Three for a Letter

Chapter Twenty-five

“But where is the straw man?” demanded Sunilda. “I want to meet him!”

John noted the exasperated look Zeno cast at the girl. They were standing in the workshop, looking on as Hero tinkered with the automatons Sunilda had asked to see and was supposed to be admiring.

“Why are you so interested in a silly bundle of straw when you can see these wonderful musicians and this shining archer?” Zeno made a sweeping gesture toward the trio of almost completed automatons set in the middle of the workshop. His flapping orange sleeve struck Hero, who was squatting nearby adjusting a length of bronze tubing. Hero glanced up, blinking rapidly and obviously annoyed.

“These mechanical figures are very nice indeed, Zeno,” said Sunilda, “but the straw man is really the most important one, isn’t he? It seems such a shame, really, that he’s no sooner put together than he’s dashed on the rocks. If I were Theodora I’d honor him before he was thrown off the cliff.”

“I’ve never thought about it quite that way.” Zeno looked as if the notion distressed him.

“If your entire life were spent leading a procession you might indeed have a short existence, but at least it would be a happy one,” Hero remarked, tinkering with the innards of a lyre-player.

John took Sunilda’s small hand and gave it a tug. “If you want Hero to finish what he’s working on in good time, we’d best leave him to it.”

Sunilda made an effort to pull her hand away but it was apparent John was not going to release his grip. “Oh, very well! We can go and see whoever’s making the straw man, Lord Chamberlain.”

“It’s Minthe, John,” Zeno put in. “I gave her one of my old robes to dress it in and a rather sad-looking leather ball for its head.”

“We can’t go any further than Minthe’s house,” John told the girl firmly as they left the workshop. “Bertrada expected you to have only a short visit with Hero and will be wondering where you are if we’re away too long.” He did not mention that he did not wish to take the girl into the village, since it was in an increasing uproar over the dire configurations of the goats.

The smell of smoke from the forge followed them outside along with the sound of hammering and a sudden muffled curse from Hero. Godomar might consider the automatons the devil’s work, John thought, but it would take a miracle to see them finished in time to perform their allotted roles at the festival.

“Let’s have a game of micatio!” Sunilda had managed to slip her hand loose from his and raised her small fist.

John sighed but made a fist himself. Playing micatio was not one of his official duties at court.

Sunilda smiled. “One…two…three…” she counted and shook her fist up and down. “Six!” she shrieked, unfolding four fingers at once. She gave a delighted laugh. The Lord Chamberlain had called “Five!” and extended two fingers.

“Your two fingers and my four make six,” the girl explained importantly, if unnecessarily. “So I win this time! Do you want to try again?”

John smiled and made another fist. He had discovered during the last few days that he did not care much for children’s games. Perhaps he would not have made a very good father had Fortuna permitted him the opportunity to help raise his child. Yet he had not minded pretending to race Sunilda around the garden and it had not occurred to him until afterwards that he must have appeared very foolish indeed loping along in his formal robe a few paces behind the little girl.

“Two!”

“Three!”

Sunilda clapped her hands with glee. “Again!”

They played the game for a while longer. John did not win one round. He wondered if she were cheating but could not see how.

She laughed again and looking down at her smiling face John chided himself. He was too familiar in dealing with adults, the powerful men and women at court who survived by such behavior, not little girls who took such pleasure in a simple game. “I’m afraid Fortuna smiles more often on you than me, Sunilda.”

“Not at all,” the girl replied solemnly. “I just know what’s going to happen before it happens.”

“I see.” John amended his thoughts. His experience, or rather lack of it, of dealing with eight-year-olds obviously had little bearing on how he should deal with Sunilda.

They were still standing at the edge of the courtyard by the workshop. Loud and contentious voices began to drift out of the building. John urged Sunilda to hurry if she wanted to visit Minthe and see the straw man.

“I haven’t played micatio for a long time,” he remarked as they set off. “Who taught you how to play?”

“Felix showed me yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“He and Bertrada are best friends again,” the girl said seriously, “so I’m glad Poppaea is getting better. I’d like someone to play with. Bertrada will be talking all the time with Felix and reading to him now. Felix is funny sometimes but when I pulled his beard, he was angry with me.” She looked contrite.

“I’m not surprised,” John replied as they reached the coast road. “But as a proper young lady you should know that not only was it very impolite to do such a thing, but also unwise to annoy a ferocious excubitor captain.”

***

When John entered Felix’s room its occupant looked up from the codex on which he was concentrating.

John did not mince words. “You are consorting with the girl Bertrada again?”

Felix replied shortly that his private life was his own affair.

“When it leads you to neglect your duties it is the entire household’s affair, and especially mine.”

Felix snapped the codex’s leather covers shut and tossed it down on the bed in a manner much too careless for so costly an object. John assumed it belonged to Castor. Every other volume he had seen in Zeno’s villa thus far seemed to have come from his neighbor’s library

“If you weren’t a good friend, I would draw blood for your suggestion that I neglect my duties, John,” Felix said with a scowl. “Do you suppose I’m some dreamy poet like Anatolius? When I’m on duty, I’m on duty and not sewing a fine embroidery of romantic fantasies in my head.”

“You wield an excellent metaphor for a military man!”

“What would you know of…” Felix caught himself. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, John. I do sound like Anatolius, don’t I? Making a fool of myself over a girl. No woman should cause strife between two old comrades such as you and I.”

“It’s a common enough occurrence, my friend,” John replied. “Of course, you need not fear me as a rival for her affections.”

“I didn’t mean-”

John gave a slight smile. “Then let’s put our argument behind us.”

He picked up the codex, noting that it was Cassiodorus’ Gothic History, and leafed through a few of the pages. They retained a faint smell of ink.

“This is a heavy tome in more ways than one, if I may say so, Felix.”

“And it’s only the first of twelve,” was the doleful reply.

“But you’re not a Goth, are you? I hope you aren’t supposed to memorize the history of all these tribes. There are scores listed here, what with the Aeragnaricii and the Ahelmil, not to mention the Vinovilith, the Suetidi-”

Felix gestured to John to cease reading. A faint smile flickered behind his unruly beard. “And none of them my kin either! However, like the Goths, my tribe has Germanic roots, so we’re practically related, Bertrada and I.” He looked at the floor and then suddenly asked, “John, do you ever grieve for an opportunity you failed to grasp?”

“In a word, no, or at least not so far as court goes. Or do you mean an opportunity to hear warm words from a young woman’s pretty lips?”

Felix’ jaw set firmly as his nascent smile vanished. “No, I didn’t mean that, but since you mention it, younger eyes sometimes see more clearly than old and it’s certainly true that I’m not advancing as quickly as I should.”

“The emperor and the empress always see very clearly everything that might affect them, Felix, including discontent among the palace guards. Even the merest appearance of improper ambition is extremely dangerous. More than one such foolish dreamer’s head has been set free to wander, as you should know.” He paused, aware suddenly of the uncharacteristically cold tone in his voice. “I’m sorry, my friend. I’m getting short-tempered. I’m afraid I’m not advancing quickly enough with my current task.” He waved the codex he was holding. “And this has reminded me again of how utterly I have failed in my search to learn anything of the whereabouts of its owner.”

“I’m sick of the cursed thing! Much as I love history, by the time I finish twelve volumes of it, I’ll be history myself. If anyone remembers me, that is.”

John leafed thoughtfully through the codex. “This set must have been an expensive acquisition. Why would Castor be so interested in the Goths?”

“He was interested in everything, John. Obviously he knew that Zeno had Goths as guests this summer and it piqued his interest.”

“That’s probably so.” John snapped the codex shut. “But have you noticed, there’s something exceedingly strange about all this? The murdered child was an heir to the Ostrogoth throne. And yet, look at those who have died or vanished since. A mime, a servant, an unworldly Roman patrician. None of them Goths or even politically involved. How often, would you say, is a royal heir murdered for reasons having nothing to do with succession?”

“I doubt you’d find anyone who would give you good odds on that. After all, innocent people often die when the powerful squabble.”

John stood. “Well, I may not be able to question Castor personally, but since he apparently spent most of his time reading and had a tendency to annotate the works with thoughts on their subjects, through them he can tell us what he thinks. Let’s go and make inquiries about his interest in Gothic history by consulting his library.”

***

While John scanned the library’s shelves and alcoves Felix glanced through some of the notes piled on the table. “Look at this, John. It says, ‘A Comment On Galen’s Treatment of Digestive Disturbances.’ It’s just as you said. Castor had an opinion on just about everything.”

“And apparently compelled to set them all down. Now, let me see…” John pulled a leather-bound volume down, twin to the one Felix had been reading. He leafed rapidly through the work, stopping now and then to consider notes scribbled into it by its owner. “There’s one thing to be said for living in a world that consists of the written word, Felix. You can easily correct what’s wrong with it.” He paused. “Have you seen this?” he asked in a suddenly grim tone.

Felix leaned over for a closer look. “I don’t think so. What is it?” John directed Felix’ gaze to several scribbled lines in a small space left under the text at the bottom of the last page. The ink was darker and the crabbed writing not so meticulous as the hand of the scribe who had copied the book. “Is this Bertrada’s writing?”

“What do you mean?” Felix looked confused. “What? These names here? This lineage?”

“Written as if someone were imagining a place for themselves in the Ostrogoth royal family.”

“Mithra!” Felix expression darkened. “I don’t know if it is Bertrada’s writing. I’ve never seen it. It doesn’t look much like a woman’s hand to me. Surely you don’t imagine we sit around and pretend we’re king and queen like poor little Sunilda?”

“No. I don’t. I just wanted to be certain.”

There were several names arranged in rows, with lines linking some together. He recognized Theodemir, underneath which was written the name of his son, Theodoric, the Ostrogoth king of Italy. Below Theodoric was inscribed Amalasuntha, Theodoric’s daughter who had ruled as regent and whose murder had brought Belisarius to the gates of Ravenna. Beneath her name appeared those of her children, Matasuntha and Athalaric, while below Athalaric’s were written the names of his twin offspring, only one of whom was still alive-and indeed, not that far away.

“But why shouldn’t Castor write in his own codex if he wants to?”

“That isn’t what troubles me. It’s this.”

John touched his lean finger to the parchment, pointing out a line from Theodoric descending to two other names-one of them familiar.

He slammed the volume down with an oath. “I am going to Constantinople at once, Felix. I wish to have another word with Senator Balbinus about his deceased brother and his missing nephew, Castor.”