Three for a Letter

by Mary Reed

  “And a fair bit of the night as well, John. It does entice a few of the more timid sort of patron to venture past the little gilded Eros at our door. Once they’re inside my house, few are dissatisfied with our services.”

  John knew that Isis took considerable pride in her new house, which had replaced one burnt down during riots a year or two before. “Yes, I can imagine it might be difficult to leave your excellent establishment before parting with a few coins.” John’s gaze skimmed over the closest of a number of mosaic plaques set beside the doorways along the wide corridor leading from the reception hall. The plaques depicted the particular expertise offered within each room with graphic specificity.

  “Stay and talk for a little while,” Isis said. “You look as if you’ve had a grueling morning. While I really can’t help you find Barnabas I can at least offer you some wine.”

  John followed her down the corridor and up the stairway to her private apartments.

  “Just as a matter of interest, Isis, how is it that you can be so certain you can’t assist me?” John settled down on an overstuffed couch in her sitting room and took the proffered goblet of wine.

  Isis, about to bite into a large honeyed date selected from a silver tray on the inlaid wood table beside her couch, drew her full lips into a pout of displeasure. “So, John, is this chat to be devoted only to business matters after all? You know how much I love reminiscing about the old days in Alexandria!”

  Like John, Isis had resided for some time in that bright city although they had never actually met there, a detail she always conveniently overlooked.

  “I’ll visit you again very soon and devote a few hours to talking about the old days, I promise. But I have an audience with Justinian this afternoon, so I hope you won’t feel offended by my questions.”

  Isis finished sampling her date before answering. “Of course not, John,” she finally said. “But you see I am certain that I cannot help you because I have long since barred dwarfs from my house. My rule is that if you can’t see over the head of the little Eros outside, you will not be admitted.”

  John expressed his mystification at such a policy.

  “You’ve lived in Egypt and so you know we consider the dwarf Bes to be a most benevolent god, for he guards against all manner of misfortunes. But what it all boils down to is a question of good business practice. Long ago I found that men of such small stature will fight my other patrons at the drop of an insult, whether one that’s real or merely perceived. They seem determined to prove that their lack of height doesn’t mean they are lesser men. For the same reason, they tax my girls more heavily than the emperor’s collectors, and they complain.”

  John set down his goblet. The possibility that there was anything a Constantinople prostitute might find unnatural was one that had never occurred to him. He said so.

  “You’re surprised? Let me tell you, the girls in my house never entertain men working in the theater. Especially mimes. There are no men more lascivious than mimes and if anyone spurns their advances, well…and Barnabas is a famous mime. Need I say more?”

  “Well, Isis, at least I’ve learned something from my inquiries this morning even if it isn’t directly concerned with my current investigations.” John got up from the couch, relieved to be freed from its overly soft embrace. “All the same, it may be that one of your employees might hear something of Barnabas from a patron, in which case I would be very interested to learn of it.”

  “If they should, I’ll send word to you immediately. One who murders a child deserves all that he gets, but first he must be caught and I’ll do whatever I can to assist you to do that.” Isis waved a soft, beringed hand emphatically to underline her words.

  John parted with yet another coin. He and Isis were old friends, but business was business and their friendship never interfered with that.

  ***

  As he left Isis’ establishment, John realized it would soon be time for his audience with Justinian. He would have to attend even though his search for Barnabas or information concerning his whereabouts had so far proved fruitless. He had not really expected to find his quarry in the crowded city but he had, he hoped, contrived to provide himself with several extra pairs of eyes to keep watch for the missing mime.

  His walk back to the palace took him past the theater. He briefly considered stepping in again to have another word with Brontes. However, deciding against a second visit, he instead cut down a short alley nearby. Emerging into the sunlight of another nondescript square, he had to step quickly aside to avoid treading on a three-legged cat that suddenly scuttled across his path.

  The cat loped with remarkable speed to the portico of a warehouse a few paces away. Sitting there was a woman he had hoped to find. He had encountered her in the course of a previous investigation when she had provided him with valuable information about life on the streets of the city.

  “Pulcheria!” he greeted her.

  The woman looked up, startled. There was no mistaking her. Her hair was decorated with colored scraps of ribbon, her clothes a wild, layered collection of garish tatters. More memorable yet, while one side of her face retained a hint of its youthful beauty, the other was a shapeless mass where the flesh had melted like a guttering candle, the result of burning lamp oil flung at her by an unhappy client. She fixed John with her one good eye as her mouth made half a smile.

  “Do you remember me?” John asked.

  She got to her feet in a flurry of multi-hued rags. “Who could forget such a tall, handsome fellow? And a man of mystery, no less! I see that you’re much better dressed than when we first met, excellency. Perhaps your fortune has changed for the better? Though I think it’s much more likely that it is now exactly as it was then.”

  “I apologize if you feel that I misled you when we first met, my friend.”

  “Friend? When was the last time you visited me? Come now, you’re here on business, plain and simple, and nothing more. Am I not right?”

  It was true, John admitted. “Then tell me, you’re familiar with the theater in the next square?”

  “Of course. When there’s a performance there’s not a street anywhere near it that can boast a single one of us working folks. We all go over there where we can easily find clients.”

  “Do you have an acquaintance with any of the actors who work there?”

  Pulcheria nodded, the bright ribbons in her black, matted hair fluttering.

  John quickly described the man he was seeking.

  “Barnabas, you mean?” Half of the woman’s face creased into a grin. “Sometimes on a summer day I hear what sounds like thunder, as if a great storm is approaching over the sea, yet there’s not a cloud in the sky. Then I realize that Barnabas must be performing and the thunder I think I hear is the laughter of his audience. I remember when I first came to live in this square, excellency. I was rendering service in that very alley and my client suddenly became incapable from laughter. I was mortified, fearing he would not pay me, but he told me not to mind, he was just recalling Barnabas. He’d seen his act with the phalluses not long before. And in fact he did pay me, despite lack of satisfaction.”

  Her one good eye looked intently at John as she continued. “Of course, excellency, if I should hear anything that would assist you…”

  John pressed two coins, rather than the single coin he had planned to give her, into her grubby hand, and said he would visit again soon. As he went back along the alley he found himself thinking that a man as famous and recognizable as Barnabas surely could not hide for very much longer.

  ***

  “Look out!” the emperor cried.

  A small round object flew in a rising arc past John’s face to explode in a shower of twigs through the canopy of one of the tall cedars edging the sea wall. It vanished into the heat haze shimmering over the Sea of Marmara.

  John’s glance at the grassy playing field to his left revealed a horse being reined to a halt a short distance aw
ay. A polo stick was grasped in its rider’s hand.

  “My apologies, Lord Chamberlain. I’ve only just learned this particular athletic activity and I’m not fully expert at controlling the direction of the ball.”

  John recognized the rider. It was the boy Hektor, now grown perilously large for his duties as an ornamental court page. There were several mounted players on the field, on the far side of which two other pages and three girls stood giggling together in conspiratorial fashion. Hektor wheeled away to rejoin the game, giving John no opportunity to reply.

  Justinian strolled up to John, clapped him on his shoulder and laughed.

  “It’s a stroke of good fortune, so to speak, that that ball didn’t hit your head, Lord Chamberlain.” The emperor’s tone was almost jovial. “Yes, I’ve put some of the older pages to work entertaining the young ladies. Less paint on their faces and more perspiration, that’s what I’ve advised for those youths.”

  John looked thoughtfully after the players. In the oppressive stillness the shouts of the players announced a new ball was in play. Beyond the far edge of the field, dusty landscaped grounds rose in terraces toward the stolid rectangular mass of the Daphne Palace. Several buildings, his house among them, could be seen scattered here and there amid groves of trees and flower gardens on the slopes above. Here by the sea wall the sultry air smelled of brine, trodden grass and the nearby stables, beyond which the cages of the imperial menagerie lay in quiet shadow. Only one of its cages was occupied and its resident, a large bear, was fast asleep, half buried in a bed of straw. John wished he could likewise lie down and rest but unfortunately for now that was not going to be possible.

  “Is it wise to encourage that young man’s development, excellency?”

  “He is a favorite of the Master of the Offices,” Justinian replied, “and I always like to keep an eye on court officials’ proteges. But it’s too hot to be standing about in the sun. Sit.” He indicated a marble bench set in the shade of the cedars, waving his ever-present guards away. They stationed themselves watchfully at a distance of several paces.

  Wiping his ruddy face with a piece of purple silk, Justinian suddenly chuckled. “I suppose you’re wondering why I am not hearing petitions, Lord Chamberlain? It’s because I decided to abandon the task when the reception hall became so hot that its bust of Constantine began sweating.”

  John offered a thin smile with the comment that the petitioners waiting to be heard were doubtless disappointed not to have been granted an audience with their emperor.

  Justinian sat down next to John. He was in an unusually expansive mood, it seemed, for usually he explained his actions or reasoning to no one. Nor was it necessary, for as emperor he held absolute power over the life and death of everyone within the empire.

  “There were nothing but minor matters to be heard,” he said. “Tax abatements, license disputes, that sort of thing. So just for today I empowered a silentiary to render a positive verdict in every case. Tomorrow I will be extolled in every corner of the city as a paragon of magnanimity. If only the sun god would have such mercy on me, as pagans would doubtless say, would they not, Lord Chamberlain?” He gave John a sly smile.

  John nodded silently. He had no doubt the emperor was aware that his trusted Lord Chamberlain practiced Mithraism, a proscribed religion. However, it was a fact that could never be articulated—at least not until Justinian opened the topic.

  Justinian’s smile passed quickly into a graver expression as he continued. “Concerning the boy, Gadaric. His death greatly distresses me, John. It’s been some years since I promised to defend his grandmother Amalasuntha, yet she was found strangled in her bath. And now, with General Belisarius at the gates of Ravenna, with Italy almost reclaimed from the Ostrogoths and Amalasuntha all but avenged, it seems that I have failed again.”

  “Gadaric’s sister is still alive,” John pointed out. “Although she has a lesser claim to the Italian throne, her marriage to an ally would certainly go far towards mending the empire as well as ensuring you have honored your promise.”

  For all Justinian’s public declarations of avenging Amalasuntha, John and most of Constantinople were aware that her murder had been little more than a convenient excuse to allow Justinian to pursue his dream of returning the empire to its former glory. The loss of Italy, to the emperor’s way of thinking, had been only a temporary defeat in a protracted war. There were, after all, old men who could still remember a Roman emperor in the west.

  It was true, he thought, that while the Ostrogoths had grudgingly accepted King Theodoric’s daughter Amalasuntha as regent for her son Athalaric, after Athalaric’s death they had refused to allow her to reign as queen. Now there were signs that the new regime would be less sympathetic to Roman culture—and Roman landowners and business interests—than Theodoric and his daughter had been. Then too, the Ostrogoths were of the Arian faith and thus heretics in the eyes of the church. So if Justinian wished to be ruler of an empire made whole again, he would certainly have more than sufficient support in his quest from more than one quarter.

  Then too, since Belisarius, his most trusted general, had long since wrested Africa back from the Vandals was now on the verge of reconquering Italy, Justinian had considerable interest in protecting Amalasuntha’s grandchildren and advancing their claims to Theodoric’s throne.

  The polo players approached again as the girls squealed and the boys shouted. John noted that Hektor was now wielding his stick with some skill, not to mention an accuracy apparently miraculously acquired just after the recent near accident.

  Once the riders had passed by, Justinian resumed speaking. “I have been contemplating a diplomatic solution. They say the Goths’ general Witigis is a most estimable leader. I am considering marrying the girl Sunilda to him and then dividing Italy between us. Your objection will doubtless be that he is already married to Amalasuntha’s daughter Matasuntha. But she was an most unwilling bride, was she not?”

  “Perhaps she would be a more willing wife if you were to elevate Witigis in the manner you suggest, but I confess, excellency, that I do not see why it would be politic to employ the granddaughter instead.”

  “Matasuntha cannot be relied upon,” Justinian replied, his voice surprisingly sharp. “It is not generally known, Lord Chamberlain, but when one of Belisarius’ commanders was approaching Ravenna, that vile woman offered herself to him if he would deliver her from Witigis! Such treachery of a wife toward her husband is unthinkable.”

  “I see.” John fell silent. Justinian sounded genuinely distressed by the woman’s not-uncommon faithlessness. He reminded himself that the emperor was still only a man, an ordinary man once known as Petrus Sabbatius but now possessed of limitless power. His view of the world was, like everyone’s, colored by his own experiences and his marriage to Theodora was, so far as anyone could tell, an ideal match. Justinian remained besotted with her, and, so it seemed, she with him, despite their often clashing views of religious and political matters. Those at court often whispered that the emperor gave her too much freedom, that she was allowed to say or do anything she pleased, even to engage in machinations entirely contrary to official policy. John knew this was not entirely the case. The empress hated him and if Justinian were so malleable, Theodora would have been granted John’s death long ago.

  “Well, John?” Justinian prompted him.

  “I would strongly advise against this particular diplomatic solution,” John replied. “It seems to me that Witigis might prove too strong to be a reliable ally in the future.”

  “Possibly. However, time to find a solution is short. The Persians are threatening to break our truce in the east and I may well have need of Belisarius and his troops there.”

  “Still, excellency, it seems to me that there is nothing to be gained by dealing with Witigis. Ravenna cannot withstand Belisarius’ siege. It must fall, and that very soon.”

  Whatever Justinian’s ruddy features might have revealed of his rea
ction was concealed as he wiped his face again with the purple silk cloth. John knew, however, that he would consider the advice. Justinian was a reasonable man, so far as an all-powerful emperor could be reasonable. He valued his advisors for their personal qualities rather than their backgrounds and John respected him for that. He also admired the fact that despite the pomp required by court ceremony, the emperor remained, in many of his private ways, an abstemious man.

  Justinian stood abruptly and John followed him along the path around the playing field, their armed escort a few paces behind. They were accompanied by the muffled thud of hooves, the exclamations of the players rising and receding as the game approached them and then veered away. Even the waves breaking at the base of the sea wall seemed to be more sluggish and quieter than usual in the hot air.

  At length, Justinian spoke. “The empress left several of her most trusted guards to watch over Sunilda. However, you will immediately accompany Captain Felix and an attachment of excubitors to Zeno’s estate where you and the captain will take personal responsibility for the girl’s safety until her brother’s murderer has been caught. In addition, as instructed by the empress, you will continue your investigations into the matter of the mime.”

  John felt fortunate that he had had enough time to put a number of eyes and ears around Constantinople on watch. He had hoped for a different assignment. The task of acting as a glorified bodyguard for an eight-year-old girl while simultaneously attempting to find the missing Barnabas was not one he relished. “As you direct, Caesar,” he replied formally.

  “Sunilda is extremely important to the empire, in fact just as important as defeating the armies of the Goths. To think how many glorious victories on the battlefield have been undone by events transpiring quietly within the walls of estates and palaces,” Justinian mused. “And, besides, Theodora is most distressed by this affair. Barnabas was her favorite performer, you know.”