by Mary Reed
“You’re right. It’s an amazing talent once you realize you have it. Here’s another. It’s about the fortifications on the land walls. Ninety-six Towers, I call it.”
“Speaking about land walls and towers reminds me we were going on a little journey, so let’s be off.”
They strolled out, taking a leisurely pace through the rambling edifice. Glancing at the numerous bronze and marble statues of heroes of mythology and prominent Greek and Roman poets and philosophers with which the baths were decorated, Anatolius found his attention straying somewhat from his companion’s recital of his latest misfortunes.
“But then we must all be men of philosophy in these sad times,” Crinagoras concluded, “especially poets.”
Anatolius agreed. “Yet consider,” he went on, “sometimes it’s less their writings, but rather the lives of philosophers and poets that provide the lessons.” He gestured at the statue of Aeschines they were approaching.
Crinagoras laughed. “The orator who was a sausage-maker’s son?”
“We should not scoff at sausage-making. It’s honest work, after all. However, more importantly, his statue reminds me he failed in the perfume business.”
Crinagoras inquired as to the moral of the tale, other than that it proved sausage-makers’ offspring should not nurse notions of entering a more fragrant profession.
“The lesson, my friend, is that anyone can aspire to greatness, even if he loses all he has by failing in the attempt. Is it not true that the courage to try, however hopeless the task might be, is the mark of the hero?”
“Now you sound like our old tutor,” the other grumbled. “However, you’ve inspired me with a wonderful idea. I’ll write a series of poems relating lessons we can learn from all this wonderful statuary.” His face flushed with excitement. “Yes! Just think, I could lead my patrons around the baths, give a short lecture at each statue, and then declaim my verses!”
Anatolius wondered uneasily what he had unwittingly unleashed on Constantinople’s literary community as his companion plunged ahead, eagerly laying out plans for his new enterprise.
“Take, for example, Erinna of Rhodes over there. A poetess, and one who died at a tender age. I could make much of those crocuses at her feet. Something along the lines of, oh, it would be sending crocuses to Cilicia looking for poets of my quality in Constantinople, for I never hesitate to give acknowledgement to my fellow writers.” His expression clearly conveyed his opinion of his rivals.
“Not to mention that such appearances would naturally lead your audience to recollect your services are available for hire?” Anatolius suggested.
“Indeed!” They turned a corner and entered a corridor lined with bronze statues.
“Writers should always be subtle in offering their compositions,” Crinagoras continued. “Look at this representation of Isocrates. Wonderful orator, no doubt about it, and there’s his famous tomb with a column supporting the statue of a siren. An absolutely inspired choice for symbolic decoration. Are not sirens the most persuasive of creatures, even to the extent of leading men to their deaths? I’ve made this very observation more than once. Yet how often when Isocrates’ name is bruited about does someone immediately recall that the orator owned slaves who were expert flute-makers? Isocrates’ slaves are as famous as he is and none of them ever wrote a line!”
Anatolius observed it was certainly a strange circumstance that servants whose names were not known to history could become as famed as their master.
As they emerged into an atrium graced by a fountain set about with curved benches, Crinagoras’ commentary ran on as ceaselessly as the water splashing into the pink marble bowl.
“Sometimes it’s as hard laboring to find the right word as it is to dig a ditch. On the other hand, now and then inspiration strikes as suddenly as the tortoise that fell on the head of Aeschylus over there. Though not as fatally, of course.”
Anatolius, ruefully remembering a few of his youthful more than impertinent verses about Empress Theodora, thought that in some circumstances poetry might indeed prove fatal.
“Now, take Demosthenes,” he replied, unable to resist playing the game Crinagoras had started. The statue to which he called attention depicted a man in his later years, his thin face wrinkled and brow furrowed. “No doubt he would have orated at length about Diogenes there going about with a lantern looking for an honest man in broad daylight! Considering the lurid reputations of some who regularly patronize of this establishment, his would be a lengthy task, I fear.”
Crinagoras nodded appreciation. He fluttered a hand toward the marble Alcibiades standing guard at the entrance to the baths.
“Handsome fellow, isn’t he, especially for a general? Even if he did wear his hair at such barbaric length,” he sniffed. “I suppose when one is successful one can carry it off. Anyway, it isn’t going to grow any longer!”
Anatolius scowled. His companion’s hair did not look that much shorter than the statue’s. Worse, the comment had reminded him of a man named Thomas, whose hair had been overly long, and who was a barbarian to boot. Not to mention he’d paid far too much attention to John’s daughter Europa.
Why should he suddenly think of people he had not seen for years?
Crinagoras’ prattling about his long lost beloved Eudoxia must have put the thought in his mind, not to mention his own preoccupation with Lucretia, another person from his past. With death everywhere, those who were gone, who were dead, seemed no less substantial than the living. All might soon join together in the legions of memory.
Even as the thought occurred to him he visualized his old mathematics tutor again, as harrowing a presence as if he were actually standing nearby.
Anatolius had truly tried to put Lucretia out of his memory as surely as her marriage to Balbinus had removed her from his life.
She simply refused to leave.
Perhaps Crinagoras, with his endless agonizing over the departed Eudoxia, was not entirely wrong about the way of things.
***
It was late morning by the time they reached the cemetery between the city’s inner and outer walls. Crinagoras climbed off his mount with the grace of a one-legged septuagenarian, lamenting about the sad state of his nether regions.
They might have ridden all the way to Rome rather than up the Mese, Anatolius thought in exasperation. “Let’s have a look at some of the epitaphs you wrote,” he suggested.
They picked their way between innumerable fresh mounds of earth. Surprisingly no burials appeared to be in progress in the necropolis.
The wind had shifted and the smoke that had so often shrouded the city in mourning during the past weeks drifted overhead in ragged clouds. Anatolius could taste it in the air. The sudden thought that the smoke carried specks of the dead chilled his blood.
Crinagoras limped theatrically to a modest tomb, little more than a marble box with a steep roof and pillars at each corner.
“Here is the very first verse Paraskeve commissioned.” He read the chiseled inscription. “It says ‘Here lies the earthly husk of Didia, beloved wife of the baker Julius.’ Husk, you see, because the husband made his living from grain. Much more subtle than the tomb-maker’s notion of appropriate decorations.”
He pointed at the carved wheat sheaves embellishing the pillars, all that distinguished the tomb from many of its neighbors.
“The architecture may be less than classic,” Anatolius ventured, “but marble will preserve your words long after the last piece of parchment touched by your kalamos has crumbled into dust.”
Crinagoras sniffed. “This dreadful smoke is burning my eyes. I am not ungrateful for the work, you understand. It’s just that I feel I’m neglecting my duties toward my dear Eudoxia. It’s been a while since I’ve composed a poem for her and even longer since I sold one.”
They walked through the miniature city of tombs. A bird sang, bees buzzed in the grass.
Crinagoras stared thoughtfully i
n the direction of the inner wall from which they had just ridden. “If it weren’t for the smoke, it’d be hard to imagine what we’ve just left. All those deserted streets, the endless lamentations reminding us how near we are to death.”
“Not to mention it is right underfoot.”
Crinagoras looked down hastily. “How could I forget!”
Strolling along, they stopped to admire other examples of the poet’s work.
“‘Do you caress my cold stone, tickle my mossy epitaph with your warm fingers? Alas, I know not, for I am dead,’” Crinagoras declaimed.
“I like this one,” Anatolius said. “‘You have journeyed far, now here you are.’”
“It is just as I told you,” Crinagoras declared suddenly, seemingly in response to a conversation he’d been carrying on in his head. “You scoffed at the notion, but you are blessed because Lucretia is still alive. With life there is hope and with the odious senator on his deathbed, you may well be reunited with your beloved after all. Fortuna smiles on you.”
“Yet why on me and not on Balbinus? Am I more deserving?” Anatolius smiled wanly. “That is a question not worth asking, for it is unanswerable.”
“It’s the unanswerable questions that are the most interesting. Besides, I can tell you why you deserve Fortuna’s favor. You are a man of tender feelings, my friend, just like myself.”
Anatolius came to a halt. “I can’t help my feelings, Crinagoras. Yet it’s wrong to wish for happiness at another’s expense.”
“The senator stole her from you. Her family arranged the marriage. She didn’t want it. Would you wish Lucretia to be deprived of her happiness as well?”
“I admit it,” Anatolius confessed shamefaced. “I am hoping her husband will die.”
“Believe me, Anatolius, I know how it is. Lucretia is the sun in your sky. When she married, I feared you might throw yourself into the sea.”
“I try not to recall that time. Not to mention it’s just as likely the fellow who sells me wine threw himself into the sea when I regained my senses and his sales declined so drastically.”
They resumed walking, completing a circle around the lonely space. Not far from the narrow road by which they had entered, a particularly unusual tomb caught Anatolius’ eye. It resembled the Great Church, but reached only as high as his chest.
“Come along.” Crinagoras sounded impatient. “We don’t have time to dawdle over every monument in the place. Remember, it’s some distance yet to Nereus’ estate.”
Anatolius’ gaze slid across the miniature edifice. “You’re in a hurry all of a sudden. I see there’s an inscription on this tomb. It’s one of yours, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, but do hurry up. At this rate it’ll be dark before we even get to the estate.”
“What is it? Why don’t you want me to read it?” Anatolius bent slightly to make out the epitaph carved into the small church replica. “‘I am only a dead dog, but my tomb is more magnificent than the candlemaker’s.’”
***
The muscular, bare-chested man unloading amphorae from a wagon parked outside Nereus’ villa looked up as Anatolius and Crinagoras approached. His hair was cropped to a black shadow, matching poorly shaven cheeks.
“I am Cador, assistant to the master’s house steward. How can I assist?” The man’s Greek was hesitant.
“We’re here to ask a few questions concerning your master’s death,” Anatolius began, trying to remember how John conducted similar interviews. “Could we speak to the steward?”
He glanced toward the doorway, flanked by two massive, elaborately carved columns. The house was otherwise unadorned, a low, plaster-faced structure with a colonnade running down one side. It stood in the shade of a variety of short ornamental trees.
“Calligenes is gone. I am in charge until the master’s legal affairs have been concluded.”
“Your accent tells me you have traveled far, Cador,” Crinagoras broke in.
The man nodded. “You are most perceptive, sir. It’s been a long time since I last saw Bretania’s rocky shore.”
Anatolius scowled in annoyance. He’d taken the man’s stilted speech and hesitancy as indicating he was slow witted. Now he noticed Cador had the reddened, peeling skin of those used to less sunny climes. “How did you come to work for Nereus?” he asked quickly, before Crinagoras could beat him in extracting more revelations.
“I was a tin streamer, sir. The brooks I panned were cold and seemed to get colder every year. Eventually I crossed the water and before I knew it, I was in Constantinople. Master Nereus was engaged solely in the tin trade at the time and gave me a job because of my experience.”
Cador spoke as if he were weighing every word. The hard stare he directed at his visitors made it obvious to Anatolius that the man was highly suspicious. Extracting information would be as difficult as panning tin from a stream.
“Well,” Anatolius said, thinking flattery might work and drawing on the few comments John had made about his sojourn in that distant land. “I have never been to Bretania, although a friend of mine was there many years ago. He described it as wild but beautiful.”
“He was correct,” Cador replied, his gaze never wavering. “Too cold, though. But that is enough reminiscing. There is too much work and too few hands. I have my own tasks and all the tasks my superiors left undone besides.” He pulled another amphora off the back of the wagon. The brilliant sun glistened off rivulets of perspiration running down his sides.
“We just want to ask a few questions about your master’s final hours,” said Crinagoras. He was sweating too, or perhaps, more correctly, stewing. Swathed in his heavy toga, he didn’t appear to be enjoying the heat as much as Cador. “What exactly happened?”
Cador set the amphora down. As he looked up at Crinagoras his eyes narrowed. “My apologies, sir. Now I recall, you were at the master’s bedside. I did not recognize you in that strange garb.”
Crinagoras bit his lip and flapped the folds of his toga sorrowfully.
When Cador didn’t deign to actually answer the query, Anatolius took the chance of asking again. For a moment, caught in Cador’s insolent glare, he was sorry he had.
Then, however, perhaps remembering his station, Cador nodded and spoke. “I can’t tell you much about it, sir. The master was sinking fast, but insisted on seeing all his callers. There was a seller of antiquities and oracles. The master had done business with him before. This time Aristotle arrived with a very large oracular head.”
Anatolius expressed surprise.
Cador allowed himself a slight smile and then continued. “The master asked it what course his illness would take. He was told, ‘By tomorrow it will be forgotten.’”
“A delightful bit of ambiguity,” pointed out Crinagoras. “How did this strange oracle make its predictions?”
“It was a hollow brass head of hideous visage,” Cador replied. “The method used was placing a lantern inside the head and then interpreting the shadows it cast on the wall.”
“An interesting notion,” Anatolius put in. “What happened next?”
“Less than an hour later, the master took a turn for the worse.”
“That was when he decided to execute an oral will?”
Cador nodded. “First he asked for Calligenes, the house steward, but he was ill also. We couldn’t rouse him, so I served in his stead.”
Crinagoras looked puzzled. “Calligenes was the first witness your master specifically requested?”
“Actually, sir, as you know from being present, there were already—”
“He must have trusted this Calligenes fellow then,” Crinagoras mused. “Unduly, perhaps. What do you make of that, Anatolius? Something doesn’t seem quite right. A fascinating problem, one to consider carefully, over a few cups of wine, in the shade of my garden.”
“Excuse me,” Cador interrupted, “but Calligenes was a loyal employee who had served Nereus well for many years. There�
�s nothing more to it than that.”
Crinagoras glanced at Anatolius and raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
“I know how valuable he was to the master,” Cador went on. “I’ve been trying to complete all the work he left unfinished. The correspondence alone…well, before traveling here I trudged around half the city, delivering missives Calligenes had drawn up. He left a mountain of them on his desk, sirs. Letters, contracts, who knows what, all addressed in the fine hand on which he prided himself so much. In the course of carrying this out, I met bakers and bankers, importers and exporters, shopkeepers of various sorts, a perfumer, a lawyer, a bookseller—”
Anatolius broke in. “A lawyer? Can you tell us who this was?”
“Well…if I can remember…yes, it was one Prudentius to whom I delivered a letter.”
Crinagoras clapped his hands. “There! You’ve discovered what we need to know, Anatolius. The murder has to do with the will. Where there’s a will, there’s a lawyer. This particular lawyer will settle it. Just in time, too. I’m famished and we still have our homeward odyssey ahead of us.”
Anatolius had the impression that Crinagoras might begin to tug at his tunic and whimper if they didn’t soon leave. Besides, he was right. Nereus’ lawyer would certainly be able to shed light on the shipper’s affairs. He thanked Cador for his help. “One last thing. Did you notice anyone following Gregory when he left?”
Cador shook his head. “I don’t recall seeing him leave, sir.”
As they walked back to their horses, Crinagoras suddenly spoke. “I wish I’d continued to escort Gregory after he left Nereus’ house. If I had, he might still be alive.”
“Or you might also be dead.”
Crinagoras came to an abrupt halt. His eyes widened with alarm. “Why, I hadn’t even considered that. You don’t think we could have been followed here, do you?”
“What I think is Gregory was killed during a robbery. If not, John will surely find the culprit. Now we’ve discovered the name of Nereus’ lawyer, once John has the information, he’ll know best what to do next.”
