Seven for a Secret (5 page)

Chapter Nine

Despite a chilly drizzle which left the streets dark and damp under an overcast sky, a wave of heat washed over John as he stepped through a brick archway and into a wide courtyard. The heat emanated from a low, open-sided structure housing the circular hump of a brick-built kiln.

The workshop of the glassmaker Michri sprawled near the crest of the ridge overlooking the Golden Horn, at the edge of the Copper Market not far from the Great Church. John had been here before to commission glassware for imperial banquets and ceremonies.

Any other Lord Chamberlain would have delegated that part of his official duties, but John enjoyed inspecting glass goblets destined for imperial tables. These were things of substance. John missed the weight of a sword in his hand. The secrets of the court, measured advice, subtle political maneuverings, most of the matters he dealt with now, were insubstantial and the results of his efforts uncertain. It might be more satisfying to shape molten glass into a pleasing shape or turn up the soil of a field. In another life, he had envisioned himself retiring to a farm.

The maw of the kiln gaped momentarily red as a man, no doubt one of Michri’s assistants, added wood to its glowing innards. Under the roof of the shelter the air steamed. The smell of wet stone and earth mingled with that of burning charcoal.

Michri stood at a long wooden bench and examined a translucent blue wine jug. When he noticed his visitor he put the jug down and stepped forward.

He was a hulking barrel-chested man upon whose massive shoulders was balanced a head as smooth and hairless as a blown glass egg. Whether the lack of so much as a shadow of an eyebrow was due to a lifetime’s proximity to flames or whether the glassmaker shaved to avoid being singed while at work, John had never inquired.

“Salutations! A visit is always an honor, Lord Chamberlain.”

John acknowledged the greeting. “I fear I have no commission for you, Michri, although it is not for lack of satisfaction in your work or artistry. The empress has in fact spoken most highly of your last contribution to the court.”

“Ah, that was a challenge! Who but myself, Michri, could have carried out such a task, sir? To make copies of fruit and bread and fish, indeed every dish to be offered at the imperial banquet. They were such faithful reproductions our dear empress’ guests could not tell until they touched them they were but artifices intended to delight and entertain?”

“Not even then. Senator Flaccus would have bitten down on one your apples if I hadn’t noticed and solicited his opinion of the situation in Italy in the nick of time.”

Michri laughed. “I’m sure Justinian appreciated the views of such an astute observer!”

“Theodora appeared to find them of interest.” John did not mention that after the banquet the empress had ordered the glass food distributed to the hungry clustered at the gates of the Great Palace. Instead he pointed out that the tableware Michri had provided for the formal gathering had been much admired.

Michri dismissed the compliment with a wave of a hand. He scowled and his smooth forehead wrinkled where his eyebrows should have been. “Plates and wine cups! Beginner’s work, Lord Chamberlain! But not everyone has the lung power to be able to manufacture a wine jug such as the example I just fashioned. Sufficient breath is not enough. The artisan must study for years to learn all he needs to know. It’s not just poking a rod into molten glass and merrily puffing away, although to hear some talk any fool can do it.”

As the artisan warmed to his topic his voice boomed. “No, there is much more involved. The worker in glass has to know how much fuel is needed to maintain the kiln at the correct temperatures and what type of wood to burn. Supposing he buys plain glass and wants to color it, he must have precise knowledge of the correct amount of copper or cobalt to add for the shade he needs. It’s skill and knowledge hard won, you may be certain of that, Lord Chamberlain. The number of burns I’ve suffered in gaining them would make an icon weep.”

He glared at his assistant, now busy stacking wood next to the kiln. Had there been friction between master and assistant? Had Michri’s words, spoken more loudly than necessary for ordinary conversation, been intended as much for the ears of his assistant as for those of his visitor?

John glanced at the workshop bench. “I see there are several plates whose color matches the wine jug. A special task?”

“A new patron and a supporter of the Blue faction,” came the reply, “hence the color of his glassware. He’s anticipating a great victory for his team when chariot races run regularly again, and plans a celebratory gathering in due course. It was difficult finding sufficient copper for the tint with trade not yet back to normal, but I heard about a man in the quarter who’d received one of the last scrap shipments that arrived in the city before the plague. When I made further inquiries, I learned he had died before he could use it so I was able to purchase a sufficient amount inexpensively from his widow. I only hope my beautiful wares survive the celebrations.”

In response to John’s questioning look, he added, “You’d be surprised how many baskets of broken glass find their way out of the palace and back into my workshop. I can melt the shards down and reuse them. They’re worth a few nummi to me, so a rich man’s carelessness turns out to be small boon to the servant who has to clean up after him.”

John gave a thin smile. “I’m certain that’s the case. But I am not here to speak to you about your glassware. I want to question you about your trade in tesserae.”

Michri looked surprised. “I will be happy to assist as best I can. Are there plans afoot for new mosaics at the palace? Or perhaps our beloved Justinian is contemplating construction of another church? Let me show you some excellent work.” He retrieved a small basket from underneath the bench.

“I’ve some beautiful gold tesserae here,” he went on. “My assistant has been practicing these past few weeks and has finally mastered the making of them. You see?”

He plucked up a few and handed them to John. “It took him some time and patience to learn not only how to put gold leaf on a cube but also the method of adding the final coating of glass to stop the gold tarnishing.” He lowered his voice before continuing. “Even so, he grasped the technique a lot faster than I did as a beginner. I fear I am sometimes too harsh with him. It is because I have great hopes for his future.”

John rolled the cubes around in his palm. They flashed and glittered, finding light even in the gloom.

Zoe was nothing more than a basketful of such glass.

No, that wasn’t true. She was also all the conversations he’d had with her over the years and the hours he’d spent staring wordlessly at her, pondering over his wine cup.

And her model, the woman who had approached him in the square—the dead woman—was certainly special. Flesh and blood was worth more than glass, wasn’t it?

It had begun to rain harder. He could hear it drumming on the roof. A gust of wind blew rain into the enclosure. Steam rose from the hot earth at the base of the kiln.

John expressed polite admiration for the tesserae and dropped them back into the basket.

“If it is to be a large job, I will need some time to prepare,” Michri said. “And for certain colors, I can’t be sure I can obtain the proper ingredients. On the other hand, I still have cakes of glass in certain hues ready to be cut.”

“It would be a small undertaking. I understand you’ve supplied tesserae for years. Do you recall who created the mosaics in my house? It was about ten years ago. The tax collector Glykos owned the house at the time. I’d like to engage the same artisan for some repair work.”

Michri’s face wrinkled in thought and then he grinned. “I can assist you, Lord Chamberlain! I remember that job well, small as it was, because it required many of the tesserae to be prepared in a peculiar manner, oddly shaped and painted on one facet. When the mosaic maker insisted that such tesserae could be set into the mortar in such a way as to show different scenes according to the lighting, I was skeptical, but apparently his method works since I hear he’s done several others since.”

“It does indeed, Michri. The effect is startling. I will arrange for you to visit and see for yourself in the near future. Do you remember the man’s name?”

“Certainly. He lives not far from here. His name is Figulus.”

Chapter Ten

“Do I remember the mosaics I made for Glykos? I wish I could forget them.” Figulus leaned forward on his stool to smooth the black curls of the smaller of two chubby infants who had crawled for cover under the table when John appeared in the doorway, shaking the rain off his cloak.

John’s damp garments steamed in the warmth of the workshop. By keeping to the shelter of colonnades and second story overhangs, he had avoided being completely soaked by the downpour.

“So you are, indeed, the artisan responsible for the work in my private bath? I am happy to hear it. I wish you to carry out some repairs.”

Figulus frowned and drew his hand away from the child. The mosaic maker was a paunchy, middle-aged man, unremarkable in appearance, except for his hands whose long fingers were as calloused as those of a bricklayer. “I regret that my next few months are quite full of assignments, excellency.”

“The repair I have in mind involves the addition of apparel and altering the, shall we say, postures of certain figures. The previous owner’s taste differed from mine and from that of my family.”

“Ah, I see. Then as crowded as my schedule is, I’m certain I can find time to assist you.”

The workshop was a spacious room with whitewashed walls. A youth in his twenties scooped handfuls of glass cubes from a row of barrels and sorted them into neat piles. Occasionally he glanced toward the other end of the table where John and Figulus sat.

The heaped tesserae glowed with color, as if the glass had trapped and accumulated the dim light seeping through the windows before reflecting it back in shades from red to deepest lapis lazuli. In a corner a younger boy created a design with colored marble pieces he pressed into a damp plaster bed held in a wooden frame.

“Perhaps it would be best to discuss the modifications at some other time, Figulus, considering the nature of the figures.”

“Lord Chamberlain, as you see, like you I have a family. At the time of the commission I already had two sons, who are now my apprentices.” Figulus waved a hand at the young men.

“When Glykos described what he wanted I was repelled,” he went on. “The subject matter was unfit for a Christian household. But what could I do? I needed to feed my family. To refuse the wielder of such influence would have meant the end of my career. A good career, too. The empress has praised the decorations I made for the imperial residences. But then, didn’t our Lord say we should give to Caesar what is Caesar’s? What Glykos demanded was Caesar’s, not a thing to which the Lord would lay claim. Naturally, I don’t mean to impugn our current caesar who is a most godly man.”

John said he understood. “What might be done about the mosaic in the study? The way it changes with the light reminds me of certain members of court. Ingenious workmanship I admit, but…”

“Offensive to any good Christian.” Figulus finished the thought, then looked down at the infants under the table. They sucked their thumbs and stared up at John with wide eyes like a pair of owls. “All things of beauty come from the Lord. Don’t you agree, Lord Chamberlain? What are the tesserae from which I form my designs? In themselves, nothing, just dull bits of glass. They shine only when they reflect the light sent from above.”

“Which requires some skillful intervention on the part of artisans such as yourself,” John pointed out.

“That’s true. In order for the finished mosaic to sparkle when it catches the light, the tesserae must be pressed into the wet plaster at varying angles. It isn’t surprising that a mosaic can have a different aspect at one hour and quite another earlier or later.”

“But not often so different an aspect as the mosaic in my study can present. Where did you learn the technique?”

“I discovered it for myself. I found that by cutting the facets at certain angles, and painting one side…but I must not waste your valuable time, Lord Chamberlain. Please believe me when I tell you while some of my patrons have asked me to put my skills to the most vile use yet I have had many worthy commissions. In one of the Patriarch’s private chapels Lazarus opens his eyes when a lamp filled with holy oil is lit and set before it. If I may say so, I am particularly proud of that creation.”

Figulus sat with his hands in his lap, long fingers intertwined as if he were ready to pray.

Those were the hands which had given birth to Zoe.

“I’ve spent hours admiring your work,” John said. “During the daytime of course. Do you recall when you made those particular mosaics?”

“I remember exactly. It was in the sixth year of Justinian’s reign. I finished the very day the Blues and Greens rioted against the emperor. Both factions poured out of the Hippodrome and fought in the streets. I feared for my life all the way home. It isn’t something easily forgotten.”

“You had already finished the mosaic in the bath at my house?”

“Yes, during the summer. When I heard what Glykos wanted for the study I delayed, hoping he’d change his mind. I became indisposed. I found several urgent commissions in other parts of the palace. Finally he refused to believe me when I explained that the winter was not the best season for that kind of work, that the plaster might not set correctly. He would not be swayed. So I began on a chilly day in January and finished the day the riots began. Or at least I thought I had finished.”

John asked him what he meant.

Figulus glanced in the direction of his older sons, who continued their tasks. He looked down at his clasped hands uneasily. “I regret I will bore you with my reminiscences.”

“Not at all, Figulus. I have always been fascinated by the mosaic in my study. Tell me what happened.”

“Very well. As I said, I believed I had finished my repulsive commission from Glykos. As soon as I was back home, my wife and I knelt and thanked the Lord I didn’t need to venture outside again. As the light faded we saw mobs surging through the street below our windows. When night fell it was worse for then of course we could see nothing. More than once the house door creaked and rattled as someone tried to get in.”

“It was a dangerous time,” John replied.

“It seemed to us that the gates of hell had opened. We were convinced the emperor must have died or fled, for otherwise he would have delivered us from the savages roaming the streets. For three days it went on. Then, before dawn, there came a terrible pounding at the door. My wife begged me not to open it, even when the frantic cries from outside told us who our callers were. But what else could I do? Glykos had sent two servants for me. He was not satisfied with the mosaic!”

“I am surprised the tax collector was concerned about a wall mosaic under the circumstances.”

“He had lost his wits, Lord Chamberlain.” Figulus shook his head. “Why, the servants he had sent were boys. They shook so badly they could hardly hold their spears. I remember looking back over my shoulder before we turned the corner. My wife was still standing in the doorway. I could barely see her though the swirling smoke that filled the street. I was certain I would never see her again.”

“You managed to get through to the palace without harm?”

“Only by the grace of God. Armed men appeared out of the smoke and pounded past us. Some carried swords, others brandished short lengths of boards bristling with nails, or carried the hammers used by metalsmiths. They paid us no heed. Once I glimpsed a fierce melee down a side street. It was when we reached the Mese that the miracle occurred.”

“Miracle?”

“Yes. A miracle. You can only understand the mosaic if you know about the miracle. My escorts and I had stepped through an archway and saw a torrent of flame rushing between the colonnades toward us, like water pouring though an aqueduct. As I leapt out into the street, the flames reached a lamp oil shop.

“I came to my senses on my knees, halfway across the Mese. I couldn’t remember being propelled through the air or landing. The explosion had littered the cobbles with shattered bricks. I have thought about it often, and have come to believe the extreme heat made the oil boil and the pressure building up in the sealed amphorae caused them to explode. I started to stand up and couldn’t. The edge of my cloak was caught beneath a column which had toppled over. The Lord had spared me being crushed. I gave silent thanks.”

“You suppose you were spared so you could finish the mosaic?” John asked. “Now, what was it that Glykos wanted done?”

“I will explain, Lord Chamberlain. But first I must describe the miracle. It wasn’t merely that I was allowed to live. You see, I had been carrying a quantity of tesserae in a wicker basket. As I got back to my feet I realized I no longer held the basket. It lay some distance away. Empty. And I knew there were none at the tax collector’s house for, supposing I was finished, I had taken the unused tesserae away with me.”

“The tesserae must have been scattered all over the street by the explosion?”

“That’s right. Just as I was about to despair I noticed a glint on the pavement. Around my feet and stretching out on all sides constellations winked, reflecting light from the burning shops. I plucked up a dark red cube of glass. Then three blue cubes. A curling line of green led to a handful of yellow. I scrambled around gathering what I could from the grimy stones. I managed to find a pitifully small portion of what I had brought. No matter, the servants urged me on.”

The events Figulus had described struck John as lucky rather than miraculous but he did not say so. “Did you reach the palace without further incident?”

“Yes. Except there was an angry crowd outside the palace walls. Blues and Greens joined in thunderous imprecations against Justinian, interspersed with chants of ‘Victory, Victory.’ As I struggled to force my way forward, I heard shouts which sent a shiver through me. ‘Glykos! The tax collector! Death to Glykos!’”

The doomed tax collector had arranged for Figulus to be admitted to the palace grounds. He was waiting in his study—John’s study—staring out the window across the square below, Figulus said. John wondered if he had been watching for excubitors to emerge from the barracks opposite, waiting for the men who would escort him to his execution.

“If Glykos had not had the windows shut against the smoke, he might have heard the crowd crying for his head,” Figulus said. “He held a cup of wine. The watery light of dawn had driven the pagan gods from the peaceful country scene on the wall behind him.”

“And what was it he wanted you to do?” John asked. He had never noticed anything in the mosaic that had given the impression of being an afterthought or a repair.

Figulus, who had been speaking quietly, lowered his voice even further. “The foul man insisted I add a portrait of his daughter to the mosaic. I was horrified. You are familiar with the nature of the work. What man would place his daughter in a scene of such surpassing evil?”

John offered sympathy.

“Yet what could I do?” Figulus replied. “I am merely an artisan. Who am I to judge the whims of my employers? While I chipped away the corner of the mosaic and applied the setting bed, Glykos had the girl summoned. She was wide-eyed and silent. A grave little girl. I believe she was too young to know exactly what was about to befall her father but old enough to feel something was wrong. Now here is the strange thing. I had never attempted a likeness. How could I capture hers? And in a few brief winter hours, in a cold room that smelled of fear and ashes?”

Figulus lifted a hand and regarded his long, calloused fingers. “It wasn’t my doing. These fingers were commanded by another power. What’s more, the few tesserae I salvaged from the street were almost exactly enough, and the colors matched the girl’s flesh and hair and the colors of her garment. How could that have happened without the Lord’s intervention?”

John made no reply. He did not believe things happened because of the intervention of the Christians’ god.

The mosaic maker seemed not to notice the Lord Chamberlain’s silence. He made the sign of his religion and continued. “I secretly took one action to protect her innocence. I made certain she was looking straight out into the world, so that she would never catch a glimpse of the behavior of the pagan deities in her sky.”

Why had Glykos wanted such a portrait? Given his reputation, he may have thought that thrusting a mosaic daughter into the care of blasphemous deities would taunt the god of the Christian emperor who was about to betray him. John asked Figulus whether the tax collector had revealed the reason for his request.

Figulus shook his head. “I have often wondered. Was it the result of a terrible upheaval of the humors? Perhaps at the very end, despite his wealth and power, Glykos realized his daughter was his true treasure. Being a worldly, grasping man, he expressed his love for her, as he did for material things, by asserting his ownership. By attaching her image to his wall. He was not altogether a villain. He paid me liberally in gold coins before I left.”

John looked around the workshop. Figulus’ older sons were still laboring assiduously with their tesserae. The infants had curled up and gone to sleep under the table like a couple of cats. Perhaps for a man who led a comfortable life it was easy and desirable to think the best of evil men.

“Everything you’ve told me has been interesting, Figulus. I know Glykos was beheaded and his body cast into the sea. As for his family…his daughter…I don’t even know the girl’s name. Did you learn that?”

“Agnes, Lord Chamberlain. That’s what Glykos called her. I heard afterward that she and her mother were thrown out onto the street with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. It would have been more merciful to execute them both.”