by Mary Reed
“Is she at the palace now?” The man he addressed looked incredulous. “Not but what she was always very lucky, for me at least. Whenever she was with me and I rolled the dice, I won.”
“She wasn’t lucky, it’s those weighted dice you use!” one of his companions remarked.
John quelled the man with a glare. Turning back to the fortunate wagerer, he asked his name.
“Theodora’s father,” someone muttered loudly.
“Her son!”
“Brutus,” said the man to whom John had directed the question.
“No, he isn’t,” revealed the rat catcher. “Brutus died last week. The man you’re talking to is Epiktetos.”
“Bastard!” Epiktetos shouted.
“Oh, you mean, he’s the one who’s Theodora’s son?” hiccuped one of the imbibers.
“No matter, I’m interested in Sappho,” John said.
“I’ll wager you are!” The speaker followed the comment with a snigger.
John turned and stared at the man, who suddenly got up, announced he had to relieve himself, and left the courtyard. The staccato sound of his running steps echoed around the small space as he took his chance to flee.
“About Sappho,” John went on. “What do you know of her whereabouts?”
“Nothing, sir,” Epiktetos responded. “I haven’t seen her since last winter.”
“She’s probably dead by now, like so many others,” the thief put in helpfully.
“Not so!” another voice contradicted. “I saw her only last week!”
“You saw her and didn’t tell me?” Epiktetos’ voice rose in outrage.
“Well, I’m fairly certain it was her. The woman I saw looked like her, only she wasn’t wearing yellow.”
“Then it definitely wasn’t Sappho, you fool,” Epiktetos said, an opinion the other trainers appeared to share.
John turned to go. It was obvious he would learn nothing here.
He glanced at the Hippodrome as he retraced his steps. The great building was silent, waiting for horse-racing to resume, but would its thousands of marble seats ever be as crowded as they had been in the past? So many in the city had died, and among them a number of charioteers.
The horses, however, had long since been removed to one of Justinian’s country estates. Although it was not known to the populace at large, as his confidant John knew the order had been less due to the emperor’s concern for the teams than to avoid the animals’ being stolen and eaten. As the plague maintained its grip, the usual foraging by half wild curs had become easier. Fattened on abundant human flesh, the packs were now beginning to be hunted for food in turn, as attested by his recent interview with the bear trainers.
John recalled the hot, oily taste of grilled fish. Very few fishermen brought their catches to Constantinople now. Neptune’s bounty was largely unharvested.
What macabre chance had carried his thoughts from horses to fish, he wondered.
Because Neptune created the horse, his memory told him, and horses race at the Hippodrome.
“But none are so fair as the team pulling Neptune’s chariot, his horses tossing manes of gold and skimming over the sea on gleaming bronze hooves,” John said out loud.
Chapter Twelve
John emerged from the gloom of a narrow alley into the light of a nondescript square near the docks. If strangers could not assist him in furthering his investigations, it might be time to seek the aid of old acquaintances.
As he had hoped, Pulcheria perched in her usual spot on the steps leading to a warehouse portico. Tripod, her three-legged feline companion, frisked around beside her, worrying at a small rat as Pulcheria braided together several pieces of red cloth. The bright strip of fabric thus created would doubtless soon join other colorful scraps ornamenting her tangled hair, complementing the rainbow of rags in which she was dressed.
It was a homely scene, more so than the bedlam at Prudentius’ house despite the fact it was outdoors.
Pulcheria looked up at the sound of John’s quick step. She smiled and cocked her head artfully, presenting him the half of her face that was still a pretty woman’s rather than the melted wax horror of the other side, the result of burning lamp oil thrown by an angry client.
“Ah, it is my friend from the palace.” She climbed to her feet and gave an exaggerated bow. “How may Tripod and I assist you today?” she asked as she took her seat on the worn steps again.
John sat down beside her. “I shall naturally make any time I take worth your while, Pulcheria.”
“Oh, I do like dealing with men from the palace. They’re always so very generous.”
John took the hint and handed her an appropriate amount. She studied it carefully with her one good eye and then, with a satisfied nod, tied the coins into the hem of the tunic she wore beneath her gaudy rags. The action momentarily revealed legs streaked with dirt.
“Ah,” she said with a sly laugh, “of late life has been so hectic I have been unable to make my accustomed regular visits to the baths.”
“Hectic, you say?”
“Yes, hectic!” Pulcheria flung her thin arms wide, setting their attached rags and ribbons fluttering and startling Tripod. “With the city in the grip of sudden and painful death, it’s hardly surprising the churches have never been so full. A friend of mine who ministers to weaknesses of the flesh in the Augustaion complains the constant singing and praying coming night and day from the Great Church is very bad for her trade.”
John ventured the suggestion that it might also be likely that such constant reminders of sin would dampen the ardor of prospective clients.
“That’s exactly what I said! It’s as obvious as fleas on a mangy dog, excellency. In fact, I strongly advised her to move to another square right away. Just so long as it wasn’t this one.”
“This is a tranquil spot compared to where I’ve been recently.”
“A rare lull. Already this morning I’ve entertained six clients. However, that’s no surprise since so long as heaven has been satisfied with prayers and a coin or two given in charity, once men are well away from all that singing and praying, it’s time for them to satisfy their bodies. Yes,” she mused, absentmindedly scratching a grubby ankle, “for some of us city dwellers, the plague has been a godsend of a different sort.”
John asked what she meant.
“For one thing, with so many lying dead in the streets beggars have been having a much easier time. The departed are less inclined to refuse the outstretched palm, aren’t they? Yes, beggars all wear new boots these days.”
Glancing at Pulcheria’s ragged garments, John observed that evidently she had not taken advantage of the unexpected bounty to be harvested in every square and alley.
“Well, excellency, I must admit I’ve borrowed a few smaller items no longer needed by their owners. Yesterday, however, I had a very distressing experience. I chanced upon a woman wearing a most beautiful garment, brilliant blue it was. Very striking. But when I turned her over, I saw it was not a wealthy stranger, but a woman with whom I had some slight acquaintance.”
Pulcheria’s expression was sorrowful as she continued her tale. “She was an elderly widow who had been forced to live on the street late in life. She’d had a very hard time, as you might imagine. Just think, excellency, those blue robes were the finest garments she’d worn in years. I wonder where she got them from. Perhaps a cast-off from some aristocratic lady, such as she’d been once? I just didn’t have the heart to take them. It would’ve been like robbery.”
She began threading the braided red strip through her dark hair. “It’s as well that the theater is closed just now. A lot of my clients used to go there and then visit me afterwards, so with the sudden rise in other business I’d certainly have my hands full.” She gave a lewd laugh.
“Your knowledge of the theater is in fact why I’m here, Pulcheria. Do you happen to know an actress going by the name of Sappho? You may have seen her in the
company of the bear trainers quartered near the Hippodrome.”
“Sappho, you say? I don’t recall her immediately, I admit, but you know how it is, they change their names all the time. What does she look like?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I’ve only heard about her from a person who wasn’t able to give me much of a description, except that this Sappho puts on airs.”
Pulcheria laughed. “If you’d told me she didn’t put on airs, I’d be able to identify her right away, since she’d be the only actress in the city who didn’t. I’ll ask around and see if I can find out anything about her for you. Ah, I see a possible client approaching. Notice the furtive look?”
She shook her head. Several of the ribbons and cloth scraps in her hair fell down in a colorful veil that partly obscured the ruined side of her face.
A portly, middle-aged man strolled slowly across the square toward them. His face was as pink as a baby’s, as if he’d just come from the baths. The buckle on his belt was silver. He appeared to be studying the empty porticos on the other side of the square with great attention and then transferred his gaze to the sky. He nodded a dignified greeting to another man who hurried past, paying him no heed at all.
Pulcheria giggled. “See? What pains he takes to declare to the world that of course he is not considering hiring a prostitute to satisfy his lust, as if anyone were thinking he was, or would even care.”
As predicted, the portly man passed in front of John and Pulcheria and then turned back suddenly and hastily tossed a handful of nummi at John. “I’ll borrow the woman. Here’s her hire.”
***
“And what did you do with Pulcheria’s fee?” Isis asked, pouring John wine. They were seated on a soft couch in her private apartment on the upper floor of the establishment.
“I’ve still got it,” John admitted. “I’ll give it to her on my way back to the palace.”
“Why didn’t you wait until she emerged from the alley?” Isis went on with professional interest in carnal transactions. Now that she had become owner rather than employee she had allowed herself to grow plump, but her soft prettiness concealed a business acumen that was one of the sharpest John had encountered.
John considered the question for a short time. “To preserve her dignity,” he finally replied. “It’s one thing to talk about her life, but quite another to…”
Isis nodded agreement. “That certainly wasn’t her usual fee! The ignorant fellow must’ve taken note of those expensive garments of yours. Apparently it didn’t occur to him in the heat of the occasion that you’d never be able to buy clothing like those if you were living off a street whore. For that price he could have had a nice bed at his back rather than a brick wall. Mind you, there are some who’ll pay extra for someone like Pulcheria.”
John asked what she meant.
“Why, she’s exotic, John. A woman with two faces. Some men say women are both angels and demons, and Pulcheria resembles just that strange notion. Then too, some clients might relish a demon lover and would be more than glad to anticipate being punished by a demonic visitation even while they were satiating themselves.”
“I had thought Pulcheria was reduced to plying her trade on the street because she was, well, damaged,” John replied.
Isis formed her red-painted lips into a rosebud smile. “It’s all in the way it’s presented, John. I once tried to persuade her to work for me, but she likes her independence too much. Mind you, she’s right about one thing. Even with half the population gone, my girls are seeing as many visitors as ever. We must be one of the few businesses still turning a profit.”
She paused. “Not the only one, however,” she went on with a glimmer of a smile. “One of our regular patrons visited us yesterday and was particularly generous in showing his appreciation. I gather from the girl he favored that he’s making a fortune right now. What do you suppose he’s selling, John?”
“Wine?”
Isis laughed. “You’re not that far wrong, if you consider, as many do, that wine is the way to oblivion. Only in the case of our suddenly wealthy client, he’s purveying eternal oblivion, or possibly not depending upon your religious views. No, he is selling hellebore.”
“Poison? Yet can we be surprised? He has a popular product to offer, given many prefer to depart in a hasty fashion than suffer for days,” John said thoughtfully. “No doubt he can name his own price for what he offers.”
Isis nodded. “Indeed. Apparently, being a charitable man, he accepts payment in clothing and jewelry as well as coins, not to mention the occasional, shall we say, personal favor of an intimate nature. And this reminds me. You are an old and very dear friend, John. If it should come to it, I have purchased a good supply of his wares and I can easily spare enough to set your feet on the ladder to heaven within an hour or two.”
“Thank you, Isis, but I hope not to have to accept your more than generous offer,” John replied with a thin smile. “The more so since, before that time comes for me or for Peter, I hope to find a particular woman who may well be able to give me important information in the matter.”
Isis settled back into the embrace of her well-cushioned couch. “You mean this actress called Sappho? The bear trainers were not able to assist, I take it?”
“No. I visited them as soon as I’d left the apartment of the wayward son I was telling you about. The only thing that I learnt was she has not been seen for a few months. As I left they were all telling each other how they knew Theodora when her family was still involved in the profession, not to mention much winking and suggestive gestures and hinting that they knew her better than they are now willing to admit. Even the ones half her age, I may add.”
“Theodora was a whore once, as we all know. Most of the men in the city have had their way with her at one time or another, according to them, and now that she’s co-ruler of the empire, well, men do boast about the oddest things at times.”
John smiled wordlessly.
Isis laughed. “They do! Of course, it’s very possible this so-called Sappho could be dead. All the same, I’ll ask my girls to keep their ears open in case one of their clients mentions her. Information such as that often comes knocking unasked on our door.”
“Perhaps that’s why I haven’t been able to find anything out, despite all the doors I’ve knocked at this past day or so. The truth’s been away calling on you. But then, as I’ve said, that is why I came to see you, Isis, to ask about this Sappho.”
“Not to reminisce about the old days in Egypt?”
John smiled again. Isis often recalled every smallest detail about their days in Alexandria, except the fact that their paths had never crossed while they lived in that huge city. “That too, certainly.”
“I always enjoy your visits.” Isis patted his knee with a chubby hand heavy with rings. He shifted his leg away reflexively. “Don’t feel obliged to visit just for the sake of chatting with an old friend. Avoid streets and public places as far as possible right now, that’s my advice.”
“According to Gaius the plague strikes at random.”
“Gaius? And what does that physician know? The last batch of contraceptive pessaries he made for my establishment would’ve been more use to a rabbit breeder. Then when a number failed, he charged me double his usual fee to get my girls fit for work again. I might just as well have instructed them to make their own from linen and vinegar.”
She selected a fig from a silver tray of sweetmeats and dried fruit on the small ivory table beside the couch. “Speaking of employees, I need a new doorkeeper,” she continued as she munched. “The current one is not very reliable. Arrives late, departs early, and what’s worse is getting much too interested in a certain young lady here.”
“Always a temptation for a man working in your house.”
“Indeed. And speaking of houses, I’ve been thinking of changing the decor again, provided I can find the necessary craftsmen. What do you think about a religious them
e? If the Patriarch anathematizes me, so much the better! My house is already one of the best and most patronized in the city, but given the seal of disapproval from one of the highest church authorities, ah, think of the trade it would bring in from people who would like to see the place for themselves!”
The madam beamed with delight, although whether at the prospect of being anathematized or considering the increase in business, or indeed at both, John was not certain.
“Mind you,” she went on in a confidential tone, “I’d rather be visited by ten religious figures seeking to convert me to their ways than have to deal with my girls’ latest complaint. It’s about one of our regular patrons.”
John gave her a look of inquiry. He knew Isis made it a rule never to talk about her clients and insisted on the same discretion from her employees.
“Oh dear,” she giggled. “You do loosen my tongue, John. I suppose if I leave out the fellow’s name…? He’s a regular visitor and not at all bad-looking. He could spend more time at the gymnasium perhaps, but then so could most of my girls’ admirers. Even so, whenever he appears at the door, they take flight like a flock of seagulls at the sight of a stray dog.”
John, realizing hearing the rest of the story was unavoidable, asked as tactfully as possible if this particular client was more demanding than most.
“That is it, precisely.” Isis took another fig and chewed it thoughtfully. “It isn’t so much the act itself. It is the indecency to which he expects them to submit afterwards.” She puckered her rosy lips. “You should hear the girls, John. ‘Oh, Madam, don’t make me be the one to go with him. We can’t stand it!’”
John raised inquiring eyebrows.
“What happens is, well,” Isis continued, lowering her voice and leaning toward him, “afterwards he insists on reciting his dreadful, whining poetry. Can you imagine? Of course, he is charged for the extra time, but if you ask me, having to pay whores to listen to your poems is the gods’ way of indicating you should find another profession.”
