Seven for a Secret (9 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Although Opilio at first insisted that he had not wanted to know about the unwholesome places Agnes frequented, John’s interest in his wares, especially at the exorbitant price quoted, assisted the sausage maker’s memory.

Thus he learned Agnes had let slip a location where reprobates of her sort often congregated to put on what they were pleased to call performances.

Following Opilio’s directions, John soon found himself on the long narrow street leading to the square where Agnes had approached him.

A strident cry caused him to look up. A raven rose from the top of the wooden cross on a nearby roof. Then another raven appeared and another. John counted them. Seven.

Their wings beat furiously. For an instant they hung over him, their shadows hovering beside his boots. Then the birds gained height and soared off.

John looked away, back to earth, to an archway from which issued a breath of warm air both acrid and appetizing. Stepping under it, he discovered among the businesses, opening off the packed dirt courtyard beyond, were a public bakery, a dye house, and a coppersmith’s workshop.

The city felt limitless to those confined to its maze of streets and alleyways, amidst the crowds and clamor and stench, where every new turn opened upon a new world—a forum, a church, tenements, warehouses, a line of shops, a monument to a dead emperor. There was no limit to what might be found in the capital. The ravens in the sky would have seen that despite all that it contained, Constantinople was a small place. No location was far from any other. From the southern harbors on the Marmara to the northern shore along the bay of the Golden Horn was an easy walk, even for earthbound creatures, made difficult only by the necessity of ascending and descending the steep ridge that formed the backbone of the peninsula upon which the city sat.

John’s investigations had thus far not taken him beyond the Copper Market to the north and west of where the Mese ended at the Augustaion. He wished he could ascend like the ravens and peer down into the brick and marble tangle of the city.

He remembered the old rhyme, common in Bretania, which foretold the future by counting black birds. Seven was for a secret. If he could join those ravens would the secret he sought be easily seen? Or, as the rhyme went, was it a secret never to be told?

As John entered the courtyard, he heard raised voices. People bustled about under the columned roof of a semicircular exedra, reached from the far end of the enclosure by three long, low steps.

The structure resembled a smaller version of the front of Isis’ establishment. Its curved wall contained a number of doors. Most, however, were boarded up. Two obese gilded Cupids, wings encrusted with soot, looked as if they’d have a hard time climbing out of their wall niches, let alone soaring with the ravens, in the case of the Cupids not to scavenge for scraps but to search for the lovelorn.

John hailed a youngster hauling a basket of loaves out of the bakery toward what was clearly the make-shift stage Opilio had mentioned disparagingly. At the mention of Agnes, the boy’s eyes narrowed, but he raced off, and as John mounted the stairs, a woman emerged from one of the functioning doorways and came toward him.

“My name’s Petronia.” The speaker was dressed in an threadbare yellow tunic. Her finely chiseled features, set off by black hair fashionably coiled at either side, were as perfect and white as those of an ancient Greek sculpture from which time has worn the last vestige of pigment. She was no longer young, but John was old enough to appreciate stubborn, aging beauty more than the careless, unchallenged, and common prettiness of youth.

In this case, the beauty was somewhat diminished by the monstrous phallus the woman wore.

She cocked her head to one side reprovingly. “What right do you have to stare like that, coming in here with your sausage in your hand?”

John looked down at the offending articles hanging loosely in his grasp for want of a basket.

“Save that lot for the wife,” Petronia cackled, swaying her hips in order to waggle the stuffed, leather protuberance jutting from beneath her garment. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” she continued with a simper. “Did I offend you? We are all Christians here.”

“It wasn’t that.” John’s tone was sharp.

The playful expression left her face. “I overheard you asking about Agnes.”

“Do you know her? Daughter of the tax collector, Glykos?”

“We share a room, off and on,” the woman replied. “I haven’t seen her for a few days. What do you want with her? A private performance? Are you looking for Agnes in particular or might I be of assistance?”

“I wish to question her,” John replied.

Petronia was suddenly wary. “And who are you to come questioning me?”

“I am Lord Chamberlain to Justinian.”

Petronia opened her eyes wide in feigned surprise. “Of course you are! That explains why you carry sausages about in your hand. Well, it’s makes no difference to me who you are. All our best patrons are pretending to be something they aren’t, or at least aren’t any more. It’s hard to say on what side of the stage the best actors reside.”

“Many of your patrons used to be at court?”

“That’s right! This quarter suits those who want to stay in the city, or have no place left to go. It’s not the most desirable area, what with all the smoke and furnaces and smells and such, so the rents are reasonable. Yet it’s near enough to the palace and the Baths of Zeuxippos where they might run into old friends for a chat. Or at least old friends still willing to recognize them.”

A number of people John took to be Petronia’s fellow thespians strolled about, talked, and gesticulated. They didn’t seem curious about the tall, thin stranger in their midst. Just another patron. There were as many women and dwarves as men.

“You offer those who once enjoyed the privileges of the palace something of the culture they miss,” John said. “I imagine you are well patronized?”

“Indeed. We’re one of the few troupes to stage the classics. We’re doing a new version of Lysistrata.”

“That explains your unusual adornment.”

“What did you think? Old Aristophanes didn’t take full advantage of the comic situation. We’ve eliminated all the boring dialog and debate. We offer something friskier. You’re lucky to find us here. We don’t rehearse every day. As it happens we like to stage our performances during the afternoons when they’re holding one of those religious processions. There are always pilgrims waiting for the procession to begin, so we do well enough.”

“Doubtless some would say you’re taking coins that the pilgrims would otherwise offer to the church.”

“Oh, I expect we do the church a good deed,” came the airy reply. “There are bound to be pilgrims who feel guilty about having come here and seen…what they saw, and so give more to the church than they intended in the first place.”

John glanced around. “Do you employ this place regularly?”

“We call it our theater. It’s been deserted for years.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever heard of a failed brothel before,” he replied, inclining his head toward the Cupids.

“It didn’t fail. Theodora had the girls rounded up to help populate that convent of hers across the Marmara. Not that these girls wanted to be saved, but a job’s a job and it wasn’t that hard to be a reformed sinner. Rumor is that the empress paid the madam to talk them all into moving, with the madam taking on the new duties of abbess.”

“Who owns it now?”

“No one knows who this ruin belongs to. I believe whoever it is doesn’t care to come forward. It’s not much good for anything. The cubicles would all have to be torn down and the whole inside repaired, so it stands here ignored and perfect for our uses. That is to say, this part serves for a stage and we store our props in the back.”

“And there are plenty of rooms left over for getting in and out of costume?”

“Indeed. Our patrons sometimes…assist with that.”

Petronia’s demeanor suggested she hadn’t heard about Agnes’ death.

John told her.

The powder on Petronia’s face could not have turned any whiter. Her eyes, however, plainly registered shock and she put a hand to her mouth, muffling a gasp of horror.

For a moment she tottered, as if about to collapse. She walked unsteadily to a wall niche and sat at the foot of a Cupid. She wiped away the tears before they could ruin her makeup, blinked, and attempted to compose herself.

Her sitting position thrust the leather phallus up in front of her face. She pushed it aside, and then fumbled with the strap holding it around her waist. The phallus fell off and she kicked it away.

“There, and I’m glad to be done with the nasty thing. They do get in the way. And that’s a small one compared to some we’ve used on stage. How vexing they must be.”

She covered her face, burying her failed smile. When she finally looked up her pale makeup was half gone, showing fine wrinkles at the corners of reddened eyes.

“What is it you want to know? I haven’t seen Agnes for days, as I told you. And now, now I will never see her again. I’ll miss her.” She paused. “But before you ask, I know little about her private life. Women like us are always busy. Even when sharing a room we don’t see much of one another and we don’t share our woes. They’re all the same anyhow. When that bastard Opilio kicked her out I offered her shelter. If you got those sausages from him, I’d have a servant taste them for you before you eat them.”

“Did she have other friends, Petronia? I’m not here to cause anyone trouble. I’m trying to find out who murdered her.”

“You really are from the palace, aren’t you? Who do you think killed her? Who’s usually responsible when an…an…actress is murdered?”

“I realize it is a dangerous profession. I have reason to think this might not be related to her work. Did she ever mention a man named Menander?”

“Didn’t have to. We all know about Menander. He’s one of our most generous benefactors.”

“Could there have been a closer relationship between her and Menander?”

A sound between a laugh and a sob escaped Petronia’s lips. “What would Agnes see in an old man like Menander? What would Menander do with an actress? But I understand what you mean. I might as well tell you. I don’t want you to think I’m holding anything back. Talk to Troilus.”

She got to her feet, supporting herself with a hand on the pudgy thigh of the gilded Cupid. “Yes, Troilus might know more than I do. He’s a handsome young man. Youth seeks out youth, doesn’t it? His shop is just in the back there. He sells all manner of curiosities.”

She pointed toward a doorway on the end of the exedra, then, seemingly overcome by emotion, swayed, and fainted.

Chapter Eighteen

John caught Petronia as she collapsed and lowered her to the ground. Several of her fellow actors rushed over and before long had her head propped up, pressing her discarded phallus into service as a pillow. Petronia made unintelligible moaning sounds and her eyelids twitched without opening.

“I brought her some very bad news,” John told a dwarf who glared at him. The dwarf held three wooden balls of the sort used by jugglers, and looked ready to hurl them in outrage. “A friend of hers, a girl named Agnes, was found murdered.”

The statement sent the troupe into uproar.

John decided it would be futile to seek further information from them, and went to the door Petronia had pointed out.

Troilus, the young shopkeeper who knew Agnes, had not bothered to erect a sign advertising his business.

Inside the building, doors appeared at intervals along a short hallway scarcely illuminated by light entering from the entrance. Beneath the dust coating the plaster walls John could distinguish faded paintings depicting the delights once for sale on the premises.

The artist had possessed more imagination than skill.

John pushed open one of the doors and glanced in. The bare, cobwebbed cell was filled almost entirely by a bench large enough to hold a mattress. Were the cells in Theodora’s foundation for former prostitutes much different?

The hallway ended at another corridor running across it at right angles. At the juncture, part of the wall had been knocked out and a crude plank frame inserted in the exposed brickwork.

John peered through the opening, recalling the flight of steps that had led him down to the cistern where he had discovered Agnes’ corpse. There were four steps here, formed by worn blocks that might well have once served as bases for statues. By the flickering light of some torch beyond his range of vision, John saw the area at the bottom of the makeshift flight of steps was dry.

The subterranean room was little more than a dim empty space from which shadowy archways led into darker spaces. No doubt this was the basement of the building abutting the structure of which the exedra formed a part, or else had belonged to a building that no longer existed.

Underneath the streets of Constantinople lay a bewildering geography of basements, vaults, sub-basements, cisterns, and ruined foundations, buried and forgotten as new structures succeeded the old, a continual rebuilding necessitated by the forces of fire, earthquake, riots, imperial power, and commerce.

John did not have to puzzle over which direction to take. On a crate in front of him lay a stained and cracked marble arm. It might have broken off of a statue of a Greek philosopher. The forefinger was raised, but now, instead of emphasizing some profound truth, it pointed toward one of the archways.

To John’s disappointment, the wide corridor beyond slanted down to a closed iron grating set in the wall. He bent over and tested the chain attached to the grating. It was locked to a bolt in the concrete floor.

He put his face near to the bars. A dark abyss on the other side of the grating swallowed up the weak light from the corridor. He could make out nothing. A chill draught touched his face bringing with it the smell of dampness and mold.

He gave the bars of the grating a tug. They didn’t even rattle.

“Not the first philosopher to point to a dead end,” John muttered to himself.

Then again, the marble arm might have belonged to an orator or an emperor. It was impossible to be certain with nothing more than an arm to go by.

“If you’re looking for Troilus, he’s out.”

The voice had the pitch of a rusty hinge. The pallid face from whose thin, colorless lips the words issued poked out from a dark gap in the wall on one side of the grating.

“To whom am I speaking?” John asked.

“My name is Helias, sir, and I am a maker of sundials.”

The speaker was nearly as short as the thespian dwarves John had left tending Petronia. “I can tell you are a man whose business requires punctuality,” Helias continued. “A man without an hour to spare. This is why you are vexed at Troilus being unavailable. You would find one of my portable sundials invaluable.”

“A portable sundial?”

Helias’ small head, barely reaching John’s chin, bobbed up and down. “A most excellent device. Please, allow me to demonstrate.”

John followed the little man into his shop. He had long since learned that the surest way to secure information from a merchant was to show an interest in his wares.

Two clay lamps on a work table provided Helias’ workshop with light. After two paces the masonry floor gave way to dirt. The sound of dripping water filled the air, not a result of moisture running down damp walls, John realized, but from assorted water clocks strewn everywhere.

“Some of my time keepers are in need of repair or adjustment,” Helias said. “The bowls are all sound. My water clocks are guaranteed to make no more noise than sunlight sliding across a smooth marble dial. I do not want my customers to count the hours they are kept awake by their clocks, although they would be able to do so most accurately, sir.” Helias gave a creaking laugh.

John stepped over a shallow bowl whose interior featured a mosaic of the night sky, avoiding a copper clock decorated with an etched Poseidon emerging from the descending water to indicate the passage of time.

When he reached the work table Helias held up a silver sunburst, by appearances an ornamental medallion of the sort used to fasten a cloak at the shoulder.

“You see, sir, it opens like a jewel box,” Helias demonstrated. “But inside, rather than jewels, you have the time.” With his thumb he pushed up the hinged gnomon in the center of the miniature dial. “Each sundial has an inscription, chosen by the client. This one was commissioned by a silversmith, and will be inscribed ‘All my silver will not purchase an extra hour.’ A thought we might all ponder. Yes, indeed we may.”

John remarked that it was certainly a clever device. “But why do you choose to work down here in the gloom, Helias?”

The sundial maker heaved a sigh. “Many of my clients have asked that question, sir. They think it most peculiar a purveyor of artifacts which require light to function should keep his establishment in a place where sunshine can never venture. The fact is, I dislike strong sunlight and avoid it as much as possible. Is that so odd? Do you suppose the tanner cares to spend his time wading through urine simply because he needs to use it on his hides? When I am out in the sunlight I cannot stop calculating the hour by the position of my shadow.”

John observed he could appreciate Helias’ difficulty. “I calculate time in a similar manner, by observing the position of the sun over the rooftops, which is why I do not need one of your sundials. I shall, however, mention them at court.” He noted that Helias’ shoulders slumped.

“That would be most kind, sir. I hope you do not think I am enamored of wealth. We must all find a way to live. Sometimes I wish I had found another way, that I had never heard of sundials, so that I could enjoy the glorious sun the Lord has given us, like any other man. I would be much happier if I could stop the sun, like Joshua, for then there would be but the one fixed hour. That would mean I would be unable to continue with my work since there would be no purchasers of sundials. As it is, I spend most of my time down here or in church.”

“But you also make water clocks.”

“Water doesn’t follow one around like the sun, sir. But as it happens, I am also working on a portable water clock to be carried during the night or on cloudy days. It might appeal also to others who would prefer to keep the sun out of their affairs. And now, how may I help you?”

“I was told your neighbor, Troilus, sells curiosities. Does he sell these portable clocks of yours?”

Helias snapped the miniature sundial shut. “I should think not! I would not permit it! You should be thankful that grating is decently lowered and locked, sir. Most of the wares that young man sells were better destroyed than displayed for all to see. Lewd pagan statues, sir, obscene lamps shaped like, well, let me just say they wouldn’t be out of place in houses godly men never visit. You can deduce the sort of clients he encourages to call on him. It’s reflecting poorly upon my own business, being next to his dreadful shop. And that’s not the worst of it, sir! Why, the other evening he insulted me in a gross fashion!”

John held up his hand, stemming the flow of words. “I am sorry to hear it, Helias. I fear that time is urging me to make haste. You understand, I’m sure. Do you know when Troilus will return?”

“It’s difficult to say. He runs his business in a very irregular fashion. He often vanishes for a few days. Gone to purchase stock, or so he claims.” Helias narrowed his eyes and his mouth tightened. “Are you seeking to make a purchase? Not everything he sells is blasphemous or obscene. Perhaps you are seeking a religious relic? For display at some church? In that case, I would be willing to convey a message to him when he reappears.”

“It isn’t merchandise I seek, but a young woman.”

Helias’ scowled. “I don’t see many young women here, sir. Very careless about time, they are.”

“This woman is an actress. She’s with the troupe that has its theater up above. You’ve probably seen her now and then.”

“I try to keep my eyes averted from the unholy things that go on at that theater of theirs, sir. But what does she look like? Painted like the whore of Babylon, no doubt! How would I pick her out from all the rest?”

John hesitated. What in fact had Agnes looked like? Her corpse, with its battered face, told him nothing. He had glimpsed her living face for an instant when she approached him in the square and lifted her veil. What had he seen? That she was Zoe, just as she had told him. Nothing more.

How had he known she was Zoe?

“Her eyes are striking, exceptionally large and dark. And she has a tattoo on her wrist,” John said.

“I don’t look at women’s wrists, sir, and I imagine more than one actress has tattoos.”

“She was a friend of Troilus.”

Helias frowned. “I have seen a young woman in his company. An actress. Whether her eyes were dark, I can’t say. She visits him regularly. As a faithful church man, sir, I have spoken to Troilus more than once about consorting with such low women, but all I receive in return is abuse. Yet I say it again, I would rather cross the Mese than have to pass close by this actress friend of his, and here I am, trying to earn an honest living right next door. I am not certain what he is to her, but you can rest assured it isn’t what even the most charitable of us might think.”

“She will not be visiting again, Helias, for I fear she was murdered. It happened exactly a week ago.”

Helias stared in amazement. “A week ago, you say?”

“Yes. Why? Did you see her that day?”

“Not exactly, sir, but as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, I can tell you who killed her. It was Troilus.”

For a moment John was speechless. In the silence he was aware of the clocks’ relentless dripping. He had spent days following a trail that led from one person to the next, with no end in sight. Had he reached his goal with such shocking abruptness?

“That is a grave charge, Helias. Are you sure it isn’t just your disdain for the man speaking? What proof do you have?”

Helias’ piercing voice rose to an even higher note. “I saw him drag the body in, sir. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time. But what else could it have been?”

John ordered him to explain.

“A week ago I was working here late at night when I heard a scraping noise outside. Naturally, I peeked out. One needs to keep an eye on what is going on, especially after dark.”

He paused. “There was Troilus, dragging a big sack, sir! It was just after midnight. I know because I was inspecting some of the water clocks and they all showed the same hour. It wasn’t so odd that he would be bringing stock in at such a time, because, as I told you, he keeps a peculiar schedule. But I did wonder why he had not enlisted some assistance. Whatever was in the sack must have been more than he could lift comfortably by himself. I didn’t think any more about it, sir, until you mentioned the murder. The sack was exactly the right size for a body.”