The Deadliest Sin

The Third Sin

It was not long before the old man who had expressed his regret – rather prematurely – about Katie Valier’s grandfather, and had asked about Perruzzi’s fate, had another question for her. He moved closer to her, and with his eyes strangely not on her but on the glowing fire, spoke quietly so that only she should hear.

‘Is it true that your grandfather travelled in the East?’

‘Oh, yes. He had many adventures there, and made his fortune. Though that was soon gone when he returned to Venice, for he cared little about keeping it. The fun was in the making of it for him.’

The old man nodded, and stroked his long, white beard.

‘I understand that perfectly. But tell me, you said his name was Zuliani?’

‘Yes, and he was nothing if not a true Venetian. But he was also proud that his mother was English. And that is why I am in these parts. I am looking for any of his family that might remain in England. They were from Bishop’s Lynn, and were called de Foe. The plague has interrupted my journey, but I shall get there eventually.’

‘So you are not, like me, on a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Walsingham? Well, I will pray that you are spared this horror. And that the family of your grandfather are, too.’

He reached out his hand as if wishing to reassure her but seemed to grope a little in the air before finding her arm. Before she could say anything, though, he moved on.

‘But there is another question I would like to ask. You see, my father and mother travelled in the great empire of Yuan and I was born there.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘I don’t know if I am English, like my father, Jewish, like my mother, or Chinese by birth.’

Katie Valier was surprised at his confession that his mother had been Jewish. The Church expressly forbade any sort of relations between Christian and Jew on pain of death. She wondered if that was why his parents had travelled far away from England. She was also curious about something this old man had said earlier.

‘Tell me. Why did you ask about my grandfather’s name?’

‘Ah. That is to do with the question I wish to ask. You see, when I was growing up, I was told tales of a Chinese demon called Zhong Kui, who righted wrongs. It was an old tale, but it seemed to have got mixed up with a real-life foreigner whose thirst for justice meant he was called by the demon’s name too. His real name – to the Chinese – was Zu Li-ni.’

Katie laughed and clapped her hands like a young girl.

‘It must have been Grandpa! He investigated crimes for the Great Khan. He would be so flattered that he was remembered still.’

The old man smiled and nodded his head.

‘My father may even have met him. He certainly knew many stories about him. And my father had no small fund of his own tales too. In fact, your story of Zuliani has reminded me of one of them.’

He turned his head to the group of pilgrims, who still sat close to the fire, too bound up in a fear of their possible fate to fall asleep. The old man raised his voice so all might hear him.

‘My name is David Falconer, and I have a story to tell which, though it is brief, will get you thinking about another of the Deadly Sins. This one is about…

Gluttony

More than thirty years ago, I was travelling through the fabled land of Trebizond. Of course, many tales are told of the place, not least that it was the land where Jason and the Argonauts sought the Golden Fleece. But I have another tale to tell – a tale of a land that was all too real, populated by mortal men with similar failings to our own. It is a tale of murder.

The Empire of Trebizond is a splinter of the Byzantine Empire, which has come to rest on the southern shores of the Black Sea. Barely forty miles deep and two hundred miles long, it is, nevertheless, an opulent and secluded paradise made rich by the trade that flows through it. I came to it from the east by following the Silk Road to Erzerum, where several camel trains came together, bringing dyes and spices from Baghdad, Arabia and India, together with raw silk via the Caspian. This single great caravan of a thousand camels, each bearing three hundred pounds of merchandise, then wound its way over the Pontic Mountains, which protect the back of Trebizond, and down into the city that gazes out over the sea that is its lifeblood. Traders from the west venture there by water on a four-month journey that culminates in the protective, curved arm of the harbour wall. We, as I say, had come overland from the east.

Descending on the swaying back of a mule, I felt almost as though I had arrived by sea, with a lurching feeling of sickness in my stomach. My travelling companion and secretary, the monkish Brother Philip, chattered eagerly as we passed along the edge of the western ravine that protects one side of the city with its tumbling waters. I learned later that the eastern side of the city is similarly protected by another natural moat.

‘Master, you cannot imagine the view from here. The city falls away at our feet, and sweeps down to the waters of a great sea. And it is so lush. The trees grow steeply on either side and the colour of the flowers is overpowering.’

Being sightless, I drank in his description. And I shared his excitement, for I could smell the heady scent of pines that grew along the path. That, and the scent of the camel train’s contents – pepper, cinnamon, myrrh and spikenard – mingled with the local scent of fruits and musk and incense. It was the very essence of the city I was going to get to know well. We descended the Zagnos valley, skirting the upper town and the Citadel, and broke off from the caravan train to enter the lower town through a grand gateway. Philip led the way and my mount followed obediently. The monk’s voice piped up with excitement, describing all he saw. He was barely twenty, and his beard was a mere wisp of soft down on his cheeks. Everything he saw was a marvel to him, but I valued his description of the lower part of Trebizond as we rode through its narrow streets. It seemed the arrival of the caravan was an occasion for celebration. The main road that led back up to the Imperial Citadel was hung with patterned carpets and lined with men in glittering livery. Many walls were covered in holy paintings in ochre and red and dark blue. The inhabitants of this lower town, where the foreign merchants dwelled, were gaily dressed in tight robes quite unlike the loose garments of the West. Their chatter, and the noise of playful children, made it difficult for me to hear what Brother Philip was saying. I asked him to speak up.

‘I was saying that we shall have to dismount soon or we shall trample some child underfoot. It is like swimming against the tide. Everyone is making for the gate we have just entered.’

I called out to someone in the throng, ‘Where is everyone going, pray?’

A woman answered with a voice that had laughter in it. ‘Why, to the Meidan, where there will be games and food stalls to celebrate the arrival of the caravan from the East.’

‘Yes, we came with it part of the way ourselves. But I am seeking an official of the Emperor’s court. He is the keeper of the Emperor’s library, and goes by the name Theokrastos. Do you know where I might find him?’

I had an introduction to this scholar, given me by a Nestorian monk in the Yuan Empire. In truth it was a tenuous connection, for the grimy monk in furthest Tatu had only heard of Theokrastos second-hand through travellers on the Silk Road. But I had heard many stories of the library of Alexios II, Emperor of Trebizond and Autocrat of the Romans, and would use any influence I could exert to get to see it. The woman I spoke to doubted I would see the scholar today, however.

‘Everyone in the court will be on the Meidan, sir, and I must go or I will be at the back of the crowd and see nothing of the acrobats.’

I let her go, and dismounted from my tired horse. Philip did the same, and took my reins from me.

‘If we look for the sign of the Lion of St Mark, master, we will be sure to find accommodation. The Venetians are acquisitive but generous with their hospitality.’

I agreed and followed wearily beside the horses, as Philip led them down towards the harbour.

It took longer than I had expected to meet George Theokrastos. The Emperor’s court was a strange mixture of strict formality and indolence. And its officials were hidden behind a screen of bureaucracy. Written requests had to be made for any meeting, and these documents languished in stacks of similar entreaties, only to be dealt with in the mornings. Afternoons were a time of torpor. I made use of my frequent spare time by walking around the city in the company of Brother Philip. We were fortunate to witness a procession one day as the court made its way from the Citadel to the monastery of St Sophia beyond the western ravine. Philip called out excitedly as servants with golden axes, eunuchs in white robes, and Imperial Guards in shiny breastplates passed before us. We were forced back against the walls of the houses as princes in cloth of gold and black-clad Orthodox priests swinging gilded censers moved slowly by. The air was heavy with incense and excitement.

‘Look,’ cried out Philip over the buzz of the crowd. ‘There’s the Emperor carrying a crozier, and wearing a dalmatic with a design of eagles woven in purple and gold thread.’

It was the first time we had come across the Emperor, and I drank in the atmosphere.

The following day, I finally had my audience with George Theokrastos, the keeper of the Emperor’s books. I submitted my letter of introduction from Sauma, the Nestorian Christian in the East, and was pleasantly surprised that Theokrastos had heard of him. The letter oiled the ponderous wheels of the Trapezuntine bureaucracy, and Philip and I were soon immersed in Greek and Roman texts that had been rescued from the sack of Constantinople by Flemish soldiers of the Fourth Crusade. We had been allowed into the inner city, the second tier of Trebizond as it were, with only the impregnable Citadel still towering over our heads. But even the library was a palace, with white marble, ivory and gold everywhere. We soon settled into a routine, with Theokrastos bringing us examples from the Emperor’s collection like titbits for a valued guest. Philip took each tome in his hand and read while I listened and absorbed the text.

He began with the Ecclesiastical History of Salamanes Hermeias Sozomen, which was dedicated to the emperor Theodosius the Younger. It began with the consulship of Crispus and his father, Constantine, and went down to the reign of Theodosius. Sozomen was at one time an advocate in Constantinople, and I thought his style better than that of Socrates. The work was nine books long, and took as many days to read. Philip was coming to the end of the final book, when I heard a commotion in the antechamber to the library. Someone was complaining loudly to George Theokrastos about the foreign merchants in Trebizond. I asked Philip to venture closer to the doorway, and see who was causing the disturbance. After a short while, when the raised voices had quietened down, he came back and told me what he had observed.

‘It is a portly gentleman dressed in the finest of robes, all encrusted with jewels, who looks as if he is a person of great importance at the Emperor’s court. His face is quite red, and he is practically foaming at the mouth. He was showing the librarian some parchment he had in his hand, and complaining bitterly about its contents.’

My curiosity was piqued.

‘Could you make out what it said?’

‘No,’ Philip replied. ‘But the fat man thought it outrageous, whatever it said. He said something had to be done about it, and stormed off.’

I smiled at the idea of investigating the matter. Reading books was getting boring, and I always did like a mystery. I resembled my father in that, for he had solved many seemingly impossible murders in his time. Of course this was not a murder, but I thought I could use it to ingratiate myself into the court. Just as I was wondering how to begin, Theokrastos came scurrying into the reading room. His leather-clad feet made a distinctive sound on the marble floor – small steps heralding his fussy efforts at interesting me in another tome. This time they were swifter than ever, and made me think he was agitated by the recent intruder. He did still come bearing a book, however. His tone of voice was tense, even as he attempted to sound unaffected.

‘This may afford you some light relief after Sozomen, Master Falconer. It is called the Adventures of Clitophon and Leucippe, written by a Greek named Achilles Tatius.’

In any other circumstances, I would have thought Theokrastos was seeking to make fun of young Philip’s monkish temperament. I knew of this work, and heard it described as a dramatic work with unseemly love episodes, the impurity of sentiment of which are prejudicial to seriousness. I would have liked to hear it, but I didn’t think Philip could bear to read it without his ears going red. I was just about to suggest that Theokrastos read it to me himself, when I heard him clicking his tongue.

‘Forgive me, sir. I am not thinking clearly. Such a work will not be appropriate for young ears to hear.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I have been distracted, and my judgement has been impaired.’

I took the opportunity afforded by the librarian’s admission.

‘I heard the commotion outside. Tell me, is there anything I can do?’

During our short acquaintance, I had told Theokrastos of my interest in recondite matters, so I did not have to convince him I was responding merely out of politeness. His reply was hesitant, as though he was reluctant to reveal a matter that might reflect badly on the Emperor and his retinue.

‘Perhaps it is only a trifling affair that would be beneath your consideration.’

I pressed the matter with him. ‘I would still like to help, if I can.’

He paused only momentarily, then began to explain. ‘The man you heard shouting is Johannes Panaretos. He is responsible for allocating trading licences to foreign merchants, and so holds a very important position in the Emperor’s court. Just recently, he has been pressed by the Genoans for greater concessions, and the Emperor has refused. Before you arrived here, Lord Alexios wished them to pay dues on goods they threatened to take away, if they pulled out of dealing with us entirely. The Genoans naturally refused and there was a small skirmish, with the Emperor calling on Georgian mercenaries to attack the Genoan warehouses. The Genoans retaliated and some house down by the harbour were set on fire. Now, Panaretos has received a threat.’

Theokrastos paused in his narrative, and I could tell he was unsure if he was saying too much. I nudged his natural loquaciousness.

‘A threat?’

Theokrastos licked his lips.

‘Yes. He has just showed me a scrap of parchment on which was written the words – “Death awaits he who hesitates.”’

I felt a frisson of excitement run up the back of my neck. Perhaps murder was lurking on the sidelines after all.

It took a day or two for Theokrastos to arrange a meeting for me with the recipient of the death threat. Apparently, Panaretos had laughed crudely at the thought of a blind man resolving the issue of the author of the note. But the librarian had convinced him to at least speak with me. When I did so, I believe that I convinced him that, being blind from birth, I had tuned my other senses to such a degree that they more than compensated for the lack of sight.

‘In fact,’ I said to him, ‘I believe the Chinese surgeon who plucked me from my mother’s womb in terrible circumstances, not only saved my life, but gave me a unique opportunity to do good in the world.’

I don’t think it was such platitudes that swayed his decision, but the fact that I could track him enough to appear to be always looking at him. I have been told my pale, blue-green eyes are quite riveting, and nothing can be more disconcerting than a blind man ‘looking’ at one. In truth, he was easy to follow using just my ears, for he was a fat man whose every movement was accompanied by wheezes and grunts. Even when he thought he was testing me by remaining silent, the whisper of his slippers on the marble floors of his abode was enough for me to locate him.

In the end, Philip and I were invited to a lavish dinner, where there would be present representatives of the major trading partners of the Empire of Trebizond. I was to share the meal with a Florentine, a Genoan, and a Venetian. It would be an interesting evening, especially as Panaretos suspected one of the men to be the author of the message. Which one it would turn out to be was why I was there. But first, I asked to be sent the offending message, so that I could examine it. It arrived on the morning of the fateful meal.

I took it in my hands and felt the quality and nature of the parchment. I immediately realised it was a piece of a bigger sheet, as one edge was crudely cut. It was also of medium quality, and not of the finest vellum. Probably of goatskin as that was the most easily available local material. The roughness of its surface felt to me as if it was a palimpsest – that is, a parchment sheet that had been used before and scoured of its original writing. If so, it might therefore be possible to discern the writing that has been obscured, and discover something from that. That would be a task for Philip, and I passed the parchment on to him.

‘Please read what you can see, Philip.’

‘Yes, sir. It says, “Death is waiting for him who hesitates.” Just as the librarian said.’

I waited, expecting more from him, but nothing came. I had hoped I had trained him better than that, so I had to prompt him.

‘And in what language is it written?’

Philip mumbled an anxious apology, and I could almost imagine his ears turning red as I had been told they did when he was embarrassed.

‘I am sorry, sir. It is written in Greek.’

‘And in what style of Greek, if you please?’

He paused, and I heard him puff out his cheeks.

‘Grammatically, it is correct, but I would say by the hand that it was written by someone whose natural language it wasn’t.’

So, it could have been scribed by someone from an Italian city-state – either Florence, Genoa, or Venice. I smiled.

‘I was once told of a Florentine, a Genoan and a Venetian who were each left five hundred ducats by a rich man on condition that after his death they would each put twenty ducats into his coffin in case he needed it in the afterlife. The Florentine and the Venetian duly put in their twenty ducats, and quietly left the room. The Genoan walked over to the coffin, reached in and took out the forty ducats and put in a promissory note for sixty ducats.’

I heard Philip gasp.

‘How appalling. I hope he did not get away with such a sacrilegious act.’

I sighed, but refrained from telling the young monk it had been a joke. Though there was a serious intent to my jest. Genoans were renowned for their double-dealing and meanness. Perhaps the one I was to meet had been crass enough to engender fear in Panaretos, when subtlety was a better course. Neither the Venetian nor the Florentine would have surely tried such tactics. But I was keeping an open mind as Philip guided me up the slope that led from the lower city through the gate into the upper city, and past the Panagia Khrysokephalos Church. Panaretos lived as close to the Emperor’s citadel as a member not of the royal family may without actually being inside the royal walls. Even so, the end of the street afforded a glimpse of the palace. Philip described what he saw for me with awe in his voice.

‘I can see white marble pillars, and a courtyard set with orange and lemon trees, and oleander. There is a fountain in the centre of the courtyard and big, bronze double doors beyond.’

I could sense him turning to face me.

‘If it is so grand just on the approach to the palace, how grand must it be beyond the doors?’

I, who had experienced the fabled luxury of the Great Mongol Khan’s summer residence called Xanadu, could imagine how ornate it might be through those doors. But it was impossible to describe to an austere fellow like Philip, a monk from northern Greece, who had literally sat on a pinnacle of rock in the Meteora region before travelling east on a mission to convert idolaters, and then becoming my companion. Now, I nudged his arm and reminded him of our goal.

‘The delights of Johannes Panaretos’ residence will be enough grandeur for your eyes this evening. And you need to keep them wide open for me.’

I knew he lacked the subtleness I needed to interpret every sign that may come our way today, but what he lacked in perceptiveness he made up for with a remarkably retentive mind. What he couldn’t whisper in my ear during the evening, I could worm out of him later in the seclusion of our lodgings. It was then he would tell me what the three traders looked like. Apparently, the Florentine, whose name was Giacomo Belzoni, was small, dark-complexioned and compact, with neat and fastidious manners. The Venetian, by contrast, was a tall bear of a man with fair hair, given to sprawling in his chair. His name was Alessandro Ricci. Finally, there was the Genoan, who I suspected the most of the three. Giovanni Finati was stockily built, and probably at home in a ship with his bandy legs and rolling gait. I was to identify them to myself during the evening by their speech, which did seem to fit the word pictures Philip drew of them for me later.

All three were already in Panaretos’ house when I arrived, and the wily Trapezuntine forbore from mentioning my blindness. I think he thought it a jest to see which of the Italians would guess it first, and which would be so discourteous as to mention it. No one did. But then I was adept at disguising my deficiency, which I hardly saw as one after so much time. I probably seemed to them just a sybaritic Englishman relying on his servant to cut up his food and present it to him.

The food, by the way, was excellent. The first course was a compote of hare, stuffed chicken and a loin of veal, all covered in a sauce with pomegranate seeds. This was followed with various pies stuffed full of goslings, capons and pigeons. The pastry case was not as the English served – quite hard and inedible, they are called ‘coffins’ – but soft and crumbly. It was a delight, therefore, to eat the case as well as the contents. The third course was a sturgeon cooked in parsley and vinegar, which was a joy after such a preponderance of meat. Though I and his other guests were flagging, Panaretos showed no signs of slowing down, and continued to stuff his fat face with all the food that was presented at the table. I could hear his jaws chomping on the delicacies. But, besides the conversation that accompanied the banquet, I was intrigued by the presence of another person flitting in and out of the room as the courses progressed.

Each time a new course arrived, the undoubtedly tempting aromas were accompanied by something more subtle and human. A scent of patchouli oil wafted into the room at the same time that I could hear the slippered feet of someone much lighter than our host drifting round the room. At the arrival of the sturgeon, this person, who had to be a woman – unless it was a young eunuch or made-up boy – passed quite close to me and I heard the rustle of silk. I could bear it no longer, knowing that I could not see what the others did naturally. I interrupted the Venetian, who was talking about the alum mines at Kerasous, and invited Panaretos to introduce the mysterious beauty. It was a calculated risk on my part, for it could have been a catamite, but I didn’t think so.

‘Are you not going to introduce us to your wife, Panaretos? She looks so beautiful and modest, serving us in silence.’

The fat Trapezuntine grunted in surprise, knowing as he did my affliction, but did as I requested.

‘This is Baia Bzhedug, and she is my Circassian beauty.’

The tone of his voice suggested to me that his wife was more a piece of property than a companion. I sensed that Baia was bowing to me as I heard the rustle of her silk robe, but I held my hand out anyway. After a moment’s hesitation, I felt the warmth of her delicate and slender hand in mine. I raised it to my lips. The Genoan, Finati, called out his approval of my gesture.

‘Bravo, Englishman. You are not such a cold fish as some of your compatriots. During all our trade negotiations, Panaretos never once gave away the fact he had a beauty for a wife.’

I felt the woman’s hand tense in mine, and allowed it to slip free. The scent of patchouli oil drifted from the room. Meanwhile, puffed up with pride, Panaretos began to expand on his wife’s family history. I could hear his fat lips drooling as he munched on the sturgeon and spoke at the same time. I could almost feel the spit spraying from his gluttonous mouth.

‘She is from Sochi, and claims to be a princess. Though in this house, she is my cook and housemaid. Many of the Circassians are no better than idolaters, and have no standing in Trebizond. Still, she is passing pretty, as you say.’

As if to emphasise his point, he chose to call out at that moment, ‘Wife, where are the subtleties, the jellies?’

In response, Baia announced her return with the slapping of her delicate, slippered feet on the marble floor, and her aroma of patchouli. With her, she brought jellies, and cream covered in fennel seeds and sugar. I could smell the overwhelming sweetness of the dishes, but refrained from sampling them as I was already full to bursting. Panaretos and the others – including Philip – had no such restraint, and Baia’s reward for all her efforts was the sound of the slurping lips of her husband and his other guests.

‘Which one do you favour for the death threat, Philip?’

My young companion coughed nervously, and hesitated. It was the day after the banquet, and I wanted to review my impressions of the three traders. I didn’t really expect much from Philip, but it was useful for my own thoughts to talk them over with him. If I got bored, I could always ask him to read the opening of the Adventures of Clitophon and Leucippe. I would enjoy his embarrassment at least. I was therefore pleasantly surprised when he began an accurate analysis of each man’s motives.

‘I have heard it said that the Genoan’s masters are worried about the lack of progress on negotiating a new set of concessions with Trebizond. Messer Finati is no doubt under pressure to conclude an agreement before the Venetians or the Florentines step in. He could very well be so worried that he resorted to such wild tactics as the letter suggests.’

‘Hmm.’

What Philip said could well be the truth. Finati could have gone too far in his anxiety.

‘But what of Ricci, the Venetian, then? Is he too under orders to come to a quick resolution?’

‘I haven’t heard anything about that, sir. But I do know the Florentine trader is ready to pick up the pieces if it comes to a fight between the other two.’

Where was my young monk getting all this information from? When I enquired, it turned out that he simply listened to the gossip when he was shopping for food. We kept a simple house in the lower part of Trebizond, and Philip both shopped and cooked for both of us. We did not indulge in feasts such as Panaretos did, and therefore had less flesh on our bones than he. The young monk elucidated further.

‘There is a square to the east of the town walls where many old men gather, and they speculate on what is happening at the Emperor’s court, and with the rival traders. I can take you there, if you wish.’

‘Why, do you think me already an old man, who will fit in well with the others?’

I could almost hear the blush creeping over Philip’s face.

‘I didn’t mean that exactly, master. I just thought…’

I laughed at his embarrassment, while thinking it was so easy to tease him that it was hardly any fun.

‘It’s a good idea, Philip. We can go there today, and you can leave me with my fellow old fogies, whilst you go shopping.’

So it was that I found myself in the shade of an oleander in the Meidan, a flat area outside the walls, where at special times festivals were held. But it was also useful for markets, and was laid out with storehouses and stalls providing all sorts of fresh produce. I could smell the mingled aromas of herbs, spices, and cooking meats. In the distance, I could hear a curious set of sounds that mingled horses’ hooves with men’s cries and the cracking of hammers on something wooden. I leaned across to a man who sat to my left, proffering my best guess at what was going on.

‘Tell me, what is that game being played?’

The voice that replied was cracked and old, but still retained much of the man’s vigour from another time.

‘It is called tzykanion, and originates in Persia, they say. Some call it pulu. The players on horseback have to drive the ball with those long mallets from one end of the pitch to the other.’ He snorted. ‘Like all games, it is pointless.’

I nodded my head in agreement, though I could hazard a guess that cavalry warriors would find it useful training for real battles. I didn’t say so, though, for I wanted my companion to respond to my next question.

‘Games for boys, played by men who should be more concerned with making money.’

I could tell the old man was nodding his head. So I had got him right, and he was a former local trader with opinions to air. I stared in his direction in a way that suggested I was deeply impressed by him and his opinions. He was not to know I could not see a thing.

‘And who is making the most money in Trebizond now? Apart from the Emperor, of course.’

A dry rattle emanated from his throat, which I took for a laugh.

‘Well, the Genoans are always the most avaricious, but the Emperor is trying to rein them in. Recently, I think the favoured ones have become the Venetians. Though there is not much to choose between any of them. They do say there are four kinds of people in the west. First, there are the Genoans, who keep the Sabbath…’ He paused for effect. ‘And everything else they can lay their hands on. Then, there are the Venetians, who pray on their knees… and on their neighbours. Thirdly, there are the Florentines who never know what they want, but are willing to fight for it anyway.’

Another death rattle suggested he liked his own joke. And knowing he had not finished, I gave him the lead-in to the punch line.

‘You said there were four kinds of traders.’

‘Ah, yes. Lastly, there are the English, who consider themselves self-made men, thus relieving the Almighty of a terrible responsibility.’

I laughed politely, and refrained from telling him I was, at least in part, English. I continued to draw him out about the trade delegations in Trebizond.

‘So tell me… Who do you think has most to lose, if the Emperor changes his mind about allocating trade concessions?’

Another voice broke into our conversation. It was another old man, who must have been sitting at the further side of my joke teller. His was a fruitier voice with a more solemn tone than the first man’s.

‘It’s no good asking him that, friend. George has lost his marbles, and couldn’t tell a Genoan from an Englishman, if they were pissing on him.’

I heard George mumbling a protest, and spitting on the ground. At least, I assumed it was on the packed earth of the square and not in the face of his detractor. I moved my unseeing gaze to the new man.

‘And how would you know the difference, sir?’

The man laughed. ‘I know it well enough to make you out for an Englishman. Though your clothes suggest a more exotic origin. The other end of the Silk Road, perhaps?’

He was obviously a very observant person, and his identifying me as an Englishman brought a fit of coughing from my first conversationalist, whose joke had been at the expense of my fellow men.

‘Damn it, you might have warned me, Theodore.’

So, my new acquaintance had a name as splendid as his cultured tones. I acknowledged his observations.

‘I have recently come from that part of the world, it is true. But you are only partly right about my Englishness. My grandmother was Welsh.’

This splitting of hairs, important only to the inhabitants of Britain, silenced both old men for a while. Then Theodore answered my original question for me.

‘As for who will suffer most from a reversal of trading rights, then it has to be said it would be the Genoans. But it is not the Emperor who will bother himself with such tedious business, but his courtiers and advisors.’

‘Men such as Johannes Panaretos?’

I threw the name into the conversation, hoping to see what it would bring out. And I was not disappointed. The harsh laughter of the first man broke in.

‘Panaretos will advise the Emperor to do whatever he has been bribed to say. And he will choose to do it in the afternoon, when the court is in a state of torpor brought on by slave girls, hashish and opium. If he has time, that is, from stuffing his mouth with the richest food that Circassian beauty of his can provide.’

A sound of admonition came from Theodore, advising his friend to keep his voice down. I guessed it was not wise to jest out loud concerning the behaviour of the Emperor and Autocrat of the Entire East. There could be spies everywhere. I did have another question for my new-found friends, though.

‘Is bribery the only way of bringing court officials to a particular point of view?’

Theodore grunted, and seemed reluctant to reply. But his friend George had no such inhibitions.

‘You mean would a Genoan trader threaten Panaretos with violence to keep the concessions?’

I nodded. ‘That is indeed what I am asking.’

Before George could reply, Theodore broke in on our conversation. From the rustling of cloth, I guessed he had put a cautionary hand on his friend’s arm. His question to me came in a strained tone of voice.

‘Do you know something we don’t, sir? For if you do, and it affects a servant of the Emperor, I suggest you raise it with the authorities.’

The moment for confidences had passed, and I imagined I was not going to get much more gossip in the circumstances. A strained silence hung in the air, and I stretched the stiffness out of my legs. I was glad that it was not long before Philip returned, and I rose, thanking my interlocutors for their time. Their mumbled replies were in stark contrast to their former pleasure in meeting me. As I walked away with my hand on Philip’s arm – I was not certain of the path in this new part of Trebizond – I reminded him of his task concerning the palimpsest.

‘Have you examined the parchment with the threat on it more closely yet?’

‘Oh, yes, I did, master. I took the opportunity of the bright sunlight this morning to hold it up against the sun.’

‘And what did you see?’

‘There was some writing underneath the words of the threat that were impossible to make out. But as the message was quite short, there was enough blank space to decipher what had been scraped away.’

Either Philip was drawing out the conclusion in sheer delight at his cleverness, or was too stupid to know when he was annoying me. I stopped him, and turned my most fierce gaze on him. I know that it perturbed him, as he was never sure if I was truly blind or not.

‘Come to the point, Philip.’

He stumbled to correct his error.

‘Sorry, Master Falconer. The original parchment was a letter from someone whose name I could not make out, but the recipient’s name was clear. It was definitely addressed to Messer Finati, the Genoan trade delegate.’

I smiled at having cornered the sender of the threat so easily. In fact, it had been so easy that I was a little suspicious. What if one of the other delegates had laid their hands on a perfectly innocent message addressed to Finati, and concocted the anonymous message in order to cast opprobrium on the Genoan? Philip’s thinking was not so convoluted, and he was eager to act on his discovery.

‘Shall we tell Master Panaretos?’

I wasn’t in such a hurry, and recommended caution.

‘No. Let us observe all three for a while longer. It is not as if Panaretos’ life is really under threat.’

How wrong my casual statement proved to be.

In another few days, spring eased into summer and the blossom drifted off the cherry and pear trees, scattering on the ground. The Imperial court made its annual pilgrimage from the citadel to the monastery of Panagia Khrysokephalos and thence to the St Sofia monastery beyond the western ravine. We witnessed the passage of the Emperor, and Philip described his appearance in detail to me, right down to the strings of pearls that depended from his golden crown.

On taking another trip to the Meidan, my young companion encountered Panaretos’ Circassian wife, who was also out shopping for tempting foodstuffs.

‘Look who I have found, master.’

His speech took no account of my infirmity, but on this occasion I needed no eyes to tell to whom he was referring. The scent of patchouli oil was enough. I rose from the bench on which I was sitting, and bowed low.

‘Mistress Baia, I am honoured by your presence.’

I heard the swish of her silken robe, which I knew she wore in the Trapezuntine style – narrow and close-fitting. The slight hesitation in her speech suggested that she was a little embarrassed at Philip’s apparent insistence that she speak to me. Therefore I filled the gap with mindless chatter for a while.

‘Tell me what you are preparing for your husband today. What delicacies have you purchased at the market?’

I heard the rustling of produce in her basket, which must have been held by a female servant, for I could detect another scent in the air. But this one was a sort of scrubbed, plain aroma proper to a slave. Besides, I knew that a lady of Baia’s status would not venture out alone. When she spoke, her voice was low and sonorous.

‘I have dates and figs and raisins. And the makings of jellies, for my husband has a sweet tooth and likes red and yellow ones. So I have sandalwood for the first, and saffron for the second sort. Of course, I start every meal with subtleties made of sugar. Johannes would be angry if I didn’t.’

She hesitated again, knowing she had said something about their relationship that should not have been revealed.

‘But tell me, sir, have you discovered who sent the message that so troubled him?’

Wishing, I think, to impress the Circassian beauty, Philip started to blurt out the truth of the matter, but I interrupted quickly.

‘We have made some progress, but there is a long way to go yet. Perhaps we could call in on Panaretos and discuss the matter further with him.’

‘Oh, indeed, sir. You are welcome at any time.’ I sensed a little smile in her voice. ‘And I can always accommodate your appetite, for my husband is fond of his food and always has a plentiful supply. In fact, when he is anxious – as he is now – he is inclined to eat even more than usual. It is my pleasure to see that he is not displeased in such circumstances.’

‘Good. Then, if we may, we will come this evening and inform Panaretos what we have discovered so far.’

Baia mumbled her shy acquiescence, and the scent of patchouli oil drifted away from me across the square.

The meal that evening was a simpler affair than the banquet we had been provided with the last time we were in Panaretos’ house. But it was delicious nevertheless. It was clear that his wife had made a great effort to present us with Circassian delicacies, beginning with a delicious round of Circassian cheese, which was moist and tasty. I complimented Baia on her selection, but Panaretos merely grunted and demanded something more substantial. Philip spoke little, and I wondered if he was tongue-tied in the presence of Baia’s obvious beauty. The next course was made up of two stews of chicken and turkey in a mouth-watering sauce made of garlic and red peppers. With the appearance of meats, Panaretos was mollified, if not silenced, for the sound of his slurping became quite disconcerting. Though both I and Philip demurred at the next dish – apparently some sort of Italian pasta parcels filled with beef – Panaretos continued his gourmandising. Inevitably, the jellies that Baia had planned followed before we retired to Panaretos’ private domain. Through a barrage of not-so-discreet burps, he enquired finally if we had found out who had threatened him.

‘There is no simple answer to that, I am afraid to say. I could tell you through whose hands the parchment has passed, but that is no guarantee that it was written by those same hands.’

Panaretos was not satisfied by my response, and insisted I name the source of the parchment.

‘The original document must have passed through the warehouse of the Genoans, though I still have my suspicions that either Belzoni or Ricci may have made use of the palimpsest to cause Finati trouble. More investigation is required. Tell me, have you had any more death threats?’

Panaretos ignored my last enquiry, brushing it aside with a desultory wave of his hand. Instead, he chose to pick on the name of the man he had suspected all along.

‘Finati! I knew it. The Genoans think they can gain further concessions at the click of their fingers. They think me a dog who will sit up and beg if I am beaten hard enough. Well, they have a lesson to learn, and I will teach it them. They have already refused the Emperor’s customs officials the right to inspect their stocks, and keep their warehouse locked and barred against us. Now they threaten a high official of the Emperor with death. I must report this to-’

His angry diatribe was suddenly cut short by an alarming gurgling sound from his gut, and deep groan that turned into a belch on his lips. He shifted in his seat, and called out for Baia.

‘Wife. For God’s sake, bring me the rhubarb powder at once.’

He winced as he turned in his seat towards me. I knew this, for his foetid breath was suddenly in my ear, and he spoke in low tones. I could hear that his voice was strained.

‘You must not say anything of this to anyone, especially not to that old gossip Theokrastos, Falconer. And now I must ask you to leave, as I am unwell.’

‘Yes, of course. But you should not act until I have checked on the activities of the Florentines and Venetians first.’

Panaretos was in no mood to argue.

‘Yes, yes, yes. Do as you see fit.’

He turned away, and I was no longer drowning in his bad breath. He called out for Baia again.

‘Woman, where are you?’

Baia hurried into the room in a cloud of scent. She clearly had the medicinal preparation with her, for she explained why she was delayed.

‘I have mixed the rhubarb root with some dried figs in order to make it more palatable. Here, let me help you.’

Panaretos was obviously by now in agony, but was not prepared to accept the embarrassment of being ill in the presence of guests, and of having to be assisted to eat.

‘Damn you, woman. Just give the bowl here.’

Philip and I hurried discreetly from Panaretos’ inner sanctum, leaving Baia with her thankless task. As we walked home, arm in arm, I spoke to Philip.

‘It is a shame we did not get a chance to talk to Mistress Panaretos.’

‘Why is that, master?’ Philip sounded puzzled.

‘I should like to have known if there had been any other threats against her husband’s life, or unusual occurrences in the last few weeks. I think Panaretos is reticent about telling me anything more, and even regrets recruiting me to find out about the written threat.’

‘But why should he do so?’

‘Because he is becoming sensitive about his position in Trebizond, and how he appears to foreigners. Perhaps if he appears weak to the Emperor, his position will be in jeopardy. His present malady was also an embarrassment to him.’

Philip’s next comment was censorious in the extreme, coming no doubt from his austere upbringing as a monk.

‘Then he should pay more attention to how much he eats. Even in the few months we have known him, I can assure you he has got fatter and fatter. Now he reaps the reward of his gluttony.’

Thinking of the mistress of the house, and her desire to please her glutton of a husband, I had an idea about how I might gather information about any possible further threats on Panaretos’ life.

‘Philip.’

‘Yes, master.’

‘Do you think that, when you shop tomorrow, that Mistress Baia might be shopping, too?’

Philip’s response was all too quick, and betrayed something of his feelings for Panaretos’ wife.

‘Oh, yes, sir. She is always in the square. I often…’

The young monk paused, realising what he was admitting to. And I was certain that he was beginning to blush to the tips of his ears. He was cautious in his next enquiry.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because I want you to ask her if there have been any other threats since the parchment was sent.’

The relief in his voice was evident, and he must have been glad that his revelation had not resulted in my censuring him.

‘Ah, yes, master. I am sure I can do that.’

I bet you can, I thought, imagining it was a perfect opportunity for the love-struck young monk to engage the Circassian beauty in conversation with good purpose. But that was for tomorrow. For now, I was glad of a brisk walk to work off the excessive amount of good food that I had consumed.

The next morning, Philip was eager to carry out his task, and rushed me off to the Emperor’s library as soon as we had broken our fast. Once seated in the marble hall, I could tell he was champing at the bit. So I arranged for Theokrastos to read to me instead of Philip.

‘Go, Philip, and use your wiles on the lady.’

He coughed nervously at my words, and hurried out, his sandalled feet slapping on the floor. Theokrastos laughed quietly.

‘Did you know that his ears get quite red when he is embarrassed?’

‘Indeed I do. It has been observed by others. Now, what do you have for me?’

The librarian settled in his seat, and I heard him opening a heavy tome. I could even smell the dust of lack of use rising from it. I sneezed.

‘This is the treatise of Cyril, Bishop of Alexandria, entitled Against the Blasphemies of Nestorius. It is in five books.’

I sighed, thinking of Sauma, the Nestorian monk in far-off Cathay, who had given me an introduction to Theokrastos. His heretical form of Christianity was about to be ripped apart, and I was about to be bored stiff. I leaned back, and closed my sightless eyes.

Philip took an inordinate amount of time shopping, and I became a little annoyed that he left me so long with the monotonous voice of Theokrastos. In the end, I suggested that the librarian might like to wet his throat after such exertions. He took the hint, and brought us both some very nice sweet wine from the island of Kition, sometimes known as Alashiya or Cyprus. The wine must have loosened his tongue somewhat for I learned a few things about Trebizond that I didn’t know before. And some interesting news about the matter I was investigating.

Eventually, Philip did return full of apologies. As he spluttered his tale of woe, Theokrastos whispered in my ear, ‘His ears are bright red. In fact, they are as red as the wine we have been drinking.’

I brushed aside the young monk’s apologies, and thanked Theokrastos for his hospitality.

‘Come, Philip, we must leave George to his duties, and return home.’

As we left the library, Philip began to tell me what he had learned. As he guided me through the crowds that thronged the narrow streets of the lower town, he explained.

‘Mistress Baia was most co-operative, master, and even invited us to eat with Panaretos tonight. But I fear she did not have much to tell concerning the campaign of intimidation against her husband. She said that the letter we have already seen was the only threat that her husband had received.’

I frowned, and wondered what this meant in the light of what Theokrastos had told me. Philip’s news, from the lips of Lady Baia, needed some consideration. In the meantime, I needed him to accompany me to the warehouses of our various suspects to enquire more closely into the pressures they were being put under by their employers. Even with hundreds of miles separating Belzoni, Ricci and Finati from their home cities, and letters taking months to travel between them, they must still have felt the heavy breath of their employers on their neck. Each trader would have been sent on the long journey to Trebizond with orders to achieve certain goals, and to return without reaching them could prove disastrous. A good reason to employ threats as well as cajolements.

I didn’t want to play my hand with the Genoan, Finati, too soon, so I decided to drop in unannounced on Alessandro Ricci first. With Philip leading me along the unfamiliar streets that dropped down from the top of the lower town to the harbour, I began to smell the odour of fish. It got stronger and stronger, until we must have been close to the quayside. I told Philip what to look out for.

‘The Venetians’ warehouse will be painted with the sign of the Lion of St Mark. You will not be able to miss it – it rather fancifully has wings.’

‘I know it, sir. It was a familiar sight in Byzantium. If you recall, it was I suggested we seek it out when we arrived in Trebizond.’

‘Yes, indeed, of course you did.’

I recalled that Venice had once been the master of Byzantium, but that it had not been so for long. However, it was no doubt long enough to have made its mark on the city and its people.

‘Here it is, sir.’

We stood at the doors of the Venetians’ warehouse.

‘Tell me what you see, Philip.’

There was a momentary pause while he looked round, then he described what he saw.

‘The store is large, and there are plenty of goods in it, but there is room for much more.’

I could smell spices – cinnamon and pepper, chiefly – and the slightly different aroma that I identified as the bark and dried insects used for dyes. I had become used to the smells of such products on my long journey along the Silk Road.

‘And silk? Does Ricci have raw silk here?’

I had walked into the warehouse on my own to take in the aromas, and Philip was soon at my heels.

‘Yes. I can see some bolts of silk over to our right.’

‘Then these are just the purchases made from the same caravan we travelled here on. Not the result of any major negotiation with Panaretos.’

‘No indeed, Master Falconer. But I can tell you what I do expect to get, if you wish.’

It was the voice of Ricci himself, who had come in behind us. I turned round to face him, aware of his position in the doorway by the change in light his tall body created. It was my only visual sense, and necessitated bright sunlight to provide it to me.

‘Messer Ricci, you have caught me out being nosy. Alas, my studying of the books in the Emperor’s library sometimes becomes boring, and I can’t resist poking around the lower town to see what I can find.’

Ricci moved away from the doorway, and I followed his steps on the flagstone floor with my unseeing eyes.

‘I hardly think there is anything here to assuage the thirst of a scholarly mind.’

‘Oh, but trade is such a fascinating subject.’

He came out with a sort of belly laugh that suggested he was a man who liked a drink, and a good story.

‘Forgive me, Falconer, but trade is hard work. Frustrating and rewarding in equal degrees, it is true. But I would hardly say it is fascinating.’

I heard the clink of glass on glass, and guessed from the aroma that he was pouring a good Rhenish into some goblets. Philip slipped between myself and Ricci, artfully taking my glass and pressing it into my hand without allowing the Venetian to sense my disability. Then the young monk declined his own proffered glass. Ricci grunted, and clinked my glass with his. I drank a draught, and reckoned it a good red wine. With this and the Commandaria I had drunk with Theokrastos, I was beginning to feel quite drowsy. Ricci explained that the wine was a consignment he had brought to Trebizond, being all part of his reciprocal trade with the Emperor. I nodded my head in understanding.

‘And how is the trade – between you and Trebizond, I mean?’

Ricci moved close to me, and all but whispered in my ear, ‘Moving swiftly to a conclusion actually, but don’t tell Finati. I am mostly interested in the alum trade out of Kerasous. The weavers of Bruges will pay well for it as a mordant for their dyes. After the Emperor’s little spat with Genoa that resulted in some fisticuffs, Panaretos is under instructions to offer Genoa’s concessions to Venice, as long as we pay the proper dues.’

‘Which you will?’

Ricci laughed, and audibly downed a great glug of wine.

‘Of course, we will. Anything to get one over Genoa. Finati will be going home empty-handed.’

A final draught of wine went down his throat, and I thought I had all I wanted to know. Though there was one other matter that perhaps Ricci could enlighten me about.

‘What of the Florentines? Is Belzoni going to get what he wants, or could he be as frustrated as Finati, and capable of similar extreme measures to get his way?’

I almost heard the frown creasing Ricci’s face.

‘Extreme measures? I don’t know what you mean. For all of us trade is trade – we are not warriors. No, Belzoni will be glad with what sweepings-up he can get after my deal is concluded. After all, he will be more than satisfied that the Genoans – who are in league with the French here and in Italy – will go home with nothing.’

I downed the rest of my Rhenish wine, and thanked Ricci for his hospitality. I left, thinking he had been wrong – trading was indeed a fascinating subject. Our conversation had told me a great deal. Enough to set Panaretos’ mind at rest. It only remained for me to confront Finati with the facts, and then I would be finished. But that was for tomorrow. Tonight, Philip and I had an invitation to a banquet.

The meal turned out to be a special occasion, for Lady Baia was present from the beginning at the table. She had not been relegated to the kitchen, nor was she being used as a serving maid. I detected her patchouli-scented presence from the very start, but as if I needed any confirmation, Philip spoke up eagerly as he guided me into the room. ‘My lady, we are delighted by your presence.’ I could detect the catch in his voice, and wondered if his ears were already glowing. I added my own thanks at her invitation, and bowed in the general direction of her and the stronger scent that hardly hid the odour of the sweating Panaretos. His voice wheezed breathily as he spoke to me.

‘I am told, Master Falconer, that you have been questioning the Venetians about the constant threats on my life. Did you draw any conclusions, or are you still reluctant to come to a decision on who it is wishes me dead?’

I heard a faint rustle of alarm from the lips of Baia, and a quiet remonstration at her husband’s boorishness. But Panaretos clearly waved her concerns aside.

‘This… man was presented to me as some expert on deductive logic. So let him expound his theories.’

I knew the slight hesitation between his first and second words hinted at his desire to say another word. His inclination had been to pour scorn on my sightless state, and wonder how he could have let a blind man even begin to investigate the perpetrator of the threats. For multiple threats there had been – Theokratos had just told me so. Baia had deliberately misled Philip, but before I could ask her why, she broke the awkward silence that hung over us.

‘Look, the warners are being served. We should sit.’

Philip subtly guided me to my place and sat at my elbow. He expressed delight at the sugary subtleties that had been brought to the table as a warning the meal was under way. I had no sweet tooth and declined the carved delicacy, but I could tell that Panaretos had no such reticence, and was cracking the sugary sculpture in his no doubt ravaged teeth. I could smell his bad breath from where I sat. I told him of my discoveries as we awaited the first course.

‘I have no doubt that the document you showed me at the beginning of this enquiry was made to look as if it was written by, or at least on behalf of Messer Finati. He will be much vilified when he returns to Genoa without a renewal of the trade contracts that formerly applied.’

Panaretos laughed harshly, and smacked his lips. The broth was being served, and he was already spooning it into his maw, along with lumps of bread torn from his trencher. I revelled in the aroma of mace and cinnamon that drifted from the bowl placed before me. I tasted the soup appreciatively, noting the flavour of chicken, and the thickness of it that had been achieved with mixing in bread crumbs and then sieving most carefully.

Philip whispered in my ear, ‘He is surely twice as fat as when we first saw him. His chins have multiplied till they rest upon his breast, which is itself of a womanish roundness.’

I was sure the young monk was extra critical of our host due to his enchantment by the man’s wife, but I am sure his assessment of Panaretos was essentially truthful. The man’s gluttony was causing him to expand like some blown up bladder. Apart from expressing his delight at my findings – which I was not sure he understood – he spoke little, addressing more the plates that came forth inexorably from the kitchen.

The next delicacy was crustardes of herbs and fish. A pastry case enclosed pieces of fish stewed in lemon water to which were added walnuts, parsley, thyme and lemon balm. I don’t suppose that Panaretos had time to taste any of the subtle flavours in his pursuit of excessive consumption, but I complimented Baia on the concoction.

‘I am pleased you like it so, Master Falconer.’

I could get little else out of her, though, and was unable to question her about the more veiled threats that had dogged her husband from the time of the first clear warning contained on the parchment. Theokratos had told me that Panaretos had complained about one particular incident that his wife had reported to him. She had been with her maid in the fish market down by the harbour, and a hooded figure, dressed like a foreigner, had said that she should tell her husband to hurry up and sign the trade deal or he wouldn’t have a pretty wife any more. Perhaps she had refrained from telling Philip this because she was afraid the threat might be carried out if she spoke of it to anyone but her husband. Whatever the reason, Panaretos was not going to give me the chance to ask her.

The next course was a heavy stew called monchelet. Neck of lamb pieces had been stewed in a large pan in a wine and herb stock, along with chopped onions, then the sauce had been thickened with egg yolks. The meat was tender and glossy, and once again Panaretos soon began to demolish his portion. I could hear his breathing, stertorous and heavy, and then he belched. I wondered if he had reached the limit of even his gargantuan appetite. Baia’s announcement of the final course told me.

‘We have a blanc manger next, darling, made from pounded chicken breast flavoured with sugar and almonds.’

‘Good. I am still hungry.’

I silently marvelled at Panaretos’ capacity for ever more servings of rich food, and was ready to decline anything more than a spoonful of the sweet, tempting dish that crusaders had first encountered in Outremer years ago. I was not, however, faced with such a dilemma. Before the blanc manger could be brought, we heard a disturbance in the kitchens, and the sound of running feet. One of Panaretos’ servants came into the room where we sat, and called out a warning.

‘Master, we have been warned that pirates from Sinope – the Emir’s men – have attacked the harbour. They are woring their way up the hill towards us. What shall we do?’

Panaretos lurched to his feet; I could hear his breath quicken in alarm. But before he could give any instructions, his voice became nothing more than a strangled gurgle. I heard his chair crash over, and the cry of alarm from the servant. Then I heard the soft thud of a considerable body landing on the marble floor. I called out to Philip, groping for his arm.

‘What has happened? Philip, tell me.’

It seemed my companion was completely unable to respond, other than to stutter a few meaningless words. It was a female voice that cut calmly through the panic.

‘It looks as though my husband has had an apoplexy. When he rose from his chair, his face turned bright red, his eyes bulged out of his head, and he collapsed. I am afraid he also vomited all down his robe.’

Her tone was unusually calm in the circumstances, and she seemed to be observing a scene in which she took no part, nor had any interest in. Perhaps the shock of such a sudden series of events had overwhelmed her, and she would break down and weep as soon as the consequences struck her. But I was not so sure.

‘What of the Emir of Sinope’s pirate band? Should we not flee for safety?’

The scent of patchouli came closer, and I felt a feminine hand on my arm.

‘Oh, I don’t think there is truly any danger. The gates to the lower town will have been closed already. The Emperor must be protected at all costs, and we shall be safe enough here. The servants are such ninnies, and run around in fright at the slightest danger.’

I heard her sit back at the table.

‘Would you like some blanc manger?’

The old man sensed all the eyes of the assembled pilgrims were on him, boring into him. He hoped he had told his story well, and that the correct conclusion had been reached. It was the woman, Katie Valier, who spoke first. He had known before she even uttered her opening words that it would be she who would guess the truth.

‘Panaretos ate himself to death, and that was the reward for his gluttony.’

Falconer smiled.

‘Oh, it was more than merely his gluttony that killed him. You see, I travelled to Genoa on Finati’s ship, and he swore to me that he never wrote the threatening letter, nor acted in any other way to coerce Panaretos into accepting a trade deal. It only confirmed my own conclusions, which Panaretos did not give me time to expound upon. I could have told him who was threatening his life, but he died before I could.’

Katie was quick to see his point.

‘Then it was Baia who wrote the letter, and she also made up the other threats in order to scare her husband.’

One of the other pilgrims piped up, not fully comprehending the enormity of Katie’s suggestion.

‘But why would she do that? I know that from what you tell us, Master Falconer, that he mistreated her. But what would she gain by making him even more fearful and angry?’

The old man could tell Katie was looking at him in an understanding way, so he completed the story.

‘Because when Panaretos was agitated he turned to his main comfort, which was not his wife, but food. And she gladly complied with his wishes. Over several months, she fed him rich food in ever increasing portions that made him fatter and fatter until the merest exertion brought on an apoplexy. She murdered him just as effectively as if she had used poison or a knife, but it was a much more subtle way to do it that meant she was not even suspected. Except by me, and I saw no reason to tell anyone my suspicions. You see, it was the slowest and the kindest murder I have ever witnessed.’