Seven for a Secret

Chapter Thirteen

John, Anatolius, and Crinagoras stood at the foot of the tenement stairs and contemplated walking back through the inky puddles of the alleyway, now barely visible in the deepening twilight beyond the doorway.

“I shall have to at least wrest some verse from this miserable excursion,” muttered Crinagoras. “I’ll call it A Paludial Passage. What could be more emblematic of the common life than slogging through muck and mire and-”

“I’m glad someone has found some inspiration here,” Anatolius broke in. “John, you don’t believe Menander knows nothing at all about Glykos’ family, do you?”

“No. I would have expected him to have heard gossip or rumors if nothing else. It isn’t surprising Menander would be uncooperative. A man who has been expelled from court isn’t likely to have any great love of those who remain there, regardless of what he might say about Justinian to my face.”

Anatolius looked down and scowled. “I’m in agreement with Crinagoras. I hate thinking I’ve got my boots soaked for no good reason. Perhaps Menander should be reminded of the consequences of misleading you?”

“I don’t want to frighten him. There are plenty of others in his position and I wish to avoid spreading alarm about inquiries coming from men living in the palace.”

John turned toward the woman they had seen sitting on the stairs on their way up to Menander’s room and asked her where he could find the owner of the tenement.

The woman, who had been studiously ignoring the trio, looked away from contemplating the wall. “I hope there is nothing amiss, excellency?” Her tone was anxious. “I collect rents and keep watch and you can be sure I am ever alert. It’s not everyone who will trust a woman with matters of business, but the owner of this fine dwelling is one.”

The fading light fell against the wall beside her, illuminating a line of charcoal marks and smudges where a few had been rubbed away. The woman herself remained in shadow, a faceless figure with a rasping voice.

“Who is the owner?” John asked.

“The Church of the Mother of God,” was the surprising answer. “All the tenants here work for the church in one way or another. Their lodgings are so close to it they don’t mind paying a little extra for the privilege of not having far to walk.”

She tapped the line of charcoal marks on the wall. “As you see, I keep track of them most carefully. I hope nobody is spreading bad things about any of them, excellency. Most are poor, but all of them are honest.”

Anatolius complimented her upon the honesty of the tenants.

“The three of you are from court, aren’t you? I am very observant, sir,” she replied. “Menander isn’t in trouble, is he? If he were, I would never try to conceal him from you. My job is to watch and collect rents. I work for the church, which instructs us to obey the emperor in all matters.”

John did not observe that since they had just visited Menander, concealment would not have been possible. Instead, he asked the woman how long Menander had been a tenant.

“He’s been here for years, excellency. Never been any bother. I will say. Very quiet, he is, even when he’s imbibed too much. That’s all I know. As I said, my job is to collect rents and keep watch. Also to make certain nobody lets half a room out behind my back. Not that I don’t sympathize, for it’s difficult to scratch out a living and getting more so every day.”

She sighed. “But Menander…I cannot tell you much about Menander, I fear. A polite man, but not talkative. One who’s lived at court-rubbed elbows with the imperial couple-why would he spend time gossiping with ordinary folk like me?”

“Are there any others from court here?”

“There’s one other, excellency. Her name’s Alba. She is from a famly that was once wealthy but she talks to us all and is kinder and more considerate than most. She cleans the church and gives most of what she earns to charity.”

“Do Menander and Alba know each other?” John asked.

“I couldn’t say, excellency. I’ve never seen them together. Alba is one who works each day laboring at the church or Samsun’s hospice while Menander is in and out at strange times. I don’t know how he occupies himself. Whatever he does, he often needs an escort to carry him upstairs afterward.”

Alba occupied a small room on the top floor of the building, two floors above Menander. However, their informant advised them it was useless going back upstairs since Alba had been at the hospice all day.

As the trio stepped out into the gloomy alley and began to splash back to the street, the woman seated at the bottom of the stairs reached over and erased three marks on the wall.

Crinagoras looked back at her with evident curiosity. “The keeper of the gate,” he muttered. “Like Cerberus, or-”

A scream interrupted his inspirational thought. A black, howling shape raced past them up the alleyway, and slid around the corner at the far end like a chariot rounding the turn in the Hippodrome. A hissing, brown terror followed, feet working wildly against the slippery ooze, sending up a shower of black water and filth.

“Mithra take those cats!” shouted Anatolius, wiping his spattered garments with his hands.

“Demons!” screamed Crinagoras, his voice hitting a higher pitch than the felines had managed.

His cry was as nothing compared to the wail of horror he emitted as he lost his balance and sat down, hard, in the muck.

John helped him to his feet. To his surprise, the poet seemed to compose himself almost immediately. In fact, even as he slapped ineffectually at the mud on his clothes, he smiled.

“An epic’s come to me!” he blurted out. “Why, don’t you see? The door to the underworld’s in an alleyway in the Copper Market! Behind a church, no less! There’s a moral there for all to learn! We see the keeper of the gate! We are attacked by demons! It will rival Homer! I am so sorry, Lord Chamberlain. I must return to my kalamos immediately before my muse deserts me. You will be able to proceed without me, won’t you?”