by Mary Reed
“No, but she thinks that I did,” he replied with a grin. “You speak passable Egyptian, sir, although I can tell you’re not from Egypt. Since you don’t appear to be profitably employed right now, I would venture to offer you a job on my ship. However, it seems from your garments that it’s more likely you own one. Or possibly more than one?”
When John shook his head, an eager expression passed over the Egyptian’s face. “Then you must be a merchant, sir, perhaps seeking someone to carry your wares to Alexandria? That’s my ship over there, the Osiris. A good-sized vessel as you can see. Now I admit I’ve just played Noah for a prominent senator who’s taken a fancy to the animals of Africa, but that’s a longer story even than the one about the camel-driver’s daughter, and time’s getting short. The summer’s ending and I should be sailing south before the winds shift and my journey takes even longer than usual. So I am prepared to offer you an excellent bargain on my price for carriage of goods.”
John shook his head again. “My thanks, but unfortunately it’s not an offer of which I can take advantage.”
The man’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. “The Osiris has been well cleaned,” he said persuasively. ”It’s as spotless as the Augean stables after Hercules finished with them. Needless to say, the senator’s lion made almost as much of a mess as Hercules had to deal with, but not a trace of it remains, I assure you.”
“I don’t doubt that. However—”
“Sir, I’ve been sitting around here for three days now,” the other pressed on, “asking every merchant who sets boot to dock if I may be of service and few of them have so much as even acknowledged me. This is a very unfriendly city, for all its wonders and huge buildings and beautiful women. And that reminds me of another tale I could relate.” A jovial smile crossed his face. Evidently, thought John, the man’s moods shifted less predictably than the winds that moved his ship across the deep waters. “But tell me, surely half of what I’ve heard about the empress can’t be true?”
“That depends on what you’ve heard and which half of it you mean! But as to business. Although I can’t commission you to take goods to Egypt, I can certainly offer you an opportunity to earn a few coins if you’re interested?”
The man indicated great interest in the possibility.
“While you were looking for a cargo,” John asked, “did it present itself in the form of a dwarf seeking a swift passage away from Constantinople?”
The Egyptian captain scowled. “Are you jesting, sir? Not that I’ve ever been one to object to hearing a good story myself.”
John assured him that his question was quite serious.
The man continued to look dubious but replied readily enough. “A dwarf? No, I’ve not seen one and I would certainly remember such a thing. I could ask around the docks for you, if you’d like.”
“You would perhaps be better served searching for a client, my friend, but if you should happen to hear or see anything of him, send a message immediately to Felix, the captain of excubitors at the palace. You’ll be well rewarded. Here’s something on account.” A gold coin flashed in the sunlight as it changed hands.
The man thanked John, adding, “If this is really just a jest after all, it’s at your expense, sir, and a large expense at that, if you don’t mind me saying so!”
Climbing the steps away from the docks shortly thereafter John smiled to himself. He had no doubt that before nightfall every seaman and dockworker in the city would have heard about the dwarf who was worth a small fortune to somebody at the palace. In the unlikely event Barnabas had yet to take ship, his escape by that route would now be well nigh impossible.
As he reached the top of the stairway he noticed graffiti scratched into the stone of the archway leading to the street. No doubt the work of a bored mariner waiting for a companion, the simple drawing showed a beast with a fish tail and the snout of a rat, floating above several triangular waves. It reminded him immediately of Zeno’s deadly mechanical whale. As John walked briskly away from the docks, he wondered what the garrulous Egyptian captain with whom he had just been in conversation would think if he knew that his minor stroke of good fortune arose from the death of a child.
***
“Kill you? You’ll wish for death before I’m done with you, you pitiful excuse for a donkey!”
The shout echoing from inside the theater distracted John from reading the inscription near its entrance:
Donated by the goldsmith Achelous and built in the ancient style so that the cultural lives of his fellow citizens may continue to be enriched by the classics, as they are enriched by the products of his workshop, to be found near Forum Bovis
John looked away from the brass plaque and through the theater’s entrance, down the corridor leading to the seating and the stage beyond. He suspected that the goldsmith would not have been pleased to hear the profane uproar spilling out into the square. It was certainly not from a classical play if, in fact, it was dialogue from a play at all.
He strode down the corridor and soon found himself in the topmost tier of the building’s marble seating, the theater having been built into the side of one of Constantinople’s seven hills. An awning overhead shaded the seats, while the wide stage below, backed by a tall painted façade replete with windows, doorways and several niches occupied by statues, was bright with late morning sunlight.
The overheated scene unwinding onstage would not have disgraced a rustic celebration of the grape harvest, he thought as he walked down to the stage.
He could not identify the production being rehearsed. What manner of circumstances could possibly call for three men fitted with extremely long donkey ears to be engaged in violently pummeling each other with suspiciously realistic vigor? The trio were too engrossed to notice him until he had made his way through the orchestra and up onto the stage itself.
“Fools!” bellowed the shortest actor, a swarthy man with long dark hair, extracting himself from the fray. His voice was recognizable as the one John had just heard from outside.
“What’s this about?” the man shouted at him, turning and noticing their intruder. “More complaints about the noise, is it? We’re just rehearsing, can’t you see? There’s no problem here so you can go away.”
Despite his reassurance, the other two actors continued beating each other with their fists while yelling lurid curses at the top of their lungs.
“I would have thought you’ve rehearsed enough,” John observed mildly, “for it would be hard to imagine a more realistic depiction of a brawl.”
The short man grunted, “We’re perfectionists!” and then turned and directed at his companions a stream of curses which John judged to be less creative than those commonly uttered by laborers at the city’s wharves. The actor was a somewhat larger and more rotund version of Barnabas, short enough, no doubt, to attract ridicule but not so short as to qualify for description as a dwarf.
He turned back to John. “My name is Brontes,” he said in a more normal tone of voice. “I apologize for the abysmal ineptitude of my colleagues, who cannot follow even the simplest of directions.” He jabbed a long-nailed finger at John. “However, I don’t think I need to speak to you about the rigors of comedy since you appear to be a man of culture. A lover of Euripides, perhaps?”
“I fear I don’t have much interest in Euripides,” John admitted. “In my experience real tragedy has no eloquence at all.”
Brontes let out a booming laugh. “Well put! Your taste is execrable but at least you speak well!”
The two combative donkeys abruptly ceased fighting and now sat down, panting, their legs dangling over the edge of the stage. Brontes turned to harangue them again at the top of his voice.
“You are supposed to be acrobatic, not rusty-jointed,” he shouted. “Remember, you’re playing lascivious old crones disguised as beasts of burden. If only he was here, Barnabas would put you both to shame!”
“That’s not what you said the last ti
me the two of you traded blows,” retorted one of the donkeys, embellishing his comment with a rude gesture.
Brontes gave a great despairing shrug.
“You see how it is,” he remarked to John. “The theatrical profession has been moribund so long that there are no great actors left. Polus, they say, could reduce audiences to tears of sympathy for his travails. This pair just induce tears of despair. To think that I once aspired to play Agamemnon. But then, where is the audience? With ours, the works, of Aeschylus are not popular, alas.”
John refrained from pointing out that such a short, rotund actor would have made an unlikely Agamemnon, no matter the audience involved.
Brontes shook his head sadly. The gesture, being scaled for the stage, made his hair swing back and forth. “Yes, Polus would rather have been whipped the length of the Mese than undertake to play an old crone, lascivious or otherwise.” He gave a snort of disgust.
“You remarked on Barnabas’ absence,” John said. “I was hoping to find him here as there’s an urgent matter we need to discuss.”
“I haven’t seen him for a few days now.” From the sour expression that passed over Brontes’ face, John judged this to be a sore point. “He had an engagement on a country estate belonging to some old madman, from what he said. Apparently it involved something to do with a huge whale and children. It all sounded very unlikely to me, I must say. We have the most advanced stage machinery in this theater. Even so we’d be hard-pressed to present our audience with a whale. Anyway, he hasn’t returned yet even though he’s supposed to take the main role in this play.”
John remarked that it seemed a lively enough presentation even without the presence of the famous mime.
Brontes’ expression brightened. “Are you from the palace, by any chance, sir? You might mention A Stepmother and Three Donkeys around the court if you are. I can assure you that it’s highly entertaining. The plot involves a young noblewoman who has taken a romantic fancy to her husband’s slave because of his beautiful poetry, but as it turns out, the slave is only pretending to be a eunuch.”
John changed the subject. “Do you have many visitors inquiring for Barnabas?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You seem unconcerned by my visit.”
One of the listening donkeys called out, “There’s always high-born folks coming around looking for Barnabas’ services. Mostly young ladies. They just can’t get enough of Barnabas.” Both actors sniggered loudly.
Brontes’ fists clenched and he directed a thunderous look over his shoulder, silencing the pair. “The fool exaggerates, but he’s right, Barnabas is much sought after—for his talents as a mime, I mean. He has so many private engagements that he can barely honor his contract with the theater although he’s managed to do so, despite his popularity. Or at least until now.”
“And you say he hasn’t returned?”
“No.” Brontes looked thoughtful and then grinned. He let out a bellowing laugh. “Perhaps he’s found a high-born lady who wants to be more than just a patron! Ha! Well, I’ve always liked his lodging. Perhaps he won’t be needing it any more and I can get the lease!”
John asked where the mime lived.
“Just across the square. That’s why I’ve always liked it.”
The donkeys began quarreling again. One of them removed a long ear and flung it at the other, narrowly missing his target. John stepped nimbly aside as the flapping appendage flew past him. He asked Brontes to point out where Barnabas resided.
“Certainly, if it will help you to find him.” Brontes jumped down from the stage. “And if you do find him,” he rumbled loudly enough to be heard all over the theater, “tell him that Brontes needs his help in thrashing a pair of fools into shape! For even though he’s small, he’s stronger than a blacksmith. That’s very useful in our profession, as you can imagine.”
***
Barnabas’ lodging was a modest second floor room in a solid brick building on the opposite side of the square dominated by the theater. Brontes produced a key, explaining that Barnabas allowed him to use the room when he was absent.
“It’s closer than my place and boys can be so timid once they’re offstage. They often need instructing in the profession, you understand. No more than that,” he added quickly. “We’re all aware of the emperor’s exhortations against unnatural lust. I hear he says it’s the sort of thing that causes earthquakes and pestilence. We certainly don’t want any of those, and in any event none of us would even think of flouting his laws to begin with.”
“No, none of us would.” John stooped slightly to enter the room. City apartments were not built on the grand scale of the palace.
The apartment had the appearance of the home of a person who was rarely at home. There were no coals in the brazier sitting in an alcove nor did any pots hang from the hooks on the wall behind it. The walls were whitewashed and plain. The theatre’s colonnaded front could be seen from the room’s small window.
“You would be able to hear the audience if you opened the window,” Brontes remarked. “Especially when it’s a particularly good performance. Or even sometimes when it isn’t and our patrons are making their displeasure known.”
The room was sparsely furnished with a chest, a table with a pair of stools, and a bed with a bright red coverlet. A tall cupboard stood against one wall. Evidently Barnabas did not feel the necessity of gathering together a large number of the world’s riches, although he was certainly paid extremely well for his frequent work at the palace and elsewhere. John said as much to Brontes.
“I believe he’s a frugal man, and he’s putting as much as possible aside towards his retirement. He’s a wonderful acrobat but we all get older. There’ll come a day, not too long from now perhaps, when his body just won’t do his bidding any longer.”
It was true, John thought. He wondered if Brontes was also referring to himself for though he was not yet old, he was not a young man either.
John looked around again. One corner of the room was stacked with theatrical props, among them ecclesiastical garments and several large, obscenely stuffed phalluses.
“Barnabas uses those for one of his acts,” Brontes confirmed John’s surmise nervously. “It’s very popular at the palace.”
Suppressing a smile, John remarked that Barnabas was a particular favorite of Theodora’s.
“Very true. What a wonderful jest! The little actress being entertained herself, rather than entertaining others. I would never have prophesied such a future for her.”
“You have met Theodora?” John concealed his surprise.
“I knew her in the days when she was working in the theater, and behind the theater as well if I dare say it,” Brontes replied boldly.
“Everyone dares say so but not within her hearing, Brontes.” John was examining the line of erotic amulets hung along the window frame.
“Oh, I could tell you some tales about Theodora,” Brontes went on confidentially. “I worked with her on more than one occasion. Yes, the empress herself and Brontes are old friends. But now she’s a very great lady, all turned out in silks, gold, and jewels. Her ladies-in-waiting put more clothes on her every morning than she wore in all her years in the theatre put together! Not that I knew her except as a colleague, you understand. Of course, if you’re from the palace, you’ll have caught a glimpse of her.”
“From time to time,” John agreed. He hoped Brontes was not about to relate how he had personally witnessed Theodora remove her clothing and lie on the floor while geese pecked grain from her naked body. It sometimes seemed there was not a single person in all Constantinople who had not been present at that alleged performance, including many at the time unborn. “Did Barnabas also know her during her theatrical days?”
“I shouldn’t think so, since he’s somewhat younger than I am.”
John opened the chest, revealing nothing more than several neatly folded tunics and other garments.
“Ever
ything here’s in its usual place as far as I can tell,” Brontes volunteered.
“Have you used this room in the past week?” John dropped the lid on the chest.
Barnabas said that unfortunately he had not been so fortunate.
If Barnabas had returned here in his flight from Zeno’s estate, John concluded, there was no evidence of it. The room was clean and neatly arranged, just as a meticulous person would leave it before departing for a few days.
There remained only the contents of the tall cupboard to be examined.
Expecting it to contain clothing or more theatrical props, John found instead at least part of the answer concerning what Barnabas did with the money he obviously did not spend on material comforts.
The cupboard was filled with dozens of codices and scrolls, neatly arranged in specially made racks.
John pulled out a scroll, which turned out to be Vitruvius’ work on architecture. There was a codex of Plotinus’ Enneads and much more besides. Any one of them would have cost more than a laborer’s annual wages.
“Barnabas was always quite the reader,” remarked Brontes, somewhat superfluously.
John produced a coin, twin to the one he had given the Egyptian at the docks, and handed it to Brontes with the same instructions concerning his interest in acquiring information about Barnabas’ whereabouts.
As he emerged into the square, John wondered what other surprises the missing mime had in store for him.
Chapter Six
“Barnabas isn’t hiding under one of the pallets here, I can assure you of that, John.” Isis’ smile took the sting from her waspish denial of any knowledge of the elusive dwarf.
The plump Egyptian had greeted John in the reception hall of her establishment. Its semi-circular courtyard was discreetly screened from the busy square beyond by a portico housing several shops, many of which she was part owner.
“You know I would never accuse you of harboring a criminal, Isis,” John protested with a smile. “However, the theater isn’t too distant from here and you’ve often said that half the world passes through your door. Or perhaps more than half now, given that your girls stroll up and down the courtyard all day?”
