by Tom Harper
‘Elymas?’
‘Yes. You see Elymas.’
I had kept a wary distance from him, but now I allowed him to grab my hand and tug me away, off the road and down a thin alley between rough rows of dwellings. I tensed, my eyes darting in all directions in anticipation of an ambush, a robbery. I had too many of Krysaphios’ gold coins with me for comfort, and I was unarmed save for the dagger in my boot. But the urchin before me, in his tattered tunic and bare feet, skipped on heedless, leading me deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of ramshackle homes. Now I began to feel the weight of the area’s reputation, began to feel the hostile eyes examining me from behind the splintered planks and frayed sheets which served for doors and windows. The groups of men we passed at the roadside would stop their conversation and stare insolently, while women sat with their legs lying open and offered indecent suggestions. My only solace was that none of it showed the least effect on the boy.
He brought me to place where an old woman sat by a damp fire, stirring a black pot and muttering gibberish to herself. Next to this was a makeshift tent, a wide bolt of purple cloth draped over two sticks which formed a doorway. The fabric looked remarkably like that used for decorating the streets during imperial processions, though I did not say so.
‘Elymas,’ said the boy, and ran off.
I watched him vanish behind a pile of rubble, which might have been somebody’s house, and felt an overwhelming urge to follow. But I had come this far: I would take the final step, however ill-advised and reckless. Ignoring the crone by the fire, now giggling like a demon, I crouched down nearly to my knees and crawled into the tent.
The cloth must have been of a fine weave indeed, for within its folds all was darkness, though smoke from the neighbouring fire had somehow managed to choke the black air. I coughed; my eyes watered, and I snatched my hand to the knife at my ankle as I heard a movement beyond.
‘Elymas?’ I challenged.
There was a wheezing from the back of the tent, and the fluid sounds of a man clearing his throat.
‘Elymas,’ a voice answered at last. It spoke hesitantly, uncertainly, and did not sound Roman.
‘Do you understand Greek?’ My feet were flat on the ground, still poised to spring, but I had lowered the knife.
Elymas did not answer. My hopes sank. Then, in the silence, a dog barked twice, so near to me that my sword arm flew up in a blocking arc. The movement unbalanced me, and I toppled back clumsily onto the sandy floor.
‘Do not be afraid,’ said Elymas, his voice devoid of all comfort. ‘Sophia answers all questions.’
‘Sophia?’ Not the hag by the fire outside, I hoped.
The dog, from somewhere close to Elymas, barked twice more. My eyes were slowly growing used to the gloom in the tent, and I could now make out the dim shape of a hunched old man, his white beard like a ghost in the darkness, sitting cross-legged before me. One hand rested on a black shadow next to him, which might — but for the barking — have been taken for a cushion.
‘Sophia,’ repeated my host, and again the dog barked twice.
A ludicrous notion entered my thoughts. ‘Sophia is your dog?’
Two quick barks were the apparent, improbable confirmation of this truth.
‘And Sophia will answer my questions?’ I wondered if perhaps there was more than wood on the fire whose smoke had filled my lungs. ‘And, naturally, she speaks Greek.’
This time there was only a single bark.
‘What does that mean? She does not speak Greek?’
Two barks.
I looked around for the door flap, which had unaccountably fallen shut. What would Krysaphios say if he knew I wasted my time and his gold conversing with performing animals?
I saw Elymas pat his bitch affectionately on the flank. ‘Not speak,’ he said brokenly. ‘Understand.’
I stared at him venomously. ‘She understands Greek?’
Two barks protested she did.
‘Tell me then, Sophia,’ I began, wondering how far I was willing to take this charade. ‘Can I find a mercenary for hire near here?’
Sophia looked at me disparagingly, then put her head between her feet and huffed through her nose.
‘What?’ I demanded, caught between impatience and the spell of this unlikely dream.
Elymas was wracked by a silent fit, rocking back and forth on his haunches. When it had subsided, he stuck a bone-thin finger into the sand before him and inscribed a circle, with a smaller circle, two eyes and a mouth within it.
Long experience of charlatans, as much as the clarity of his picture, gave me the answer. ‘You want money for speaking to your dog?’
A pained expression crossed his face; he shook his head vigorously, and pointed to the bitch.
‘Your dog wants money for me to speak to her?’
Sophia raised her jaw a fraction, just enough for a couple of weary barks. Internally abusing myself as an idiot, I drew an obol from my purse and tossed it into the sand in front of the dog.
She eyed it haughtily, then turned to lick her backside.
With the utmost reluctance, I added a second obol. Still she paid me no heed. A third obol followed, and then — swearing there would not be another — a silver keration.
Sophia turned back to me and gave two contented barks.
‘Now,’ I said heavily. ‘Can I find a mercenary near here?’
Two barks, though even a dog might have known that. I would demand far more for my coin.
‘Where can I find them?’
I earned scornful looks from dog and master. ‘Can I find them on the Selymbrian road?’
One bark.
‘Near the road?’
Two barks.
I paused, unable to think of any landmark which would help direct this line of questioning. ‘Are there many men who can help me?’
One bark.
‘Only one man?’
Two barks.
‘Is he a barbarian? A Frank?’
One bark.
‘A Roman? Like me?’
Two barks.
‘And this man will find me a mercenary?’
Two barks.
‘Does he have a name?’
Two barks.
Again I halted, as I came against the immutable fact that without a name or a location, this dog could tell me nothing. Nothing, in fact, that I did not already know or guess — and that, of course, was the nature of its trick. I had been a fool to convince myself that it could be otherwise, to succumb to the smoke and darkness and gnomic utterances of this false magician. I shuffled backwards, shooting the bitch a final, evil glare.
And in that second where we met each other’s gaze, I swear I saw the dog lift her head, open her mouth, and say quite distinctly: ‘Vassos.’
My jaw sagged in astonishment. ‘Vassos?’
Two dainty barks.
‘A man named Vassos?’ I repeated, edging forward. ‘The man I seek is named Vassos.’
And with two final barks, the dog turned her back on me and began chasing her tail.
I stumbled into daylight reeling from the strange encounter, my mind locked in a tussle of doubt and wonder. The woman with the pot had vanished, her fire now little more than embers; I breathed in deep lungfuls of cool air and hoped it would blow through my head also. During my uncommon career I had sought information from every rank of life, from city officials to notorious criminals, and often I had implored God for revelation; never, though, had I spoken with a dumb animal. What could I do but see how her story was resolved?
It soon emerged that she had done me a great service — more than many human informants have rendered me. Although I spoke no Frankish, nor Bulgarian nor Serbic nor any other of the immigrant languages of this place, the name ‘Vassos’ was like a charm: no sooner did I speak it to those I passed than comprehension lit up their faces and they gestured animatedly in one direction or another. I was led gradually westwards, through endless alleys of broken hovels towards the walls, until
at length a gypsy loitering by a well pointed directly over my shoulder and said definitively: ‘Vassos.’
I turned to see a house, itself remarkable enough in those surroundings. It seemed far older and better constructed than anything else around it: it might once have been a farmhouse, when these were virgin fields, but it was decayed and charmless now. Whoever owned it, though, had money enough to put a stout oak door on the hinges, and iron bars across the crimson-curtained windows.
I rapped on the door, wondering what business I disturbed inside. There was no answer.
‘Vassos,’ said the gypsy across the street, watching me and laughing.
I hammered the door a second time. Still it did not move, but in the corner of my eye I noticed one of the curtains tremble. I ran to it, just in time to see a woman’s head vanish behind it.
‘Vassos!’ I called, trying to pull back the curtain through the bars. ‘Vassos?’
‘No,’ said a voice within. ‘No Vassos. No Vassos.’
‘Where is he?’ I let the curtain go and stepped back from the window. There was a silence, but my retreat was rewarded when strong arms drew open the curtain to reveal a heavily painted face glaring out at me. Her dress was a fragmented patchwork of different cloths, none bearing the least relation to the other, and tied like a girdle under her breasts so that they thrust forward toward me. There were red calluses around her mouth, and a scratch on one cheek. Her eyes were hard as glass.
‘No Vassos,’ she repeated emphatically. ‘Vassos work. Work.’
‘Tomorrow?’
She lifted her shoulders, deepening the cleft between her breasts yet further. ‘Tomorrow? Tomorrow.’
‘I will come tomorrow.’
Whether she understood me or not, the conversation was finished; the curtain shut and the house fell silent.
I spent the afternoon sitting in the courtyard of a minor noble, watching his fountain and playing with his cat. Every hour his steward would emerge to assure me I would be received imminently, but that lie soon tired. I preferred the honesty of the slum dwellers. I had chosen to start at the bottom of Krysaphios’ list, hoping that there I might merit at least a dubious welcome, but that proved a false hope, and as it was a fasting day I could not even prevail on the steward for a drink. At last, with the shadows lengthening, I left for the palace. Krysaphios was undisguisedly unimpressed with my day’s work; so too, when I arrived home, were my daughters.
‘You’re always home after dark now, Father,’ Helena accused me. ‘And late for supper.’
‘“The dutiful daughter greets her father with the food of her hands,”’ I quoted, smiling.
‘The dutiful wife,’ corrected Helena sharply. ‘The daughter might well be in bed when her father chooses to appear.’
I settled into my chair, and took a spoonful of the stew she had prepared. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said humbly. ‘The stew is delicious.’ It was — she had her mother’s gift with food. ‘But my paymasters at the palace keep me working hard, and they pay me enough that one day I will not have to work so hard. Then we can have supper on time.’
‘Is the palace beautiful, Papa?’ asked Zoe, slurping her food like a soldier. ‘Is it filled with fountains and light?’
‘It is. Fountains and light and gold and laughter,’ I said, and described as best I could the few corners I had seen. It needed little embellishment to make Zoe’s eyes go wide with wonder.
‘I thought the kingdom of God was for the poor.’ Helena had been staring down at her plate while I spoke, saying nothing, but now she lifted her head contemptuously. ‘I thought the Lord God would pull down the mighty from their thrones, and scatter the proud in the evil of their hearts. How can you work for such a tyrant, who glories in the trappings of sin?’
‘I can work for him because his life is as valuable as any other man’s.’ We had argued this the previous night. ‘And because in my lifetime he is the only ruler who has not brought us to the brink of ruin. He may feast in golden halls and drink from scented cups, but he keeps the borders secure and his armies far from the city. To my mind, that is enough.’
Though I believed what I said, I could understand the contempt in Helena’s eyes, for I could hear my words sounding as hollow to her as they would have to me at that age. I remembered the monks who raised me preaching poverty and humility as they grew fat on the orchards I tended, and the way I burned at the injustice of it. Was I now grown into just another apologist for the orthodox?
Clearly Helena thought so; she rose from the table with a crashing of plates and chairs, and marched stiffly out of the room.
Zoe watched her go. ‘She wants a husband,’ she said, with the blithe indifference of a twelve-year-old. ‘That’s why she’s angry.’
‘I know,’ I said wearily. ‘And I will do something soon.’ I speared a piece of vegetable onto my knife. ‘But she should guard her tongue concerning the Emperor. He has many ears, many spies.’
And I, I thought as I lay in bed that night, was one of them.
5
It was close to midday by the time I found Vassos’ house again; I had spent the morning making some arrangements, then discovered that his neighbours were less obliging with their directions when the supplicant came accompanied by four monstrously armed soldiers. With that in mind, I approached the sturdy door alone.
This time there was no need to knock. The lone gypsy who had been outside before was now augmented by a triad of youths with bruised, insolent faces; they loitered below the windows and stared at me through lazy eyes.
‘I’m here to see Vassos,’ I said, as pleasantly as I could.
‘Vassos busy.’ It was the boy nearest me who spoke. He must have been in a dozen knife-fights at least, judging by the scars, but it was the pimples which truly disfigured him. He wore a green tunic clasped with a leather belt, and as he spoke one hand drifted ominously behind his back.
‘Vassos is not too busy to see me.’ A gold nomisma appeared between my fingers, almost as if by accident, but when the youth leaned forward to stare closer it vanished. I opened my empty palm to him with a disingenuous shrug.
‘Vassos will see me,’ I repeated.
‘Vassos see you.’
The boy stretched out an arm and banged three times on the door; it swung inwards silently. With a mock bow and a sneer, he signalled me to enter.
As I came into the dim room I saw that the boy had not been making idle excuses for Vassos: he had indeed been busy, and seemed only just to have concluded the business, for he was wrapping a cloth about his bloated waist and wiping sweat from his black-haired chest. Next to him a woman was pulling a dress up over her breasts, showing not the least concern for modesty. On the couch behind them a second girl lay stretched out on her belly, shamelessly naked and glowing with a sheen of perspiration. For a moment I allowed myself to admire her openly, thinking to persuade Vassos of my complicity; besides, it was years since I had felt that pleasure, and I had the God-given desires of any man. Then I noticed the red lines scratched down the curve of her back, the slender width of her hips and the smooth skin on the flesh below her shoulder: she could not be much older — if at all — than Helena, I realised. Sickened, I looked away.
‘Not to your taste, eh?’ Vassos misread my look. ‘Don’t worry, I have more. What do you prefer? Peasant girls from the provinces who fuck like mules? Dusky Arabians from the court of the Sultan, versed in the seven hundred ways of pleasuring a man. Golden-haired virgins from Macedonia? If you’re feeling patriotic, I even have a Norman wench, on whom you can revenge the treachery of their race. Though it will cost you extra if I cannot use her again.’
I stared at this ogre standing half-naked before me. Long, thick hair fell over his brutish shoulders, framing a face whose flattened nose and heavy cheekbones seemed more suited to a bull than a man. He wore a thick, golden chain around his neck, and rolled it between fat fingers as he spoke. It was with great restraint that I did not hit him immediately.
‘I’
m not after girls,’ I said shortly. ‘I seek. .’
‘Boys?’ Vassos’ fat lips contorted into a leer. ‘I can do boys for you, my friend, if you enjoy Corinthian pleasures. Sometimes indeed I savour it myself — I must understand the tastes of my clients, you know. But it will take a little time — the boys are kept elsewhere.’
The girl who had been dressing herself when I entered had left the room, but now returned carrying a cup heavily crusted with coloured stones. She gave it to Vassos who drained its contents in a single gulp, leaving only a small trail dribbling down his cloven chin. He dropped it heedlessly on the floor, impervious to the clatter, and in the pause, I spoke again.
‘Not boys. I seek men — and not for carnal pleasures. For dangerous tasks. I understood you could provide them.’ It now seemed a faint hope: a lesson for trusting so much to the words of a charlatan and his dog.
But Vassos had gone very still. ‘Men for dangerous tasks,’ he mused. ‘More dangerous than turning their arses over to you?’
‘Men’s work, not whores.”
‘I can sell you men for any task.’ Vassos delivered each word with slow consideration. ‘Any task which pleases me. But I do not know that I like your task.’
‘Others may have paid you for similar,’ I suggested.
‘The business I do with others is my own affair. The business I do with you. .’ He thought on this. ‘I choose not to do with you. You know the watchwords and you speak of danger, but I think you are the danger, my friend. Please leave my house.’
‘I need to know if a man hired some men of you, perhaps in the last week or month. I will pay handsomely for the knowledge.’ Again I allowed the gold coin to appear and disappear in my hand.
Vassos simply laughed, an ugly laugh that stirred the girl on the bed to look up, wide-eyed. ‘You can buy my whores, and treat them as you pay for them, but you cannot buy me with your magician’s gold. My reputation,’ he explained solemnly, ‘is everything. Now go.’
‘Tell me who you’ve hired mercenaries to,’ I persisted. ‘Tell me and. .’
My plea was interrupted by a piercing whistle, as Vassos stuck two fingers between his yellow teeth and blew hard through them. ‘You will leave my house,’ he said, smirking. ‘Vassos’ hospitality is legendary, but it is not to be abused. I will have my boys see you out.’
