by Alan Gordon
“What on earth possessed you to bring a fool here?” muttered Ranieri.
“He showed up this afternoon looking for work,” said Ruzzini. “He was most impressive selling his wares. As a merchant, how could I not respect that?”
“Odd, him popping up like that. Like a vulture after the kill.”
“Fools and Death go together,” observed Ruzzini. “We’ve had fools singing at wakes before. I thought he sang rather well.”
“He knows our music,” conceded Ranieri. “Which makes me wonder how someone who knows Venetian music should turn up in Constantinople.”
“He’s been here a while,” said Ruzzini. “Over a year, I think. And that younger fool, what’s his name?”
“Plossus.”
“Yes, Plossus. I’ve seen him perform here many a time, and he speaks our tongue fluently.”
“Better than our patriotic Viadro,” said Ranieri, laughing quietly.
There was a pause. I suspected that they were watching me. I kept the snoring regular.
“They all look so peaceful,” said Ranieri.
“Except for Bastiani,” said Ruzzini. “Strange. The dead usually appear at rest, but Camilio seems as tormented in death as he did in life. I fear his soul will walk among us yet.”
“Nonsense,” said Ranieri. “He couldn’t do anything to anyone when he was alive. Why worry about his shade?”
“If he was so harmless,” started Ruzzini, then he paused. “I don’t want any more deaths,” he said finally.
“Why are you telling me this?” asked Ranieri, sounding almost amused.
“You heard me.”
“People who don’t keep their heads sometimes lose them,” said Ranieri. “Everything will work out fine if you just stay calm and collected. With all that’s happening right now, Bastiani’s death will soon be forgotten.”
“I want no more murders.”
“It had nothing to do with us,” insisted Ranieri. “Why do you keep saying this?”
A rooster crowed in the distance. Then another.
“We’re at a wake,” said Ruzzini. “Let’s call it a prayer. There’s been little enough of that as it is.”
He came over to my bench and nudged me. I sat bolt upright and started strumming wildly, blinking as the first rays of the sun came into the room.
“Enough, good Fool,” said Ruzzini, handing me some coins. “I’ve paid you for your singing, only. You sleep on your own time.”
“Sir, show me a vocation where they pay you for sleeping, and I will gladly prentice to it,” I said, standing and bowing.
“There is one,” he replied. “It’s called emperor.”
I laughed. “Very good, sir. May I have your permission to use that in the future?”
“Be my guest. Just don’t tell anyone that it came from me.”
“Of course, sir. In the meantime, could you tell me where the Mass is to be held? I might like to attend.”
“You would?” said Ruzzini in surprise. “You didn’t even know poor Bastiani.”
“Sir, I have spent the night sleeping by him,” I said. “What greater intimacy can there be? Truly, sir, it is my custom, having performed at the wake, to pay my last respects as well.”
“Very well, then. It will be at the Church of San Marco, on the other side of the Porta Ebraica.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, and started to walk out.
“Fool!” he called.
I turned. He came up to me, suddenly looking his years, and took my hand in his.
“Thank you,” he said. “It was good hearing the old songs.”
“It was an honor to sing them,” I said. He loosed his grasp, and I left the embolum.
FOUR
Mors ultima ratio (Death is the final accounting).
——LATIN SAYING
Feigning sleep for the night had left me exhausted, but I saw no opportunity to rest. I threw a cloak around my motley, then took off my cap and bells and wrapped them securely so that they would not jingle. I stuffed them inside my bag and pulled out a broad-brimmed hat which I pulled on so that my foolish aspect was somewhat concealed. Then I ducked into a nearby alley and dipped a cloth into a rainbarrel. I scrubbed hard until the makeup was off, a process that left my skin feeling raw but at least woke me up a bit. I made sure no one was looking, then changed under the cover of the cloak into normal clothing. Normal for anyone but a fool, that is. Having approximated a civilian, I then went to church, hoping that my non-Venetian garb would be shielded by the cloak.
I arrived just as Bastiani’s coffin was being carried in, the church bell tolling for the Office of the Dead. The church itself was a small one, constructed mostly of wood. That was unusual for this city, but as the Venetians were the principal importers of lumber, they took care to set aside enough for their own religious needs. I had heard that the foundation was actually from an old Jewish temple that was on the site before the Jews were shunted across the Golden Horn. There was enough to that story to cause the Venetians to maintain their cemetery outside the city walls, lest they risk sharing eternity side by side with the Jews. Even the dead bicker, I suppose.
The coffin was placed on a pair of trestles in the narthex, with Bastiani’s feet toward the altar. Feet to the East, ready to journey on to Jerusalem, according to the tradition. Of course, if it ever actually happened, he’d be bound to run into more Jews once he got there. Maybe if they could all figure out a way to get along better in life, they wouldn’t have to worry so much about getting along in death. But I didn’t expect to see that happen in my lifetime.
I spotted Tullio standing by his tripod, the coffin lid leaning against the wall. The glue pot was bubbling, sending its slightly rancid odor wafting into the sanctuary where the scent battled with the smoke from candles and incense. I kept my head bowed on the off chance that anyone might recognize me despite my plain face. I knelt and crossed myself just like I was a good churchgoer, took a candle, lit it, and added it to the collection surrounding the deceased. Then I took a seat in the rear corner so that I could observe the proceedings unobtrusively.
The silk merchants had their own burial society and sat in the front on this occasion. Viadro staggered in a bit after the others, looking somewhat the worse for wear. Ruzzini looked haggard after so little sleep, but Ranieri was awake and alert, scanning the congregation as intently as I was. I kept my face down and my hands clasped in prayer as his gaze swept over me.
The priest, a fellow of my own age but with gray streaking his tonsure and a pronounced tremor in his hands, began the service. The psalms were sung, but since this Mass was for the dead, they ended with the Requiem aeternam rather than the Gloria Patri. Eternal rest give unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. The candles around the coffin were not cooperating with this plea, burning down a little too quickly, spitting a bit as they did so. The uneven light allowed me to glimpse a woman sitting in the back row on the opposite side, dressed in mourning, a black veil covering her face. Her hands, which were all I could really see of her, were young and pale. She held a purple silk kerchief in one of them. She was squeezing it so tightly that I thought she might compress it into stone.
I did not see anyone else watching her. There were other women present, but none seemed as affected by the service.
“Deliver me, O Lord,” cried the priest in a quavery voice, “from eternal death in that awful day when the heavens and earth shall be shaken, and Thou shalt come to judge the world by fire.”
“Quaking and dread take hold upon me, when I look for the coming of the trial and the wrath to come,” responded the congregants.
“When the heavens and the earth shall be shaken,” continued the priest.
“That day is a day of wrath, of wasteness and desolation, a great day and exceeding bitter.”
“When Thou shalt come to judge the world by fire.”
“O Lord, grant them eternal rest, and let everlasting light shine upon them.”
“
Deliver me, O Lord, from eternal death in that awful day, when the heavens and the earth shall be shaken and Thou shalt come to judge the world by fire,” finished the priest.
I thought that he would go directly to the absolution, but he stood at the front of the congregation, fixing them with his gaze.
“The heavens and the earth are being shaken,” he said softly. “We are being judged. ‘Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven.’ Matthew, chapter sixteen, verses eighteen and nineteen. That rock, that unshakeable rock, was Peter, who went to Rome and was martyred. That Church, that unshakeable Church, was Rome, and the keys of the kingdom of heaven are there, nowhere else. They are not here, not in this city founded by man. This city, which immures itself within these walls. This city, which is so often shaken by the trembling of the earth itself rising in revolt against it. This city, which one may only enter through gates—are these not the very gates of hell? Christ was never here. Peter was never here. And this trembling city shall not prevail against the unshakeable rock that is Peter’s Church, that is Christ’s Church, that is Rome.”
I saw Viadro nodding furiously in agreement. Ruzzini looked apprehensive, Ranieri thoughtful. I wondered how many here knew that Rome no more wanted the Crusaders in Byzantium than Byzantium did.
The priest walked up the aisle to the coffin and walked around the deceased, sprinkling him with Holy Water. Then he took a thurible from a deacon and waved it around so that the smoke from the incense whirled past the body.
The prayers for absolution were spoken. The congregants filed passed the coffin. I joined in the line, noting as I paid my respects that a crumpled purple silk kerchief had been tucked into one of Bastiani’s hands. Then Tullio came up, dabbed the edges of the coffin with glue, and placed the lid carefully on top.
There was a cart waiting outside with a solitary mule before it. A detachment of Varangians stood a respectful distance away, their axes held at the ready in this enemy territory. My friend Henry was in charge. I didn’t know if he could recognize me without my whiteface, but I kept my hat pulled low just in case.
The coffin was placed on the cart, and the procession headed toward the gates to the city proper. It was my intention to follow the veiled woman, either to the burial or wherever she was going from here. But to my surprise, I saw Ranieri hang back, then slip away toward the embolum.
I hesitated, wondering at my course. It was strange that he wouldn’t go to the burial, and Lord knows I wanted to find out more about him after last night, but I didn’t know if I would have the opportunity to locate her again.
“Here’s a pretty puzzle,” said a voice softly in my ear. “How may a fool walk in two directions at once?”
I turned to see a young man watching the funeral procession. He was dressed in Venetian garb but seemed more of a dockhand than a merchant.
“What are you doing here?” I muttered.
“Thought I’d pay my last respects,” replied Plossus. “It’s morning. No point in gossiping with the Greeks before noon. Is that the lady you seek?”
“Possibly,” I said. “And I’m becoming interested in friend Ranieri.”
“I’ll take the lady,” said Plossus. “I told your wife I’d keep you out of trouble. A married man following a beautiful young woman is always in trouble.”
“All right,” I said. “Meet me at the Bull and Lion later.”
The clergy and the congregation began to chant the In paradisum. Plossus ambled down the steps of the church and joined the rear of the procession, singing along lustily. I glanced toward where Ranieri was walking. He turned suddenly, looking back at the church, but I was already behind a pillar. He satisfied himself that no one was following him and continued on his way. I stayed about a hundred feet behind him until he came to the embolum.
He looked around again before entering but did not spot me standing just around the corner of a nearby building. I waited until he was well in, then walked quickly to the protection of the colonnade. Checking for anyone watching me, I sidled over to the entryway and peeked inside.
I saw Ranieri’s back as he vanished into one of the storerooms at the rear of the building. I marked its location, then strolled around the building, just in case there might be a window on the other side. Of course, there wasn’t one, curse the luck. I returned to the front of the building and waited.
He emerged after a long interval, pushing an enormous crate on a dolly. He shut the door behind him and paused for a moment, catching his breath. Then he went at the crate again, bracing his shoulders securely against it, his legs straining mightily with the effort. He came to the door of another storeroom, opened it, and pushed the crate inside. He emerged a few minutes later with an unladen dolly, and repeated the process. I counted five crates moved before he finished.
When he emerged from the embolum, I was across the street, buying some rolls from a stall. He walked toward the gate to the wharf. I followed at a discreet distance, but he didn’t even bother looking behind him this time. He passed the gate to the outer part of the quarter and continued until he reached the end of the wharf. He looked across the Golden Horn for a long time, then nodded and turned around. He made his way to a tavern just off the wharf and sat down to a midday meal.
I looked where he had looked but saw nothing. Maybe nothing was what he wanted to see. Maybe all I had seen was a routine inventory transaction, so important to him that he would skip the funeral of a colleague to perform it. And maybe it was something else. I resolved to find a time to break into that storeroom.
But at the moment, I was watching a man eat and getting hungry myself. I spotted some of the other merchants returning from the funeral, going back to business. I saw no point in remaining, so I left the quarter, transformed myself back into a fool, and headed south.
The Bull and Lion was a tavern situated south of the Great Palace, not far from the Boukoleon Harbor from which it took its name. It was particularly known for an outstanding mussel stew, and it was a bowl of this that I found in front of Plossus, who had also returned to motley.
“How did you get here so quickly?” I said. “The cemetery is out on the Adrianople road. You had twice the distance to cover.”
He pointed to his stilts, which were resting on the floor behind him.
“Picked these up on the way back,” he said. “I can double my walking speed, as long as I don’t fall down.”
“And do you ever fall down?”
“Only if it will get a laugh. Have some stew.”
I joined him with a will, and we passed the time in silent appreciation of the fruits of the sea.
“Anyhow,” he continued, “I wasn’t that far away. Your mysterious lady did not attend the burial.”
“Really?”
He tore off a piece of bread and started soaking up the sauce.
“Tell me, O Elder Fool, for I am but a tender youth, why women become prostitutes.”
“Out of desperation and poverty.”
“Hmm,” he said. “She seemed neither desperate nor poor.”
“Sometimes they are gentlewomen who have fallen on hard times.”
“Well, if that’s what hard times are like, let me fall as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“She lives in a nicely appointed mansion on the Fifth Hill. Nothing ostentatious, but nothing you’d be able to purchase from what you make off the streets.”
“A courtesan, perhaps. One who entertains a select and affluent clientele.”
“Maybe,” he said doubtfully. “But it did not seem like that kind of house. Of course, I couldn’t see inside. It was set back from the street with a fearsome iron gate and a stone wall protecting it.”
“Any servants?”
“I saw none, but there must be someone. At the very least, a housekeeper. And here’s another odd thing—none of her neighbors know her name. She only emerge
s cloaked and veiled, usually at dusk. The people I gossiped with are a bit spooked by her. They think she may be a witch.”
I guffawed. “You’ve solved it, lad. He was killed by witchcraft, and she was the witch with the craft. Case closed.”
He looked pained. “It could be an explanation,” he protested.
“Then why was she so distraught at the funeral?”
“A spell or potion gone wrong?” he said hopefully. “She was trying to make him fall in love with her, and killed him by mistake.” He paused. “I don’t always sound this stupid, do I?”
“No, not most of the time,” I assured him. “But one thing I know about witches. The ones who are not outright frauds are women without magic but with a vast knowledge of herblore. Which would include poisons. We’ll have to find out more about her. If nothing else, I want to know what she knows about Bastiani.”
“We’ll add it to the list of things we have no time for,” grumbled Plossus.
“You’d be surprised how much spare time one has during a siege,” I said. “Lord knows no one will be wanting us for entertainment. I hope you’ve been saving your money.”
“I paid my landlady for another month,” he replied. “She was surprised that I was planning to stick around that long. A lot of people are already fleeing the city.”
“The more fool they,” I said. “It’s safer here.”
That’s the sort of completely misguided assertion that I come up with every now and then. Events were to prove me wrong. Sometimes, I really hate events.
We went our separate ways after lunch. Plossus was off to the neighborhood by the Hippodrome to sound out the factions. I decided, since I was in the neighborhood, to drop by the Senate and see if I could get a word with my friend, Niketas Choniates.
Choniates was a senator as well as being Logothete, which made him one of the highest functionaries in the bureaucracy. The Senate, of course, was a completely spurious institution, consisting of a self-important body of wealthy men with no real power. Every time there was an uprising against an emperor, the Senate would back the man in charge until the emperor had him executed, at which point they would hail the emperor and thank God for his miraculous escape and beneficent leadership. The real power and money in this city stayed with the denizens of Blachernae, their relatives and their favorites. But the Senate maintained the trappings of government.
