by Mary Reed
Codices and scrolls, the largest private collection John had ever seen.
The library might have belonged to Briarus, to judge from his expression of pride as he led his visitors inside. He was a thin, dark haired man with a brisk air and, until now, what John suspected was a perpetual scowl.
“As you can see,” Briarus told them, “the Greek texts are kept on one side of the room and the Latin on the other.” Although his sharp features softened somewhat as he proudly described the contents of his master’s library, his disapproval of their unannounced visit remained obvious in his tone.
Anatolius, careless of the estate manager’s feelings, plucked a scroll from the table and pulled it open just far enough to glimpse its contents. “This is certainly very old, John, and extremely valuable. You see the lettering is all capitalized, like a chiseled inscription? It’s just as well we no longer write in this fashion. If we did, it would take me all day to transcribe even the most minor of the emperor’s proclamations.”
Briarus, standing anxiously at Anatolius’ elbow, relaxed at the care with which the young man handled the ancient scroll. John decided he was dealing with one of those servants who was proud to serve and looked upon his master’s possessions as a mark of his own standing. Unfortunately, in his experience such men were not very forthcoming.
“Zeno mentioned that Castor is a man after his own heart,” John said, “and that he takes frequent excursions into Constantinople for the purpose of collecting antiquities or commissioning manuscripts. Your master must be a very learned man.”
Briarus’s tight lips curved into a slight smile. “Indeed, sir, that exactly describes him. He has no time for the tedious affairs of court or the vanities of idleness. No, the master is a lover of history and learning and rarely returns from one of his forays into the city without another treasure. As you see,” he gestured expansively around the room, “although this is where he spends most of his time, our library is not full of gaudy statues and carved panels and other such frivolous items.”
John strolled around the room, inspecting Castor’s collection. He noted not only ancients such as Homer and Aristotle but also several authors less familiar to him. He opened the leather cover of a codex lying on the table and discovered it to be Athenaeus’ Deipnosophistae.
“That is a brilliant account of conversations at banquets, though I believe many would find it too complex for their taste,” Briarus observed without so much as a hint of a smile.
“You are a scholar yourself, then?” John gave him an inquiring glance.
“I am a man of modest intellect, sir, but through my master’s generosity I have had some opportunity to educate myself.”
John returned his attention to the long table that was room’s centerpiece. In addition to scrolls and codices from the library there was a neat stack of loose parchment. Castor’s own notes, apparently, although as John soon realized not anything so mundane as to be of value in his investigations. Rather, the writings consisted of reflections on the cosmos, poetic form, horticulture.
“No mention of mimes, let alone dwarves.” John set down the parchment he had been scanning. “Not that I would have expected any.”
“The subject is probably too low for one of Castor’s tastes,” remarked Anatolius.
One or two codices lay open and John noticed that Castor had made notes in these also. Looking more closely, he saw one page displayed a boldly penned “No! The very idea is to admit defeat! Let us, instead, laugh in the face of eternity!”
It was written on a copy of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations. Looking over John’s shoulder, Anatolius noted it was safer to disagree with dead emperors than living ones.
While John silently continued his inspection of Castor’s intellectual labors, Anatolius moved to a window to gaze out into the garden. “The grounds are certainly well groomed, Briarus,” he said. “There is hardly a leaf out of place.”
“Thank you, sir. The master does like everything kept in good order, although it is not everyone’s way.”
John wondered if the man was thinking of Zeno’s untidy estate next door.
“I do however notice several unkempt bushes over by the wall.” Anatolius was smiling as he spoke but Briarus seemed not to notice as he hurried to the window and followed Anatolius’ amused glance.
“Those are caper plants,” the estate manager informed him. “This past year or so the master has become very interested in growing them. I understand that they are excellent against afflictions of the joints. Alas, the master does sometimes suffer that way.”
John expressed regret, adding that he occasionally experienced similar painful twinges.
“We have an excellent gardener. He’s a retired fisherman from the village who taught himself about pruning and bedding plants and all the rest,” Briarus continued in a burst of confidences. “Unfortunately Paul, that’s the gardener, has lately been greatly afflicted by a similar malady to the master’s and so that particular bed has become very overgrown. It seems that the plant is extremely difficult to establish and the master won’t allow anyone else to so much as touch the bushes. However, I understand that Paul is in somewhat better health and should be back at work soon—if he can be persuaded to return.”
Briarus’s loquacity on the subject of the untidy bushes reminded John that a prideful servant was as quick to respond to any perceived criticism as a mediocre poet. He asked about why the gardener might be reluctant to return to work on the estate.
The scowl Briarus had worn prior to entering the library returned. “I must admit that perhaps I was hasty of tongue and said things that were regrettable, sir, but the fact is that last time Paul was working here, we exchanged some rather hot words. I thought of bringing the matter to the attention of the master but did not. Perhaps I was lax in my duty.”
John, wondering what else had happened on the estate of which Castor had been kept blissfully unaware, encouraged the man to continue with his tale.
Looking dubious, Briarus complied. “It may have been that the pain in his joints caused Paul to speak out of character. It all began when we got into conversation while he was weeding.” An enraged note entered the man’s voice. “Nothing would do but that he felt he must express dismay over what he called all the local evil goings-on.”
“Indeed?” Anatolius said with great interest. “Did he point to anything in particular?”
“Forgive me, sir, but your uncle Zeno’s automatons were most critically mentioned in his diatribe. Then there was the matter of the fortune-telling goats, which he declared sheer superstitious folly. Now, I would have been inclined to agree with him on the matter of the goats, but then he went on in the same breath to condemn what he called the master’s blasphemous collection of old pagan philosophers, if you please.” The man’s face had reddened with outrage as his story unfolded and was now almost as dark as a radish.
“Evidently the fame of your master’s library is wider than you realize, although its contents are perhaps not entirely understood,” John replied tactfully. “And as you say, it was doubtless his pain that caused Paul to speak in such a manner.”
Having said which, he indicated he had seen enough of the library and Briarus resumed guiding them on their tour of the house. He had little else to say. His admission regarding his argument with the gardener appeared to have rendered him even more surly than before. Perhaps he regretted speaking so freely about his master’s affairs.
As they moved through one spacious room after another John, a man of simple tastes, admired their furnishings. They were stark but of the finest workmanship. There was evidence, too, of Castor’s penchant for collecting which Zeno had also mentioned, in the array of statuary gracing many of the rooms as well as the peristyle and the villa’s inner garden.
There was no room John did not look through, no alcove or corner he did not inspect, but it was soon evident that Castor’s home was compact and well-ordered compared to Zeno’s rambling
and chaotic villa. It was equally obvious that it could not offer even a temporary hiding place.
“Does the estate have an underground cistern, perhaps, or any disused structures?”
Briarus sniffed his disdain. “We have no need of a cistern as city-dwellers do, sir. As to the rest, my master would never countenance a ruin on his property although doubtless many consider such things picturesque.”
John had initially thought that Castor’s estate, protected behind high walls and with a front gate kept securely locked, would afford a good hiding place for Barnabas. After their walk around it, however, it seemed much less likely.
The estate was certainly well guarded, as much by Briarus’s eagle eye as by bars and bolts, John thought as they returned to the gate through which Briarus had admitted them an hour or so before, carefully relocking it afterwards.
“Leave it with the others outside by the gate!” Briarus suddenly shouted. A farmer who had just arrived at the estate followed the estate manager’s bellowed instructions and set down a small basket of lettuce in the place indicated. It joined one or two others that had apparently been left by similar callers during Briarus’ absence.
“The master has fresh lettuce delivered regularly. He says it is good for the digestion,” Briarus explained.
“The farmers walk straight onto uncle’s estate,” Anatolius remarked casually.
“When the master is away it is appropriate that everything be kept securely locked, sir.” Briarus’s tone was curt.
John agreed, adding that since the estates were situated in a less inhabited area there was no telling who might decide to visit by stealth.
“Indeed, that’s true.” Briarus looked pleased that this holder of high office would share his opinion on such an important matter. “For you never know,” he went on, “what vagabond may decide to take the coast road. Sometimes even welcome visitors are not correctly announced. The house servants are constantly being startled when they go into the library in the morning.” He glanced uneasily toward Anatolius. “I regret to say that they often find our neighbor Zeno sitting there calmly reading the master’s priceless scrolls and the master nowhere to be seen!” His expression clearly conveyed his opinion of such abuse of hospitality.
Anatolius laughed at the revelation. “It doesn’t surprise me at all, Briarus. When Zeno’s thoughts fasten onto some fancy, it engages his attention to such an extent that he doesn’t know whether it’s day or night. Besides,” he added, “he does love knowledge and has often praised your master’s wonderful collection of works.”
“His library is without compare,” Briarus agreed. “In the usual course naturally I would see all the visitors entering the estate, but usually your uncle uses the private door at the back of the garden.”
“Barnabas couldn’t have got in that way. It’s always locked,” Anatolius observed.
Briarus glowered at the young man. “Unless your uncle told this fugitive you’re seeking that he has a key to it, in which case the man could simply have stolen it!”
“Zeno still has the key, as a matter of fact,” said John, “for he offered it to me this morning, thinking that we might prefer to simply let ourselves into your grounds. However, I felt it better that we enter formally by the front gate rather than skulking in through the back. After all, we must always be careful to observe the proprieties.”
If the remark mollified Briarus, his frown didn’t reveal it. “I will not say I doubt our neighbor’s judgment, sir. All the same, we were shocked to find a pile of scrolls knocked all over the floor a few days ago. The servants are not permitted to touch them, of course, although the room is cleaned daily. The master is very particular about that. And to make it worse, there were leaves and mud and such trodden in from the garden all over the tiles. He was furious. I have never seen him so angry.”
“An intruder, perhaps one who was disturbed, do you suppose?” John asked with interest.
“One of the house servants had told me that very morning she thought she’d heard voices in the library very late the night before, but I pointed out to her that possibly the master was entertaining a visitor.”
“And when you were called in and shown the scene next morning you felt it would not be discreet to mention her remarks?”
“Indeed, sir, that is so,” Briarus confirmed.
John suddenly asked the estate manager to show them the private door between the two estates.
Briarus unlocked the stout, nail-studded door set in a brick wall just beyond the overgrown bushes Anatolius had spotted from the library window. Capers dangled untidily, obscuring the door, which opened onto a path on Zeno’s estate, half-concealed in a particularly overgrown laurel thicket.
Relocking the door, Briarus emerged from behind the caper bed fussily brushing off his clothes and grumbling under his breath about ruining his garments just to further prove the utter unlikelihood of a famous dwarf going unnoticed by his well-supervised staff of servants. John thanked him for his assistance and dismissed him to his other duties.
Anatolius, wiping watering eyes with his tunic sleeve, pointed out that lingering overlong in Castor’s garden was bringing on an attack of his malady. “And what’s worse,” he went on mournfully, “either my vision is even worse than I imagine or else Zeno has managed to persuade Castor to harbor one of Hero’s more peculiar inventions.”
He pointed at the nearby fountain. A bronze ibis stood on the edge of its basin. Smaller silver birds and fruit swinging from chains occupied the branches of an intricately carved marble tree growing from a facsimile of a cliff face set in the middle of the basin. “This must be the contraption for which he showed me the diagram just a few weeks ago. When the fountain is working, the small birds sing and the fruits act as chimes. I understand that the effect is very melodic although after some hours it must become rather annoying.”
“Then it’s an excellent arrangement for it to be set out of earshot of the villa. And what about the ibis? What does that do?”
Anatolius shook his head. “I’m not certain. Perhaps Hero and Zeno haven’t decided yet. I gather this is only a working model.” A worried look crossed his face. “I hope that I’m not eventually going to be presented with a fully functional version for my own garden!”
As they returned to the front gate, John observed that he would have liked to have examined the papers in the missing estate owner’s office more closely. Solicitous of his master’s privacy, however, Briarus had seemed particularly anxious for his visitors not to linger there.
“On the other hand, Castor is Senator Balbinus’ nephew so it would be wise to proceed with caution. All the same, it seems very odd that Briarus doesn’t know where Castor has gone, or at least claims not to know.”
Anatolius snuffled miserably. “Since you appear to suspect everyone and his brother, I believe I can lend you a hand, John, especially as I intend to escape back to the city as soon as possible.”
“No,” John cut in firmly, “I do not wish you to question Balbinus about his nephew’s whereabouts.”
“But it would be so helpful to your investigations and I would be happy to visit Balbinus as soon as I arrive back in Constantinople.”
“Anatolius, I appreciate your kind offer but I fear that your leap into action is connected much more with the prospect of visiting Balbinus’ wife than of interviewing her husband.”
“Lucretia? That was years ago. She’ll most likely be elsewhere when I call anyway.” The expression in his eyes betrayed his hope that this would not prove to be the case.
John’s lips tightened. There were enough pitfalls strewn about court for a young man without inviting disaster by becoming involved, again, with a woman who was now a senator’s wife. Even so, he chided himself, it required the consent of both parties to have an affair and Lucretia had always conducted herself in an honorable way despite her less than happy arranged marriage. Then too, it might be the only way to find out quickly why the own
er of the estate next to the one on which a young boy had been horribly murdered had suddenly departed for a destination unknown without even leaving instructions for his estate manager. That is, if what Briarus had said was true.
“Very well, then,” he finally said, “if you insist. But promise me you will do nothing that might be misconstrued, not a single word or an inappropriate look, however romantic it might strike you at the time. The situation is difficult enough. Inappropriate relationships only bring trouble. We don’t need any more of them.”
Chapter Twelve
Bertrada discovered Hero sitting on a bench outside the workshop, gazing glumly at a diagram spread across his knees. A frown nagged a deep bridge between his eyebrows. She sat silently down beside him, trying to compose herself.
“There’s something I have to tell you, Hero,” she finally managed to say. “About us. Something important.”
Distracted from his musing, Hero looked up and smiled. “Bertrada, my dove. What did you say? Have you escaped from your nursemaid duties for a while?” He leaned toward her for a kiss.
Annoyed, she glared at him and then spoke, attempting to imitate the withering tones she had often heard Calyce and Livia use to each other. “I certainly haven’t left Sunilda alone, if that’s what you mean. Do you think me nothing but a foolish girl?” She realized she couldn’t recall exactly how she had planned to convey her decision to him in the kindest possible manner.
Hero gave a deep chuckle of merriment that creased his dark face, banishing the frown that had greeted her. “Ah, Bertrada, you may be a girl but never foolish. However, I’m glad that you came to visit even if it’s just for a short time. Would you like to inspect my latest inspiration?”
The girl blushed. Now her carefully composed speech vanished entirely from her memory. “Unfortunately, I—”
Another chuckle. “No, I didn’t mean that sort of inspiration although certainly you inspire me in more ways than one. However, since we agreed we must be discreet, I shall forgo the opportunity of being inspired in daylight at least!”
