Three for a Letter

Chapter Twenty-one

The morning damp seemed to have settled painfully into Peter’s bones as he accompanied Godomar down the coast road. He struggled to keep pace with the long-legged prelate who, it turned out, was long-winded as well.

“It is as the venerated Patriarch Chrysostom said to Eutropius, who was a patrician and a consul but withal a eunuch and corrupt.” Godomar’s booming voice carried easily back to Peter above the rush of waves. “Where are your banquets where the wine flowed endlessly, the tables groaning with overly exotic offerings concocted by your wasteful cooks? Where are the friends who were always so agreeable and now are nowhere to be seen? For was not all of it but dreams of the dark hours that disappeared with the sunrise, merely blooms of spring and lo, spring has gone?”

Apparently Godomar had requested Peter to accompany him to the village in order to serve as a congregation of one. But if that were the case, he had not chosen the topic of his remarks well. John’s loyal servant was unlikely to be inspired by a homily disparaging both eunuchs and cooks.

Godomar was at least correct in declaring that spring was gone. Indeed, summer had suddenly fled as well-at least for the moment. A chilly breeze drove small clouds across the bright blue sky. Peter imagined them as a herd of ragged sheep. He would mention the image to the Lord Chamberlain’s friend Anatolius, he thought. He might care to use it in one of his poetic compositions.

“Are you listening, Peter?” Godomar called from the other side of the road. This particularly loud peal of verbal thunder caught Peter’s wandering attention.

“Listening? Oh, yes, yes,” he replied. “As you say so eloquently, it is nothing more than a dream.”

Godomar arched his eyebrows. “A dream? The path we go down to Paul’s house is a dream?”

“Ah, I thought you were speaking in parables, sir.” Peter hastily crossed the road as an ox cart came lumbering into view from the direction of the village. It lurched and dipped as it moved slowly along and had drawn almost level with the two men when it tilted sideways far enough to dislodge a small stool from atop a mound of household goods, sending the piece of furniture clattering to the ground.

The cart driver, a broad middle-aged man with the sunburnt skin of a farmer, stopped his cart. “Good sirs, would one of you be kind enough to hand that up? I fear to even set foot to ground now that I’m fleeing this cursed place.”

Peter hobbled to the stool and hefted it back onto the laden cart.

The ox’s massive head was veiled in a cloud of gently buzzing flies. Godomar waved an ineffectual hand back and forth in front of his face as he questioned the man about his remarkable statement. “What do you mean by cursed place?”

“Why, I mean the village, sir. It’s doomed. I thought everyone knew that. You only have to look at the goats.” The farmer pointed a work-worn hand toward the sharp peaks of the island. With his less than perfect eyesight Peter could just distinguish a vague peppering of what he supposed must be the famous goats, near the summit of one of the taller crags.

“But surely you realize it’s all nonsense?” Godomar told the man firmly.

The man was unrepentant. “I might agree with that, sir, but even if it was just nonsense as killed the little lad and set fire to the villa, I don’t want my family near it. So I sent them away yesterday to my brother’s house. Heed the goats, sirs, that’s what I would advise you both to do. The evil events are only just beginning. Why, I distinctly saw old Matthew’s daughter walking about last night, not that it was that unusual when she was alive but after ten years in the earth…”

He fell silent and then urged the powerful ox and its retinue of flies forward as another fleeing villager came into sight, trudging up the road and struggling to carry a wicker cage stuffed with squawking chickens. The new arrival hurried past them without a glance or a backward look at the hearth and home he had just left behind, perhaps forever.

“I fear I’ve already learned much of what I intended to question Paul about,” Godomar remarked grimly to Peter, “for I desired to discover the mood of the village as discreetly as I could.”

The prelate fell uncharacteristically silent for a while, gazing after the man who was fleeing with the chickens. “What does your master think of all this superstition, Peter? I know his views are not… the same as mine.”

“He has not confided his thoughts on the matter to me, sir.”

“Indeed? I noticed that he hasn’t had much use for your services these past few days. That’s why I requested your company this morning. He keeps you informed of his whereabouts, doesn’t he? So you can be on hand if necessary to bring a treat for Sunilda when he is spending time with the child, for instance, or perhaps to clean his room when he will be away for a few hours.”

Peter, uncomfortably aware that the prelate was fishing for information about his master, shook his head. “No, I have had little to do since we arrived on the estate,” he replied truthfully enough. “I think he intends me to rest, as if I could in such a place.”

“Or he may realize that you are falling prey to the frailties of old age,” Godomar pointed out. “I am told your master is a kind man. Surely it is time he allowed you to retire? He could easily engage a younger man to take over your domestic duties.”

The suggestion horrified Peter. “I am a freed man, sir,” he said in a dignified tone. “And even if I were not, my master would never discard me like that.”

Godomar shrugged. “Perhaps not. But a man of your faith could always find a useful role in the church, you know.”

By now the fleeing villagers had disappeared from sight. Godomar turned to lead the way down the path to Paul’s house. “On consideration I wouldn’t worry, Peter,” he offered over his shoulder. “After all, the Lord Chamberlain is very preoccupied at the moment. Perhaps he doesn’t realize he’s left you with so few duties. I suppose he must have made a great deal of progress in his investigations by now?”

“He doesn’t confide in me about such things, sir.”

“Of course not. You are merely his servant. Even so, you are an astute man, Peter. If your master were making any progress toward finding this murderous mime, well, surely his demeanor would reveal it to one of your discernment?”

“Possibly,” Peter said and then fell silent.

They reached the end of the path and walked around to the front of Paul’s house. The old man, seated on a wooden bench by his door, was looking out over the sea. He stood to greet his visitors, spilling the fishing net he’d been mending from his lap to the ground.

Godomar wasted no time with pleasantries but got down to the business of superstitious nonsense and devilry immediately.

Paul scratched his chin. “I’d pay no attention to that story about old Matthew’s daughter, sir,” he finally advised. “People often go walking about on the headland, even at night. It has a strange attraction to some, especially since the poor woman threw herself over the edge, how many years ago was that now? I forget. And, of course, it’s also where the straw man festival is held every year.”

Godomar’s lips tightened at this further proof that all was not spiritually what it should be in the village, but Paul seemed not to notice the prelate’s disapproval.

“But then there’s the matter of the little boy,” Paul went on, “not to mention the fire. What with the goats grazing in worse and worse patterns every day, everyone’s in an awful state. Some villagers are so afraid they’re ready to be scared half to death by an egg with two yolks or any such oddity.”

“We did see a man fleeing with his chickens just now,” put in Peter. “Perhaps they were beginning to lay unnaturally?”

“Those goats are merely ordinary animals, simple and useful creatures, and all of them God’s handiwork,” Godomar declared.

Paul belatedly offered his visitors wine. “To warm you up for your walk back,” he said kindly. “The air is cold this morning. The winds are changing, too, and that’s a better omen of what’s to come. Wind direction is a much more reliable oracle than any number of goats for telling what weather is coming. Still, despite the occasional foggy day, I’m hoping we’ll have some hot afternoons for a little while longer.” During their brief conversation the wind from the sea had begun to rise and the visitors were happy to go inside.

Godomar accepted wine but did not sit down. “I see you are a devout man, Paul,” he said, with an approving glance at the wooden cross displayed on one wall. “Do you think that a special service might suffice to allay fears in the village?”

Paul shook his head. “From all I’ve heard, most of the villagers think their best chance of heavenly help will come from the straw man.”

Godomar looked aghast at the very notion.

Paul, who had faced many angry seas in a small fishing boat, continued unperturbed. “It’s but the simple truth. Some may be fleeing but most are staying in hopes the evil might be averted by the coming celebration. Begging your forgiveness, sir, but they see the animals as heavenly messengers, warning us all about-well, who knows what?”

“The Lord does send angels,” Peter pointed out.

“Not cloven-footed ones!” Godomar snapped angrily.

“It may be that heaven speaks to ordinary folk in ways they can understand,” argued Paul.

The prelate drew himself up to his full height. His head almost brushed the rafters. “I see that I am confronted by a pair of most learned and subtle theologians! Has the Patriarch of Constantinople convened a council in this dwelling? My advice to Zeno will be that this blasphemous festival be immediately cancelled. He shouldn’t even be thinking of holding such a celebration hardly two weeks after an innocent child has died!”

“The straw man’s a very ancient tradition,” Paul replied. “It would cause a great deal of trouble if it was cancelled. It could be considered blasphemous, of course. However, I will say that I always enjoy watching the procession.”

“Very well, Paul. Thank you for your hospitality. I’m certain you will do your best to remind your neighbors of where we must all look for true salvation. Now, if I may have a word before Peter and I leave…”

Godomar nodded toward the door leading to the other room and the two vanished inside. Peter could hear them speaking in low tones. To his distress, he thought he distinguished his master’s name. Obviously Godomar wanted to warn Paul about the pagan Lord Chamberlain out of Peter’s hearing, having already voiced similar concerns to most of Zeno’s household.

Annoyed, the elderly servant glanced at the wooden cross hanging on the wall. There was a small shape burnt into its foot. Leaning closer, he saw a crudely rendered whale.

***

Zeno was late arriving at the goat shrine, having spent longer than expected at the workshop trying to decide how to speed up construction of the automaton whose progress had been delayed by Hero’s incarceration. Then too some of the household had begun to grumble about the celebrations. Livia had berated him over his apparent enthusiasm for the event, and that despite a poor child lying dead, as she put it. But what choice did he have? The empress had made it plain that she expected the festival to go ahead. It seemed heartless and indecent, but there it was.

Minthe was waiting for him, arms folded and shoulders hunched under a thin cloak. Although she had placed herself on the land side of the shrine, the wind found its way around its columns and whipped her long silver hair around her face, partially obscuring her sharp, wrinkled features.

“Did you see the goats at sunrise?” Zeno said eagerly. “Did they have an answer for my question? I’m looking forward to finding out-for entertainment only, of course,” he added with quick caution.

“They had a most interesting reply.” The woman pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “Let us walk along the beach while I convey it to you, sir. I find as I get older even the gentlest breeze seems to cut to the bone.”

Zeno agreed, adding dolefully that he experienced the same unfortunate effect from even the merest zephyr.

Soon the elderly pair was pacing along the high water mark. A passerby looking down from the coast road would have taken them for an old married couple walking the shore to collect driftwood for their brazier.

“I don’t always understand the answers that I see,” Minthe began, “but that’s because I don’t know the questions asked. The same applied to oracles in the older days, did it not? They merely conveyed what heaven told them. Very well, then. The pattern formed by the goats this morning was fragmented but in brief it conveyed that sorrow is to be expected.”

Zeno furrowed his brow. “That’s a very philosophical answer but I confess it’s not exactly what I expected to hear. Not very entertaining, is it?”

His companion smiled gravely. “The goats also informed me that the tallest knows the answer you seek. Are you acquainted with any very tall people?”

“The tallest person I know is Godomar, although the Lord Chamberlain’s not much shorter. However, neither of them knows any more about the matter I was inquiring about than I do, so the goats must have meant someone else. I must confess to some disappointment, Minthe. Perhaps the animals don’t know as much as is rumored?”

“But there is one last thing, sir. According to the goats, the twin is to follow and will take high office.”

Zeno looked astonished. “Sunilda? But surely that can’t be the answer to the question I asked?” A tremor had crept into his voice.

The white-capped swells of the sea rolled hypnotically ashore to dash themselves on the beach with a dull roar, the muted thundering made by the hoofs of Poseidon’s horses.

Minthe observed that during the decades she had interpreted the goats’ oracles, they had often been worded extremely strangely and in many cases their answer sounded completely unconnected with the question asked. Yet, on looking back, they had never been proved wrong. “So, sir, what will doubtless happen is that in a few days or a few weeks you will see the true sense of their reply and be vastly entertained when you do.”

Zeno thanked her and then said he understood that consulting the goats was a very old custom indeed.

“So it is,” Minthe confirmed. “There are even those who claim the herd has been there since the days when humans were sacrificed to the sea for a fruitful harvest and for good fishing.”

“An extremely regrettable practice, to say the least,” Zeno observed, “although obviously that would be the origin of the straw man’s role in the village festival. On the other hand, I’m puzzled as to how the area acquired this remarkable tradition concerning the goats.”

“Nobody knows. Some say the goats were set there by the old gods themselves, others claim the herd was taken over centuries ago. Whatever the truth of it, their island is forbidden to all and the only time villagers set foot there is when they leave occasional supplies of food for the keeper of the goats. It’s said that a villager left the beach on one such visit to explore a little, but that as soon as he set foot back over here he had a strange fit and fell to the ground. Ever thereafter, he could hardly lift his arms. It was and still is considered a fitting punishment for profaning the goats’ island.”

Zeno shook his head at the fate of the unfortunate villager. “But the patterns, Minthe, what method do you use to interpret them?”

“It’s done according to the arrangement of the clusters of goats, taking into account the dominant color of the animals in each group. The height at which they’re grazing is also very important.”

Zeno observed that it sounded very complicated.

“Not really.” A stronger gust of wind caught at their clothing and she shivered. “Different patterns symbolize different words and whoever requested guidance interprets the answer according to the content of the question they’d posed. Thus the message conveyed in any given answer means something different to everyone, since its sense would change according to the nature of what had been asked.”

They had arrived at the rebuilt temple that was Minthe’s home. Zeno hardly noticed where they were. His eyes gleamed with delight as he contemplated Minthe’s words. “Absolutely fascinating! It’s one thing to read about these ancient arts, but to see them still practiced on one’s very doorstep is even more intriguing.”

Minthe shivered again. “I’d be happy to discuss it further with you if you wouldn’t mind stepping into my house, away from this wind.”

“Of course, of course, I wasn’t thinking of you freezing half to death while I stand here babbling away.”

As they stepped into the dim interior, redolent of herbs, Minthe observed that many old customs lingered in villages though they were long forgotten in cities. “Take medicinal matters, for example,” she went on. “City dwellers may speak highly of all manner of new and more effective treatments for old ailments but those of us who live in the country know that the ancient herbal remedies are often just as effective.”

“There’s no doubt that many are very efficacious,” Zeno remarked. “Castor swears by them when his joints feel particularly rusty. The relief he gains is almost magickal, or so he claims.”

“I am glad to hear that. However, my preparations are not magick despite what some may say,” Minthe said. “Many such as I can make up an herbal mixture for someone with a cough or a fever or other ailment, but people should be cautious whenever they hear talk about magick. You’ll find many who claim the ability to, say, provide you with a curse that will kill anyone you choose or a love charm guaranteed to bring the one you desire to you, willing or not. They’ll charge a high price while they’re at it too, yet very few can really accomplish what they promise.”

“Magick may be nothing but trickery but it has its fascinations to a scholar such as myself.”

“Magickal tricks are simple once you understand how they work, sir. People are gullible. They’ll see what they want or expect to see. When the jeweler substitutes green glass for emeralds, people accept what appears to be genuine gems and never realize they’re completely worthless.”

Suddenly, Zeno wondered uncomfortably if the elderly woman considered him gullible-a foolish old man looking for answers from a herd of goats.

***

“Minthe made up this concoction for Anatolius.” Zeno waved the small clay pot enthusiastically rather too near to John’s nose. “I told her he suffered mightily from a malady brought on by proximity to certain plants. ‘Elderberries,’ she said. ‘They’re the best treatment for that particular misery.’ I’ll present it to him when he returns from the city.”

John had met Zeno coming up the drive to the villa. The garden air was suffused with the faint smell of smoke, whether from the workshops or a lingering memory of the fatal fire it was impossible to say. The two men stood before the villa entrance while Zeno relayed, with some excitement, the goats’ reply to his inquiry. Although he listened politely enough, John was relieved when his host abruptly changed the subject to Anatolius’ affliction.

“From the odd smell of that mixture, you’ll be fortunate to get Anatolius into the same room with it, let alone take it,” John observed, “but I wanted to ask you again about Castor. Are you absolutely certain there is nothing more you can tell me about him?”

Zeno looked pained. “As I’ve already explained, John, I know nothing of the man’s personal life.”

“Even though he’s been your neighbor for such a long time and visited you often?”

“Yes. Castor is a very private man. As I’ve told you, he collects antiquities and books, he’s a scholar and a philosopher, a scientist-”

“He has many and varied interests, I know, but I’m interested in finding out more about the man himself.”

Now Zeno looked puzzled. “But surely, John, what we think about is who we are. In the workings of our bodies we are all the same. It is only in our thoughts and beliefs that we differ.”

John sighed. “There’s some truth in that. But even Castor could not have sprung full grown from some desiccated scroll in his library.”

“No, although it’s a most interesting idea. Now, if I may leave you for a while, I’m in need of some nourishment and a bit of rest. I’ve had a rather strenuous walk.”

John did not accompany Zeno into the villa but instead walked around the gardens. He had spent the morning making futile inquiries about Castor. It seemed that the man spent his time communing with written words rather than with people.

The Goths, not surprisingly, had barely glimpsed him in the short time they had been staying with Zeno. Castor had no neighbors other than Zeno. His estate was surrounded by fields, orchards, and vineyards. He employed the smallest of staffs, and all of his servants had apparently taken their orders directly from Briarus, who had been allowed to run the estate to even the smallest detail. They had had only the most minimal contact with their actual master. Setting a plate before him. Filling a goblet. Briarus had even decided the daily menu. Castor had more urgent concerns.

Not that it would be unusual for a wealthy man to confine his social contacts mostly to those he might see at court, but Zeno insisted that although Castor might travel on business, he never set foot near the Great Palace. John had certainly never seen the man there. Castor appeared to be one of those who live by and for and through the written word, a kind of monk of the intellect.

The image of a monk had not come to John out of the air but from the sight of Godomar, who was watching gardeners at work clearing out the flower bed surrounding one of Zeno’s ancient shrines.

“Lord Chamberlain,” Godomar snapped in an outraged tone, “I really must protest. This structure is an abomination.”

John mildly pointed out that since the estate belonged to Zeno, whatever was built on it was his alone to order.

Godomar looked even more upset. “I do not explain myself well. Erecting an edifice to house an idol and surrounding it with beds of the poppies its pagan worshipers love is wicked enough. But what’s far worse is that I’ve found Bertrada inside this building more than once. I’m convinced that her interest is neither that of an antiquarian nor the student of ancient religions. This is a shrine to Hypnos, and…” He lowered his voice and leaned towards John “…the statue inside is…naked.”

John suppressed a smile. “Well, after all, it is a pagan shrine, isn’t it?”

“Oh, indeed!” Godomar nodded. “Now I have no objection to naked statues as such, even if they have wings on their shoulders such as grace the one in there. Its workmanship is certainly very excellent. But it is a male statue after all, and I fear that Bertrada’s interest in it is…well…”

John sighed. Sensing that a discussion of naked pagan idols, with or without wings, would not prove useful he changed the subject and questioned Godomar about Castor.

“All I can tell you about the man is that he has an interest in blasphemous and impure works,” was the curt reply.

“You have seen his library, Godomar?”

“No, but I’ve had the misfortune of discovering many of its volumes around Zeno’s villa. Some of them were in the possession of my charges. I would prefer not to describe what Bertrada was reading-and she’s still only a child.”

“Is Bertrada acquainted with Castor? Has she perhaps visited his library?”

Godomar frowned. “You insult my vigilance, Lord Chamberlain. Do you think I would ever allow such a friendship? Fortunately we’re only visitors and the sooner we are gone the better. The Lord willing, we’ll survive to leave.”

“It seems Castor’s volumes are everywhere yet the man himself is nowhere to be found,” John mused.

“The only time I’ve seen him was at the banquet, Lord Chamberlain.” Godomar turned abruptly and walked toward the villa without a word of farewell.

John lingered for a while, watching the gardeners at work. A breeze picked its way through the shrubbery lining the path, rustling parchment-dry leaves. Perhaps, he thought tiredly, Castor really was just away on business after all.

John sighed again. His thoughts turned to Hypnos, who personified sleep-and whose twin brother was Thanatos, or death.

He could only hope that Anatolius’ investigations were proceeding more fruitfully than his own.