Three for a Letter

by Mary Reed

  They had reached the road and stood in silence for a while, staring at the jagged length of new coastline. Birds wheeled and mewled in the cloudy sky above them. The sea was calm, keeping its secrets.

  “Something troubles me a great deal, John,” Anatolius finally said. “I can see Livia would have been in a panic to get rid of the murder weapon before she was discovered in possession of it and how this led to Briarus’ death. But what reason could she possibly have had to kill Gadaric?”

  John shook his head. “It is best if you know nothing further about this tragic affair, my friend,” he said firmly.

  Epilogue

  When John finally met him, Castor turned out to be a short, unremarkable-looking man. His undyed garments were not ill-fitting enough to hide a slight paunch nor did his cropped hair lend any air of asceticism to the face half concealed by a straggly beard.

  Castor’s living quarters were plain but not the barely furnished hermit’s cell John had expected. The room’s narrow window overlooked a steep drop to the beach, reminding him uneasily of the headland near Zeno’s villa.

  “I know what you’re probably thinking,” Castor told John abruptly. “How could the empress have been attracted to such an ordinary, middle-aged fellow? The truth, I fear, is that she saw me only as a useful tool, a playing piece in an imperial game. Or perhaps even a weapon against Justinian, for I don’t believe he knew she was urging me to come forward and claim the Italian throne. He supported the boy Gadaric as heir, of course.”

  John said he had thought as much.

  Castor sighed. “Yes,” he went on reflectively, “Theodora ordered me to meet her secretly on a number of occasions. She beguiled me with all sorts of inducements and encouragements to declare my ancestry. Wealth and power to begin with, but at the end all she offered was a chance for me to keep my head on my shoulders! Nothing more carnal than that, thank heaven. After all, would you wish to couple with a scorpion, Lord Chamberlain?”

  Castor’s servant padded in, placed a jug of wine on the table and then left the room after shuttering its window.

  “You do not find this new life too burdensome?” John inquired.

  “As you see, even here wealth eases one’s way through life although my servant didn’t like having to grow his beard to be allowed to sit at table.”

  John had sailed across the Sea of Marmara on an early summer day as dark clouds gathered over the sunlit water. He had been careful to ensure that his taking ship from Constantinople went unobserved.

  From the sea, the monastery Balbinus had reluctantly identified as Castor’s hiding place—and then only at Lucretia’s insistence—loomed above the rocky shore like a fortress or a continuance of the rugged cliffs upon which it stood. Its lower stories displayed featureless masonry walls punctuated higher up by slits of windows, while along its roof bristled a profusion of turrets, domes and crosses. Yes, a man who passed into anonymity behind its forbidding doors would be lost forever.

  Castor had greeted him warily at first. Then, realizing he had nothing to fear from this particular visitor from court, he had asked eagerly for news of the world he had left behind. John described in detail the rest of the tragic events at Zeno’s estate and their aftermath.

  Castor looked extremely upset. “How could I possibly find my quiet life burdensome after such a terrible tale, Lord Chamberlain? Many a king and emperor has ended his days in peaceful contemplation. The fortunate ones, at least. And I shall spend my remaining time in the same way without having had the onerous task of actually ruling anything beforehand.”

  “You have salvaged part of your library, I see.” John indicated the low shelf holding a pile of codices.

  “Some of my favorites, yes,” the other replied. “So although my body may be confined to this monastery, my world is without limits. Balbinus kindly retrieved them from my library. He’s running my estate for me. Mind you, there’s one volume he couldn’t find that I do rather miss. It’s a history of beauty written by a very obscure philosopher by the name of Philo. He was one of those pagans teaching at Plato’s Academy years ago.”

  John gave his thin smile and remarked that he had heard of the man. “Do you suppose Barnabas shares your taste for philosophy and made away with it?” he went on. “I understand he recently came back into Constantinople and took ship, but where he is now I couldn’t say. I’ve no doubt he found the island too confining, especially since he told me he had begun to wonder by what means the current keeper of the goats had supplanted his predecessor. I wouldn’t have thought that the guardians of oracular animals would indulge in murderous intrigues against one another. On the other hand, doubtless Barnabas’ views have been shaped by all the gossip he’s heard when performing at the palace.”

  He did not mention that he knew of the mime’s flight because first the stentorian-voiced actor Brontes and then an anonymous Egyptian ship captain, both of whom had spotted Barnabas as he crept away to safety, had arrived separately at Felix’s palace office to demand the reward John had promised them for this very information months before.

  “So Fortuna has smiled on Barnabas, if I may be forgiven for saying so in this holy building,” Castor mused. “Few who find themselves in Theodora’s bad graces survive to tell their story.”

  John poured them both more wine. “Theodora has ordered the Ostrogoth entourage moved to another estate some distance further down the coast,” he said, “and perhaps it’s just as well.”

  He recalled that upon hearing of their relocation Felix had valiantly tried to appear relieved, remarking that he considered the departure of Zeno’s guests exceedingly fortunate since military men could not afford to get romantically involved with anyone. Perhaps, John thought, Felix would eventually persuade himself that this was the truth. Meanwhile, John’s recollection of that conversation reminded him of matters of war.

  “Belisarius has finally won his way in Ravenna,” he told Castor, “but as yet there’s been no indication that Justinian plans to put Sunilda forward as Theodoric’s heir.”

  “Perhaps his plans are more subtle than that?”

  They sat in silence for a while, sipping their wine. A gust of the rising wind rattled the shutters.

  “When Balbinus brought your codices, did he tell you about Minthe?” John finally asked.

  “Yes, Lord Chamberlain. It grieves me greatly that I never knew her. She would have had a far easier life if I had. But nobody ever told who my mother was or what had become of her. It was a matter that was never to be discussed or even mentioned. Of course, I occasionally saw Minthe from a distance. I feel as if I should grieve for her since she was, after all, my mother, but somehow I can’t quite convince myself…it all seems unreal…I am not describing this very well, I fear.”

  John wondered if his own far-off daughter would feel the same way about him should some stealthy blade finally find his back.

  “But you surely realize that by attempting to remove Sunilda she was seeking the same high position for you as Theodora?”

  Castor’s eyes filled with tears. “No, Lord Chamberlain, I had no notion, no idea at all….”

  “Apart from everything else, consider what she claimed the goats were telling Zeno. According to a recent conversation I had with him, they said that, first, sorrow was to be expected.”

  “Every life has sorrow in it and some have a lot more than others,” Castor observed. “I would not make much of that, Lord Chamberlain.”

  “As you say. Then they supposedly claimed that the tallest knew what Zeno sought. Such a vague statement sounds mysterious and important but of course means nothing.”

  Castor agreed. “Surely all this nonsense about goat oracles is your usual case of interpreting vaguely worded statements to fit a given situation?”

  John shrugged. “But now consider the third answer provided to Zeno, which was that the twin would follow and take high office. Naturally, Sunilda sprang to mind. However, Castor, you are named aft
er a mythological twin. Obviously this third statement was another ploy by which Minthe contrived to prepare the way for you.”

  Castor nodded. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “But to accomplish it by such means….” He hastily gulped down the rest of his wine and then tried to push back his grief by taking refuge in scholarship. “From your description, I’d guess a distillation from poppies was involved. Zeno grows them around one of those pagan shrines of his, you know. You can make an excellent sleeping potion from poppies but it’s deadly in larger doses. Fortunately, however, there’s an antidote. It’s belladonna.”

  John gave him an inquiring look.

  “Some years ago I made an extensive study of poisonous plants,” Castor explained. “I’ve always been curious about the world and all its wonders, as you’ve probably heard.”

  John nodded silently. It had obviously not occurred to Castor that by preparing a deadly potion from a plant found on Zeno’s estate but not in her own garden, Minthe had cleverly arranged to deflect immediate suspicion from herself. As for its antidote, well, while it was true it was a well-known poison, its popularity with Theodora’s ladies-in-waiting as an eye cosmetic provided a legitimate excuse for Minthe to keep a supply on hand, in order to replenish theirs as needed.

  The two men were not alone in the room. John could feel another presence, the unspoken thing that both knew must finally be said aloud.

  “You know, don’t you?” John asked quietly.

  Castor took a quick sip of wine, spilling a few drops on his chest. “Yes. Theodora told me after the banquet. She said it had been an accident but then she went on to say that since Gadaric was now dead, it fortuitously meant only one other heir was left. I am not a violent man, Lord Chamberlain, and certainly not a murderer of little girls.”

  The wind banged the shutters even harder and the lamp on the table guttered as a draught found its way into the room.

  “I’d already left for Constantinople before her lady-in-waiting delivered Hero’s artificial hand to my estate,” Castor went on. “No doubt Theodora intended it as a warning of what would happen if I refused to carry out her order.”

  “Indeed.”

  Castor belatedly asked John how he had deduced Theodora’s role in Gadaric’s death, not realizing that his admission had indirectly provided John with confirmation of what up to then had been merely speculation.

  “I originally debated who would want the boy dead,” John replied. “But later I realized it was fruitless to pursue that since the boy was not the intended victim.”

  He explained this astonishing statement by relating how the solution had begun to coalesce around Castor’s library, the library of an estate neighboring the property where Theodora had insisted the twins spend the summer, the library of a man who, as it turned out, was another heir to the Italian throne—and a library that would doubtless be irresistible to a bibliophiliac mime.

  “When I was able to question him,” John went on, “Barnabas confirmed what I suspected, which is to say that he had observed you and the empress in your library late at night.”

  Castor sighed. “Yes, Lord Chamberlain. She would take Zeno’s key and slip through the private door between my estate and his.”

  “As it happened, on this particular occasion she left the mud and leaves on your library floor that so distressed your estate manager. Briarus had to brush similar vegetation off his clothes after he showed us your caper beds and the door itself, but of course I didn’t attribute any significance to it at the time.”

  John stopped to collect his thoughts before continuing. “So the question to be answered turned from who might have wanted Gadaric dead to who might have desired Barnabas dead? Barnabas didn’t think the empress saw him peeking into your library window, but he still thought it best to flee rather than take that particular gamble. Subsequent events proved it was a wise decision. Even though he’s a favorite of hers, she wanted him eliminated to protect her own interests, if not yours.”

  Castor turned pale at the thought and took another hasty gulp of wine. “Does he suspect Theodora of killing the boy?” he finally asked in a faint voice.

  “I think he must. Naturally, he didn’t say so to me.”

  “But how…?”

  “It’s reasonable to suppose that Theodora stepped into the workshop to get a closer look at the mechanical whale before the banquet or perhaps to talk to Hero. He wasn’t there, being otherwise occupied with Bertrada, but she heard someone moving around inside the whale. Now, nobody was allowed to touch the contrivance except Hero and Barnabas. Who else then could it be but the mime who was, after all, due to portray Jonah very soon and would be expected to be making one final check to see that everything was in order for his performance?”

  Castor nodded wordlessly.

  “It was probably a sudden decision,” John continued. “Hero liked to talk about his ingenious constructions and during one of her previous visits would certainly have shown her the artificial hand. She’d been quick to realize its murderous possibilities. It wouldn’t have taken long to find it, open the trapdoor in the whale’s head and then, seeing the small shape sitting down there in the dark mouth of the beast—for the lamps lit automatically and it was not yet time for them to flare into life—to extend the artificial hand downward…”

  Castor hastily stopped him.

  “When I spoke to him, Barnabas revealed that when he climbed into the whale during the performance and discovered what was inside, he got out immediately. Naturally the other actors were puzzled, but he’s nothing if not ingenious. He explained that another scene had been written at the last moment especially for him, one that required him to reappear not from the whale but under the banquet table. You can imagine the coarse humor that such a notion provoked. Then he set the beast in motion and seized his opportunity to flee while he still had time,” John concluded.

  “It’s long been preying on my mind that if I’d refused to entertain any notion of claiming the throne when Theodora first brought up the subject, Gadaric would still be alive,” Castor said sorrowfully.

  “The empress committed the murder, Castor, not you. In fact, by ordering Livia to take the basket to your estate, she’s also indirectly responsible for your estate manager’s death.”

  “But what led you to suspect Livia of killing Briarus?”

  “I’d been told that Theodora customarily employed her for fetching and carrying. So Livia hurrying about with a basket would not be remarked upon, even if anyone noticed in the first place. Nor do I think the empress would have entrusted such an important task to anyone else.”

  John quickly explained Livia’s subsequent actions as he had to Anatolius, carefully omitting to mention that the latter had immediately—and naturally—assumed that Livia was also responsible for Gadaric’s death. It was misapprehension John had not corrected since, as he had said at the time, it was safer for Anatolius to know as little as possible.

  “And of course Livia is under Theodora’s protection! To think that neither of those murderous women will ever be called to judgment,” Castor burst out furiously.

  “No,” John said softly. “But you should remember also that Livia knows one of Theodora’s secrets and that’s extremely dangerous.” He fell silent for a space before continuing. “It is ironic that only Minthe, who didn’t even succeed in her murderous plans, and in fact spared Poppaea’s life, has been punished.”

  Castor sighed heavily. “And yet, Lord Chamberlain, is it possible that you’re not entirely certain of your deductions? You have fitted together many pieces of information into a most convincing picture, but could they not also be assembled into another? It’s little wonder Theodora looked so horrified and shocked when she realized it was the boy and not Barnabas who had died. Her reaction was genuine enough and the same as that of everyone else present, it just wasn’t for the same reason. But where is proof that would persuade a court of law of her guilt or, more importantly
, persuade Justinian? Would even you dare to suggest that the empress was a murderess?

  “As to the rest of it, what if Livia lied to you? Or Barnabas? Or someone else? What if I’ve lied to you, for that matter?”

  “Have you lied?”

  Castor ignored the question. “I believe you’ve constructed an explanation with which you can feel comfortable, Lord Chamberlain, rather as Sunilda appears to have created an imaginary world for herself, one where she rules, one that remains untouched by tragedy.”

  John stood to make his departure. “I don’t think that I’m wrong, Castor,” he replied brusquely. “And indeed I sincerely hope I’m not.”

  For the first time, Castor noticed the haunted look in his visitor’s weary eyes.

  The wind howled even louder around the high building. Heavy drops of rain rattled against the shutters and from the sea came the thunderous rumble of an advancing tempest.

  Glossary

  AESCHYLUS (c 525-c 456 BC)

  Greek playwright regarded as the father of Greek tragedies. He wrote dozens of plays of which only a handful are extant, including Agamemnon (458 BC), considered by many to be the greatest surviving Greek drama.

  AGAMEMNON

  See AESCHYLUS.

  AMALASUNTHA (498-535)

  Daughter of THEODORIC and mother of MATASUNTHA and ATHALARIC. She served as regent for ATHALARIC when he became king of the OSTROGOTHS while still a child. Like her father, she supported Roman culture and maintained friendly ties with the Eastern Roman Empire. Following ATHALARIC’s death in 534 she was unable to maintain her position in the face of opposition to her policies and was murdered in 535.

  APOLLO’S RAVEN

  According to Greek legend, Coronis was unfaithful to the god Apollo while she was carrying his child. A raven informed Apollo, who killed Coronis although he saved their unborn son. Until then ravens had had white plumage but in his rage Apollo scorched the bird who had told him of Coronis’ infidelity and thereafter ravens had black feathers.