, although it is not for lack of satisfaction in your work or artistry. The empress has in fact spoken most highly of your last contribution to the court.”

“Ah, that was a challenge! Who but myself, Michri, could have carried out such a task, sir? To make copies of fruit and bread and fish, indeed every dish to be offered at the imperial banquet. They were such faithful reproductions our dear empress’ guests could not tell until they touched them they were but artifices intended to delight and entertain?”

“Not even then. Senator Flaccus would have bitten down on one your apples if I hadn’t noticed and solicited his opinion of the situation in Italy in the nick of time.”

Michri laughed. “I’m sure Justinian appreciated the views of such an astute observer!”

“Theodora appeared to find them of interest.” John did not mention that after the banquet the empress had ordered the glass food distributed to the hungry clustered at the gates of the Great Palace. Instead he pointed out that the tableware Michri had provided for the formal gathering had been much admired.

Michri dismissed the compliment with a wave of a hand. He scowled and his smooth forehead wrinkled where his eyebrows should have been. “Plates and wine cups! Beginner’s work, Lord Chamberlain! But not everyone has the lung power to be able to manufacture a wine jug such as the example I just fashioned. Sufficient breath is not enough. The artisan must study for years to learn all he needs to know. It’s not just poking a rod into molten glass and merrily puffing away, although to hear some talk any fool can do it.”

As the artisan warmed to his topic his voice boomed. “No, there is much more involved. The worker in glass has to know how much fuel is needed to maintain the kiln at the correct temperatures and what type of wood to burn. Supposing he buys plain glass and wants to color it, he must have precise knowledge of the correct amount of copper or cobalt to add for the shade he needs. It’s skill and knowledge hard won, you may be certain of that, Lord Chamberlain. The number of burns I’ve suffered in gaining them would make an icon weep.”

He glared at his assistant, now busy stacking wood next to the kiln. Had there been friction between master and assistant? Had Michri’s words, spoken more loudly than necessary for ordinary conversation, been intended as much for the ears of his assistant as for those of his visitor?

John glanced at the workshop bench. “I see there are several plates whose color matches the wine jug. A special task?”

“A new patron and a supporter of the Blue faction,” came the reply, “hence the color of his glassware. He’s anticipating a great victory for his team when chariot races run regularly again, and plans a celebratory gathering in due course. It was difficult finding sufficient copper for the tint with trade not yet back to normal, but I heard about a man in the quarter who’d received one of the last scrap shipments that arrived in the city before the plague. When I made further inquiries, I learned he had died before he could use it so I was able to purchase a sufficient amount inexpensively from his widow. I only hope my beautiful wares survive the celebrations.”

In response to John’s questioning look, he added, “You’d be surprised how many baskets of broken glass find their way out of the palace and back into my workshop. I can melt the shards down and reuse them. They’re worth a few nummi to me, so a rich man’s carelessness turns out to be small boon to the servant who has to clean up after him.”

John gave a thin smile. “I’m certain that’s the case. But I am not here to speak to you about your glassware. I want to question you about your trade in tesserae.”

Michri looked surprised. “I will be happy to assist as best I can. Are there plans afoot for new mosaics at the palace? Or perhaps our beloved Justinian is contemplating construction of another church? Let me show you some excellent work.” He retrieved a small basket from underneath the bench.

“I’ve some beautiful gold tesserae here,” he went on. “My assistant has been practicing these past few weeks and has finally mastered the making of them. You see?”

He plucked up a few and handed them to John. “It took him some time and patience to learn not only how to put gold leaf on a cube but also the method of adding the final coating of glass to stop the gold tarnishing.” He lowered his voice before continuing. “Even so, he grasped the technique a lot faster than I did as a beginner. I fear I am sometimes too harsh with him. It is because I have great hopes for his future.”

John rolled the cubes around in his palm. They flashed and glittered, finding light even in the gloom.

Zoe was nothing more than a basketful of such glass.

No, that wasn’t true. She was also all the conversations he’d had with her over the years and the hours he’d spent staring wordlessly at her, pondering over his wine cup.

And her model, the woman who had approached him in the square-the dead woman-was certainly special. Flesh and blood was worth more than glass, wasn’t it?

It had begun to rain harder. He could hear it drumming on the roof. A gust of wind blew rain into the enclosure. Steam rose from the hot earth at the base of the kiln.

John expressed polite admiration for the tesserae and dropped them back into the basket.

“If it is to be a large job, I will need some time to prepare,” Michri said. “And for certain colors, I can’t be sure I can obtain the proper ingredients. On the other hand, I still have cakes of glass in certain hues ready to be cut.”

“It would be a small undertaking. I understand you’ve supplied tesserae for years. Do you recall who created the mosaics in my house? It was about ten years ago. The tax collector Glykos owned the house at the time. I’d like to engage the same artisan for some repair work.”

Michri’s face wrinkled in thought and then he grinned. “I can assist you, Lord Chamberlain! I remember that job well, small as it was, because it required many of the tesserae to be prepared in a peculiar manner, oddly shaped and painted on one facet. When the mosaic maker insisted that such tesserae could be set into the mortar in such a way as to show different scenes according to the lighting, I was skeptical, but apparently his method works since I hear he’s done several others since.”

“It does indeed, Michri. The effect is startling. I will arrange for you to visit and see for yourself in the near future. Do you remember the man’s name?”

“Certainly. He lives not far from here. His name is Figulus.”