Seven for a Secret Page 11

  Anatolius decided he might be able to learn something without giving too much away. “I need to call on your expertise again. It’s about a private matter. Not exactly scandalous, but potentially embarrassing.”

  Francio tapped the side of his nose. “Sounds fascinating! Am I about to learn something?”

  “No. I was just wondering how such stories spread?”

  “By mouth. How else?”

  “But, let’s say, a person at the palace had an unusual habit…”

  “Let’s say there was anyone at the palace who didn’t. Now that would be interesting. What sort of person is this? A servant? A senator? Man or woman?”

  “Hypothetically, an official.”

  “You lawyers are a circumspect bunch. This habit, does it involve, shall we say, an unnatural practice?”

  Anatolius frowned. “I don’t think I’d go that far.”

  “I can tell by your expression that whatever you are talking about is extremely unnatural. You will need to control your expressions better in front of the magistrates, my friend. I don’t grasp what you think I can tell you. Rumors and gossip have a thousand roads but only a single destination, which is to say the entire city.”

  “I can’t believe everything becomes general knowledge,” Anatolius observed. “I’m not speaking about an indiscretion at the Hippodrome or in a brothel.”

  “Where then? Come now! You want to know who might have whispered scandal into someone’s ear? How can I tell you if I don’t know what it is? Don’t worry about revealing the details. As you know, I am the soul of discretion.”

  “You wouldn’t dare to say that on oath!”

  Francio looked hurt. “I only parcel out what I know as seems absolutely necessary. How do you suppose I maintain my popularity?”

  “By your golden tongue?”

  Francio grinned. “Flattery is a good tool. It usually works, no matter how clumsily one employs it. Now, you say this mysterious behavior which is not scandalous, but which I deduce is quite unnatural, occurred not in public but in a private place. Such as…?”

  “A place similar to, for instance, a study.”

  “Oh yes. You’re referring to the Lord Chamberlain’s habit of talking to the mosaic on his wall, are you not?”

  Anatolius might as well have been hit in the stomach. He couldn’t seem to draw breath to reply.

  “Yes, this is fairly well known,” Francio went on. “It isn’t a very popular story. The Lord Chamberlain is considered so eccentric, all in all, his speaking to bits of colored glass hardly raises an eyebrow. And before you ask how the story could have got out…well, he has a few friends who have visited the house, not to mention servants, and has even had some unwanted visitors over the years, I’d wager.”

  “I’m positive I didn’t mention it to anyone.”

  “Not even to some lady? I daresay we will all reveal anything under the appropriate circumstances.”

  “That’s what Justinian’s torturers claim too. You’re right. Yet I truly don’t believe I’ve ever breathed a word about it. As for his servants, Peter wouldn’t disclose his master’s secrets, even to the imperial torturers.”

  “Ah yes, Peter. John doesn’t have many servants, does he? The paucity of servants strikes people as far more peculiar than him talking to mosaics when he’d had too much wine. You might not know any of this. Since you are one of the Lord Chamberlain’s closest friends and he is a powerful man, many are doubtless reticent about sharing such opinions with you.”

  “Indeed. This is the first time you have shared this information with me, Francio.”

  “You never asked, my friend. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you how John’s little secret got out. It’s spread too far from its source.”

  Francio peered again into one of the pots on the brazier, grasped the protruding handle of the ladle, and gave a lusty stir. A few drops of liquid splashed out and evaporated on the coals in a hiss of steam.

  Anatolius decided he should get back to the library. “I was interested in who might know about Zoe,” he said. “But it sounds as if there’s nothing to be learned.”

  Francio dropped the ladle back against the side of the pot. “Zoe. That’s what John calls the mosaic girl, isn’t it? Now that I only learned a few weeks ago.”

  “Then the name isn’t common knowledge?”

  “I just told you I didn’t know about it until recently.”

  “I see your point, Francio. Who was it who told you?”

  “Crinagoras. I can’t remember precisely when it was. I spend so much time here on the battlefield and the scene is always just like this. You’ll recall I invited him to compose some verse for my banquet? His original idea was to recite odes to the various rooms of the wealthy and powerful to form a poignant contrast to the humble fare on the table, as he put it. Well, he came here and started declaiming samples of what he intended to write. The poem about the decorations in a certain senator’s residence was scurrilous enough to give me second thoughts. When he started describing John’s mournful conversations with Zoe I made him put the whole lot in the brazier. I thought he’d plucked the name Zoe out of his imagination. I should have known better. He hasn’t got much imagination.”

  Anatolius couldn’t hide his disappointment. “Mithra! Then I’ve wasted my time. I thought you might be able to narrow it down for me, but if Crinagoras wrote a poem about Zoe, you can be sure her name was all over the city before the ink was dry.”

  Chapter Twenty

  A corpse covered in wet dye would be difficult to handle without leaving some trace, even if it were secreted in a sack.

  John hadn’t noticed any sign of staining in the corridor leading to Troilus’ shop.

  He considered possibilities as he stood in the sunlight outside the entrance to the subterranean realm where Helios and Troilus conducted business. On the other side of the courtyard, the man John deduced was a dyer sat on a stool by the doorway to his business in the shade of a rainbow covered awning.

  No one would have arrived with a body and asked that it be dyed.

  However, dye might be obtained at such a place.

  The dyer appeared to be enjoying the rehearsal, which had reached a point where actors were busy knocking each other over with their leather phalluses.

  John couldn’t see the humor in it.

  The stricken Petronia was nowhere in sight. John walked over to the man, who immediately sprang to his feet.

  “Good day, sir! Welcome to the shop of Jabesh! I can supply every color under the sun and some the sun has never seen.”

  Jabesh was an angular little man with glittering black eyes and a beard that was little more than a dark stain. He flapped the baggy sleeves of his tunic, upon which were sewn colored squares of every imaginable hue, apparently samples of his work, making him a walking advertisement for his craft.

  There were several shades of red, but how a dye applied to white linen might compare with the same used on livid flesh, John could not say.

  “I see you are authorized to work for the palace, Jabesh,” he remarked.

  The dyer looked down at his hands, stained a telltale purple. “Like my father and his father before him. Though I am but a humble laborer I wear the imperial purple today. I was preparing silk on commission this morning. Are you here on court business?”

  He stretched out his arm to display a multicolored sleeve. “You see here only some of the colors I offer,” he went on. “My family is descended from the very dyers who created Joseph’s many-colored coat.”

  “Have you sold dye to anyone recently?”

  Jabesh lowered his gaudily decorated arm. “I am a craftsman, not a merchant. If it’s dyes that are wanted, I suggest consulting an apothecary.”

  “I understand it isn’t your usual line of business, but perhaps you have sold dye in special cases?”

  Jabesh’s hands clenched into purple fists. “Has Troilus sent you? If you’re one of his
friends, you can tell him I won’t sell purple to anyone at any price. It’s illegal. It could cost me my livelihood and my life.”

  “Troilus has tried to purchase purple dye?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No, but it was easy to guess. He wanted it on account of that woman of his. He came around wheedling me after I refused to sell it to her.”

  “You mean Agnes?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not interested in the names of actresses.”

  “Yet you’re not averse to enjoying their performances,” John observed with a slight smile.

  From the direction of the stage drifted the dull, repetitive thump of simulated gladiatorial combat with obscene leather weapons.

  “I like a little culture now and then,” Jabesh admitted. “Many of the actors are men, as is proper. As for the so called actresses, you can dye a beggar purple but it won’t make him emperor.”

  John kept to himself the thought that dyeing a whore purple might very well make her empress. “When did this woman approach you?”

  “She’s cajoled me more than once. A few weeks ago she started to try to persuade me and I believe she would have given me what men pay her for, if I had been so stupid as to take the risks I mentioned. Finally, it would be a week ago, Troilus tried to talk me into agreeing. No one except a craftsman authorized by the emperor would have such dye. You can’t buy purple from an apothecary any more than you can pay to have your robes dyed purple.”

  John asked if any reason had been given for the couple’s interest in an illegal dye.

  “No, sir. My guess is she wanted to play act.”

  “With the troupe? It would be just as illegal and more dangerous in public to appear in such garments even onstage.”

  “Not all performances are public. She often brings costumes in, you see. The troupe uses the same old rags over and over and they have me dye them occasionally so the audience thinks it’s seeing something new. There’s more color than fabric to those costumes now. The actors might as well parade in here naked and jump into my vats before they perform.”

  John wondered if, in fact, the body he’d seen had been submerged in one of Jabesh’s vats before being left in the cistern.

  “Your workshop is secure?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You do a lot of work for the troupe?”

  “Nothing beyond coloring and recoloring their rags. Every color but that reserved for the emperor. When a play requires it, I come as close to the imperial hue as the laws allow. Not very close, but close enough so that when an actor says, ‘Ah, what a lovely purple tunic you are wearing, Theodora,’ the audience grasps the idea.”

  “The troupe has performed plays about Theodora?”

  Jabesh glanced around and lowered his voice. “Only at private functions, sir. Not that I’ve seen any, or care to. They are vile, or so I’ve heard. Not that I know any details. I believe they call one production A Secret Account. I suspect it’s Troilus’ painted woman who pretends to be Theodora. She behaves as if she is the empress even when she isn’t on stage.”

  “Why is that?” John could not imagine the dark eyed, sorrowful little girl he knew pretending to be an empress. He had to remind himself that Agnes was not Zoe.

  Not really.

  “She puts on the airs. There are more than a few ladies in the neighborhood who used to be members of the court and come by their airs naturally, as you might say, but none of them can match her. In any event, she has no right to pretensions. You can tell. The common sort of woman always overdoes the act. It’s not just the mincing about pretending to be better than she is. There’s the way she soaks herself in perfume.” Jabesh waved a purple hand as if to disperse a foul odor. “Do you know, it just occurred to me. Maybe she wants the dye for herself. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are men who would pay well to spend the night with a woman in purple.”

  “You may be right, Jabesh. What about this scurrilous play? Do you have any idea where the troupe performs it?”

  “No, sir, but I don’t want to make it out to be more than it is. It’s nothing but a bit of fun. Or rather, some peoples’ idea of a bit of fun.”

  “The actors are your customers after all.”

  “Yes. That’s right. Like all of us, they need to serve their customers. Look at this.” He grabbed his sleeve, bunched it and displayed a square of garish orange next to an overpowering green. “Have you ever seen a more hideous combination? Yet an excellent patron of mine will insist on sending these barbaric colors to wear on his finest robes, not to mention his wife’s garments and wall hangings.”

  “I can believe there is an audience for performances that do not show the empress in the best light.”

  “Especially around here, sir. People who have been cast out of the palace—and there are many of them—do not think kindly of Justinian and Theodora. Some like to plot revenge.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It’s the same as the play. Nothing, really. Something to pass the hours. You can see how they would enjoy a play that mocks their enemies. Then they go out drinking and continue acting themselves. As soon as the tavern closes they’ll storm the palace walls. But needless to say the uprising is always put off to a more auspicious time.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Customers grumble in front of me. What do I matter?”

  “And you say that Troilus’ friend was involved in this…play acting?”

  Jabesh looked distressed. “Yes. As I said, they don’t mean it seriously. Perhaps I should have said nothing.”

  “No. I appreciate your honesty. Someone I spoke with earlier was not so forthcoming. He will soon regret it.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Lord Chamberlain! I am honored to have a second visit so soon!”

  Opilio stood on a stool, draping a garland of links over the doorway to his shop. Glancing down, he must have taken note of John’s stern expression because the smile on his ruddy face faded.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the sausages, is there? Were they not to your liking?”

  “I haven’t tried them.” John’s tone was curt. “You will provide me with more information since you appear to have neglected to tell me everything you knew.”

  The stout sausage maker climbed down, nearly lost his balance, and reached a hand out to steady himself against the wall.

  “I’ve been doing my best to recall the smallest detail that might be of use,” he protested. “But I fear my poor brain is as empty—”

  “—as one of your casings,” John cut in. “Just as it was a few hours ago.”

  “That’s it, alas.”

  “I find it hard to believe you would recall your niece associating with actors and actresses but her spending time with malcontents plotting against the emperor would entirely escape your mind.”

  The color drained from Opilio’s face. “Plotting against…no…no…of course not. She’s a common little prostitute, that’s true enough, or at least she was when last I saw her. But a prostitute…that’s one thing…to plot against the emperor…that’s another thing entirely…”

  “Indeed. After all, it is not treasonous to harbor a prostitute under one’s roof.”

  “Treason?” Opilio looked stricken. “Why would anyone suspect me of treason? There’s no one in Constantinople more loyal to Justinian than I am. Why, I would kiss the ground our glorious emperor walks upon. I mean, if I ever found myself anywhere near such ground. Not that I would try put myself in the vicinity of the emperor.”

  John was silent.

  “I…I…but…Agnes…I turned her out!” Opilio stuttered. “If I’d known she was plotting against the emperor, I wouldn’t have turned her out, I would have turned her over to the Prefect immediately, even though she was my niece.”

  John remained silent.

  “I wouldn’t harbor a traitor if she were my own dear m
other, excellency,” Opilio continued, near to tears. “In fact, I would hunt her down and strangle her with my own hands.”

  “Justinian would be gratified to hear that.”

  “And I’m not ashamed to say it. What is a relative’s blood as compared to the wellbeing of the empire? We are all mortal. The empire lives forever.”

  The sausage maker stood to attention, with all the gravity of a silentiary at the entrance to Justinian’s reception hall, albeit a short, bent, bow-legged silentiary in a tunic streaked by bits of offal.

  Was he truly worried about being charged with treason, or was he afraid the high official who was displeased might put an end to his business dealings with the palace?

  “You understand if there is anything you are not telling me this time, you will regret it. Do you know a man by the name of Troilus? He sells curiosities.”

  “The name isn’t familiar.”

  “He is acquainted with your niece.”

  “Agnes knows far too many men!”

  “Then she never brought him to your home when she lived with you? It is possible he went by another name.”

  “I did not allow Agnes to carry on her filthy business in my home, excellency. None of her acquaintances—men or women—were welcome, because they were all of the same sort.”

  “Then you did not know Agnes had a taste for purple and that she comported with plotters?”

  “As I’ve already told you, excellency, I know nothing of that. I can believe Agnes might have a taste for purple but as for seeking to bring down the emperor…” Opilio shook his head. “She’s a foolish girl. All she cared about when she lived here were baubles and vanities. I doubt she’s changed. On the other hand, a woman in her profession does not necessarily know the plans of those she entertains.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  Opilio clasped his hands together as if on the verge of wringing them or praying. “I must be honest, talk about plots is often in the air, like smoke from the foundries,” he replied. “Every week there’s talk of such things, yet what is it? Just talk. That’s why I said nothing. After a while one doesn’t even take note of it. If any of these plans were serious, no one would be prattling about them in public, would they?”