by Mary Reed
Thomas observed that he had not met any of the latter, but quite understood the attractions of sea travel carried out under one’s own roof.
“You grasp it exactly, except the sea…ah, well…for some it signifies excitement or adventure. For me it held tragedy. I can never look upon its sparkling water without remembering my lost beloved. Poor Eudoxia. In the lonely silence of my room, I shed rivers of tears for her.”
“Men do not speak of such private matters,” growled Thomas.
“A pity, isn’t it? We don’t mind at all, nor think it unmanly, to bare our bodies to one another in the baths, but to bare our souls—”
Thomas cleared his throat loudly. “As to what I do for a living. As I mentioned, I live chiefly by my blade. You see, for years now I have sought the Holy Grail.”
“The Christian relic? But I don’t understand how you can make a living seeking something if you never actually find it.”
“You make a living seeking truth and beauty, do you not?”
Crinagoras smiled. This barbaric fellow was apparently not so dull-witted as he appeared. “Now that you mention it…”
“In my case,” Thomas continued, “I have not yet found what I seek. However, when an adventurer from Bretania, who’s been to the ends of the earth searching for the Holy Grail, arrives in a new town on his quest, word gets around quickly. And there’s always someone who has a job just waiting for a bold fellow like that.”
“I should think so! Do you know, a few months ago I misplaced my best ink pot. I spent days searching for it. I penned a most amusing poem about the experience. Humorous, yet poignant. Losing that ink pot reminded me of losing—”
“Here’s a better idea,” Thomas interrupted. “Why not write about my search for the Grail? The stories I could tell you would sound like invented and quite fantastic tales! I won’t charge you much for them. Buy me a few cups of wine, and that will suffice.”
Crinagoras clucked with disapproval. “No, no. I fear you are not an authority on literature, Thomas. Whoever would want to read about a fellow from barbaric climes running about looking hither and yon for a musty old relic? As if we need any more relics in this city when it’s already full of them!”
He gestured at a shop doorway. “This is where today’s quest ends. We have reached Scipio’s emporium.”
Crinagoras and Thomas stepped from the street straight into what might have been the library of a wealthy household, except that few rich men owned the number of codexes and scrolls arrayed on shelves or laid out on tables, some opened as if the master had just been perusing them. Latin and Greek texts occupied opposite sides of the shop, whose painted walls depicted Romans from all walks of life in the common act of reading. Emperor Augustus and an anonymous young pupil of Socrates appeared to be held equally in thrall by the scrolls they perused.
Thomas chuckled and when Crinagoras glanced at him nodded at the wall painting beside the entrance. The scene depicted several octopii hovering over a burst crate of codexes, part of the cargo of a sunken ship.
Scipio’s emporium did not smell of ink and parchment, but rather of the huge bunches of freshly cut flowers filling a multitude of glass vases set on every side. Ink was, however, very much in evidence on the tunic of the proprietor, not to mention under his fingernails, and along the side of his nose. There were even traces not quite concealed by the cropped furze covering the short man’s scalp.
“Ah, Crinagoras, how nice…um…yes…why, it seems just yesterday you were here.” Scipio’s smile looked forced. “And who is your friend?”
“Thomas isn’t a friend, Scipio. I have hired myself a bodyguard!”
“Why, are you afraid someone’s reading your poetry?”
“What do you mean? Have you sold any of my work? Any more since yesterday, I mean?”
Scipio scratched nervously at his head. “Let me see, I don’t believe I have. Business isn’t what it used to be. Mind you, with the plague, people are buying a fair number of saints’ lives, and I’m doing a brisk trade with the Institutes. They always sell. Can’t copy them fast enough, and that’s the truth. But my customers just don’t seem to be in the mood for poetry. I’m having a hard time making ends meet.”
“That’s a very good reason to put more of my poems on display, don’t you think?”
“Of course, of course! Except, as I just explained, business is not going too well right now. Writing materials are expensive, and my copyists won’t work for nothing. However, I have had a wonderful idea. I’ve been keeping track of the doings of the holy fool. That’s something people are bound to be interested in reading about. I could tell you what I’ve learned and you could write it down. We could call it The Chronicle of the Fool, that has a learned air to it.”
Crinagoras sighed. “I might as well be young again and working away at my tutor’s lessons. Everyone has a copying assignment for me today. I’m sorry, Scipio, but you know I only write from the heart. I do have some very deep and sincere feelings about the plague.”
“You could fit those into such a chronicle easily, couldn’t you?”
“The fool’s an actor, a fraud. I write about real life, my friend. Real people. My subject is always truth, never lies or made-up stories.”
Crinagoras strolled around the emporium, his gaze flickering over the shelves. “Now, about those poems of mine. I’ll give you a share of my profits, Scipio. I see since yesterday you’ve sold all my collected epigrams. Why don’t you keep the proceeds from those for now and use them to pay your scriveners to produce a few more copies for sale? I always like to assist a friend if I can.”
“That’s very generous of you, Crinagoras. I’ll see what I can do.”
Thomas made a circuit of the shop and examined the wall paintings. He paused near the back of the room, plucked a codex out of a crate, and ran a finger over its ivory cover.
Scipio looked alarmed. “Be careful! That’s not supposed to be out here…it’s a very valuable item.” He took a step in Thomas’ direction, but Crinagoras was already looking over the burly Briton’s shoulder.
“What’s the title?” Crinagoras asked.
Thomas held the codex up so the poet could read it.
“‘A Bouquet of Crocuses.’ By Erinna of Rhodes.” How very remarkable. I thought only a few of her verses were known.” Crinagoras opened the codex. The ancient, stained parchment pages crinkled noisily as he thumbed through them. He stopped and began to open his mouth, as if to read aloud.
Scipio plucked the codex away. “One of my assistants must have left this here by mistake. It’s a special order. Fragments from an old scroll, which I was asked to bind into a codex, as you see.”
“I was certain almost all of Erinna’s poetry was lost to the ages, Scipio. Who could this gem possibly belong to? The emperor?”
“No. It belongs to a dealer in…such things. He brought it to me. The bits of the old scroll, that is.”
“How fascinating.” Crinagoras peered at his thumb. “Yet, I seem to have picked up some fresh ink from handling it…”
“Yes, well, being of great age some of the verses were exceedingly faint, you understand, so I was asked if I would highlight the writing a little here and there, to make it more legible. You cannot appreciate beauty if you cannot see it, can you?”
“A very poetic comment, Scipio,” Crinagoras observed with approval.
“You never know what’s going to happen next in this city,” Thomas grinned. “There’s no end to wonders here!”
“Quite so.” Crinagoras rubbed his smudged fingertips together. “Now what about my offer, Scipio?”
Scipio rubbed his scalp. It seemed less a nervous gesture than a sign of an incipient headache. “Parchment has gone up in price, you know,” he replied doubtfully.
“And why would that be, if people aren’t reading very much?”
“Perhaps it’s due to all those wills being made,” remarked Thomas.
“Tha
t may well be so,” replied Scipio. “How about this, Crinagoras? Jot some of your poetry down. Any old scrap of parchment will do. Then I’ll keep them on hand, and if anyone wants to purchase one it can be copied out nicely. I’ll be happy to keep a selection of your work on hand for my customers’ perusal. I’ll only charge you a nomisma.”
“What? You want a nomisma, even though you won’t have a proper copy on sale?”
“But you see, when anyone does ask for a copy I’ll split the profit with you.”
“I don’t know, Scipio. I’d have to think about it.”
Looking unhappy, Crinagoras walked from table to table, eyeing their offerings. He plucked a ragged piece of parchment from an enameled box full of similar sheets and scowled at the sign propped up nearby. “What does this mean, Scipio? Your sign says ‘Pre-inspired writing materials.’ What’s that?” He held the sheet up and squinted at it.
“Oh, it’s just something I offer at a reduced price. For poor poets. That’s to say poets with more inspiration than means.”
“I’ve heard poor poets tend to be poor poets,” put in Thomas.
Crinagoras suddenly reddened. “But…but…this was one of my epigrams! I can still see the words. You’ve scrubbed the parchment, Scipio! You’re selling my work as cheap writing material!”
“Pre-inspired parchment, my friend,” Scipio corrected him. “It helps to get the imagination going. The poet doesn’t have to supply the whole of the inspiration himself, because the parchment has already been imbued with previous genius. Think of it as a collaboration between you and some lesser writer, if you will.”
He snatched the scrap from Crinagoras’ trembling hand. “Besides, this particular parchment being in the box was a mistake,” he went on. “I shall have to rid myself of that bumbling assistant, I can see. This was never intended to be sold as writing material. It was…that is to say…I merely felt the verse was so strong, its emotions so overpowering, that, well, I thought it best to lighten the writing a little, to protect the reader’s sensibilities. Now, about that offer we were discussing…”
Crinagoras sniffed, then sneezed. He wiped his suddenly streaming eyes and sneezed again. “Yes, yes. I’ll bring you some poetry to keep on hand for copying, Scipio, but I’m only paying you half a nomisma. How much extra work can it be to keep a sheet or two of parchment sitting about on a shelf? Now I must leave. The scent of these flowers is overpowering. Where did you get the notion to fill the place with such heavily perfumed blooms? I much prefer the smell of ink and dust.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Yes, Lord Chamberlain, children can sometimes be troublesome.” Archdeacon Palamos looked sorrowful as, with a wave of a pudgy hand, he directed an urchin approaching with a jug of oil toward a flickering lamp suspended from an ornate silver stand.
“He’s one of our young orphans,” he went on with a fond smile. “Alas, there are so many in Constantinople these days that I fall into despair thinking of them being left all alone to fend for themselves.”
John offered a compliment on the ecclesiastical care given freely to the sick and helpless. “I shall endeavor not to detain you too long from your good works. Speaking of which, I hope this will be of some assistance.” He proffered a suitable amount.
“Most kind, Lord Chamberlain.” The man’s bow was impeded by his ample stomach, noticeable despite his voluminous robe.
There was an unnatural pallor to Palamos’ face. He looked perfectly at home among the bones and scraps of desiccated cloth and flesh that had at one time or another been mistaken for part of a departed holy man. As he’d approached John, moving through isolated pools of lamplight, he’d resembled a phantom.
“You were inquiring about Nereus’ will. It’s so sad that such a good friend has departed and died, worse than that, vexed to his soul by that troublesome son of his. Even so, he still remembered the unfortunate with his generous gift to the church.”
John had recognized Palamos. He had met him briefly years before, but the recollection was not mutual. Much had changed since then and the lighting in the crypt of the church was extremely poor. “Nereus left a legacy to the church?”
“He did.” Palamos peered first into a large box filled with irregular bundles tied with cords and then examined several dusty baskets whose contents John could not make out. Crates lined the walls, vying for space with more baskets and bundles. The air was thick with a sharp incense composed of dust and mold.
“And the son?”
“The legacy to the church reduced the estate to a small plot of poor land to the west of the city, holding the ruins of the house where Nereus was born. He stated he was leaving it to Triton because that was all he himself had inherited, so that his son could have the benefit of making a fortune by his own labors. Just between us, Lord Chamberlain, I believe the young man was fortunate to get even that.”
“I understand Triton had been involved with an unsuitable woman?”
“Unsuitable is hardly a strong enough word. An actress, a friend of bear trainers! We all know the way such women earn a few nomismata extra, don’t we? Every night I pray my dear parentless boys will escape the fleshly fish hooks dangled by such low women. They drag such innocents down, straight into the clutches of the demons of lust, and then it is eternal agony and for what, I ask you, for what?”
“Could you describe who was there when Nereus made his will?”
“Nereus was frantic, poor man. There was a great deal of confusion and difficulty finding the required number of witnesses.” Palamos gazed up at the shadowy ceiling, recalling recent events. “I had gone to offer him spiritual comfort, having heard he had been taken ill. He asked me to assemble witnesses. I discovered his house steward, whom he had specifically requested, was himself too sick to attend. However, his assistant, Cador, a man from Bretania and well trusted by his master, was able to take his place.”
Palamos knitted his brows and glanced up again as if invoking heavenly aid for his memory.
“It was dreadful, Lord Chamberlain, seeing my dear friend sinking so fast.” A vague smile flickered across his face. “Dear me, that could almost be the sort of jest a callous person would make, given Nereus’ shipping interests. To return to your question. Also present were a couple of men I did not know, these being a cart driver and that obscene simpleton who has been running about the city lately holding himself out as being a holy fool. Can you imagine the dreadful anguish of being on your deathbed with a pair like that standing next to it?”
An outraged tone crept into Palamos’ voice. “Do you know, this so-called holy fool started telling what he considered humorous anecdotes, despite my pleas to respect the situation. Why, the more I protested, the more lewd they became!”
He paused and looked around the gloomy surroundings. “I should not be saying this within the hearing of young ears. Children will creep down here to play, no matter how often I warn them not to do so. The other day I caught two of them testing the sanctity of Flavian against that of Gorgonius, or so they claimed. To me it looked more like a sword fight. Well, as much as you could recreate one when your weapons are a bit of thigh bone and a mummified forearm.”
John remarked that the incident sounded even more blasphemous than joking lewdly beside a deathbed.
“I would certainly agree, except the relics kept down here are those whose authenticity has been doubted even though their donors were perfectly sincere in their belief they were indeed what they purported to be.”
John asked him why such dubious items remained in the church.
“An arm or a thigh bone once belonged to some poor soul even if he wasn’t a saint or a martyr, Lord Chamberlain, and therefore should rest on sacred ground. Then too, we may at times be mistaken. For example, the Patriarch recently ruled our finger of St. Luke is authentic after all and ordered it put on display because of Luke’s connection with the healing arts. Heaven only knows where we stored it, though.” He poked forlornly at anot
her bundle.
“About this holy fool…?”
“If you must insist on hearing the sordid details, Lord Chamberlain, after that the disgusting fellow began to sing a filthy song about the empress and a number of ecclesiastical dignitaries! I will say he seemed to have a fair grasp of the church hierarchy. Then, and I shudder to relate this, he actually seized my elbows and pulled me around Nereus’ room in a horrible sort of dance until I managed to shake him off. Dreadful, just dreadful. I practically fainted between dizziness and the sheer horror of his blasphemous behavior.”
John expressed sympathy.
Palamos shook his head. “And then this unspeakable fool finished his performance by leaping up on Nereus’ bed and bouncing up and down! I thought we were in the presence of Satan himself. Yet what can you expect when time is of the essence and you are forced to drag rascals in off the street?”
“Certainly you could anticipate they would not be models of courtiers’ behavior,” John observed. “Are you certain the man you mention is the one claiming to be a holy fool?”
“Definitely, Lord Chamberlain. He invaded this very church not long ago and tried to make off with our fragment of the Column of Flagellation.”
John mentioned he had seen several boys and two men pursuing the would-be thief. “They did not catch him?”
“No. However, I’m glad to say we haven’t seen him since.”
“What about the cart driver?”
“I regret I cannot tell you who he is. Light!”
John heard running footsteps and another urchin emerged from the shadowy stairway to hand a clay lamp to Palamos.
“Have you seen the finger of St. Luke?” Palamos asked the boy.
The boy reddened. “Oh no, sir. I haven’t touched it and neither has anyone else.” He nervously licked his lips. “What good would an old dried-up finger be in a fight anyway? It would probably break soon as you poked anyone with it. If anyone did, I mean. But nobody broke it because we didn’t have it, you see.”
“Yes, I think I do see.” Palamos shooed the boy away and led John to a table standing in a corner. In the lamplight, beneath thick cobwebs, glinted what might have been the eyes of malignant spiders. Drawing closer John saw several jeweled reliquaries.
