‘Everyone in the court will be on the Meidan, sir, and I must go or I will be at the back of the crowd and see nothing of the acrobats.’
I let her go, and dismounted from my tired horse. Philip did the same, and took my reins from me.
‘If we look for the sign of the Lion of St Mark, master, we will be sure to find accommodation. The Venetians are acquisitive but generous with their hospitality.’
I agreed and followed wearily beside the horses, as Philip led them down towards the harbour.
It took longer than I had expected to meet George Theokrastos. The Emperor’s court was a strange mixture of strict formality and indolence. And its officials were hidden behind a screen of bureaucracy. Written requests had to be made for any meeting, and these documents languished in stacks of similar entreaties, only to be dealt with in the mornings. Afternoons were a time of torpor. I made use of my frequent spare time by walking around the city in the company of Brother Philip. We were fortunate to witness a procession one day as the court made its way from the Citadel to the monastery of St Sophia beyond the western ravine. Philip called out excitedly as servants with golden axes, eunuchs in white robes, and Imperial Guards in shiny breastplates passed before us. We were forced back against the walls of the houses as princes in cloth of gold and black-clad Orthodox priests swinging gilded censers moved slowly by. The air was heavy with incense and excitement.
‘Look,’ cried out Philip over the buzz of the crowd. ‘There’s the Emperor carrying a crozier, and wearing a dalmatic with a design of eagles woven in purple and gold thread.’
It was the first time we had come across the Emperor, and I drank in the atmosphere.
The following day, I finally had my audience with George Theokrastos, the keeper of the Emperor’s books. I submitted my letter of introduction from Sauma, the Nestorian Christian in the East, and was pleasantly surprised that Theokrastos had heard of him. The letter oiled the ponderous wheels of the Trapezuntine bureaucracy, and Philip and I were soon immersed in Greek and Roman texts that had been rescued from the sack of Constantinople by Flemish soldiers of the Fourth Crusade. We had been allowed into the inner city, the second tier of Trebizond as it were, with only the impregnable Citadel still towering over our heads. But even the library was a palace, with white marble, ivory and gold everywhere. We soon settled into a routine, with Theokrastos bringing us examples from the Emperor’s collection like titbits for a valued guest. Philip took each tome in his hand and read while I listened and absorbed the text.
He began with the Ecclesiastical History of Salamanes Hermeias Sozomen, which was dedicated to the emperor Theodosius the Younger. It began with the consulship of Crispus and his father, Constantine, and went down to the reign of Theodosius. Sozomen was at one time an advocate in Constantinople, and I thought his style better than that of Socrates. The work was nine books long, and took as many days to read. Philip was coming to the end of the final book, when I heard a commotion in the antechamber to the library. Someone was complaining loudly to George Theokrastos about the foreign merchants in Trebizond. I asked Philip to venture closer to the doorway, and see who was causing the disturbance. After a short while, when the raised voices had quietened down, he came back and told me what he had observed.
‘It is a portly gentleman dressed in the finest of robes, all encrusted with jewels, who looks as if he is a person of great importance at the Emperor’s court. His face is quite red, and he is practically foaming at the mouth. He was showing the librarian some parchment he had in his hand, and complaining bitterly about its contents.’
My curiosity was piqued.
‘Could you make out what it said?’
‘No,’ Philip replied. ‘But the fat man thought it outrageous, whatever it said. He said something had to be done about it, and stormed off.’
I smiled at the idea of investigating the matter. Reading books was getting boring, and I always did like a mystery. I resembled my father in that, for he had solved many seemingly impossible murders in his time. Of course this was not a murder, but I thought I could use it to ingratiate myself into the court. Just as I was wondering how to begin, Theokrastos came scurrying into the reading room. His leather-clad feet made a distinctive sound on the marble floor – small steps heralding his fussy efforts at interesting me in another tome. This time they were swifter than ever, and made me think he was agitated by the recent intruder. He did still come bearing a book, however. His tone of voice was tense, even as he attempted to sound unaffected.
‘This may afford you some light relief after Sozomen, Master Falconer. It is called the Adventures of Clitophon and Leucippe, written by a Greek named Achilles Tatius.’
In any other circumstances, I would have thought Theokrastos was seeking to make fun of young Philip’s monkish temperament. I knew of this work, and heard it described as a dramatic work with unseemly love episodes, the impurity of sentiment of which are prejudicial to seriousness. I would have liked to hear it, but I didn’t think Philip could bear to read it without his ears going red. I was just about to suggest that Theokrastos read it to me himself, when I heard him clicking his tongue.
‘Forgive me, sir. I am not thinking clearly. Such a work will not be appropriate for young ears to hear.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I have been distracted, and my judgement has been impaired.’
I took the opportunity afforded by the librarian’s admission.
‘I heard the commotion outside. Tell me, is there anything I can do?’
During our short acquaintance, I had told Theokrastos of my interest in recondite matters, so I did not have to convince him I was responding merely out of politeness. His reply was hesitant, as though he was reluctant to reveal a matter that might reflect badly on the Emperor and his retinue.
‘Perhaps it is only a trifling affair that would be beneath your consideration.’
I pressed the matter with him. ‘I would still like to help, if I can.’
He paused only momentarily, then began to explain. ‘The man you heard shouting is Johannes Panaretos. He is responsible for allocating trading licences to foreign merchants, and so holds a very important position in the Emperor’s court. Just recently, he has been pressed by the Genoans for greater concessions, and the Emperor has refused. Before you arrived here, Lord Alexios wished them to pay dues on goods they threatened to take away, if they pulled out of dealing with us entirely. The Genoans naturally refused and there was a small skirmish, with the Emperor calling on Georgian mercenaries to attack the Genoan warehouses. The Genoans retaliated and some house down by the harbour were set on fire. Now, Panaretos has received a threat.’
Theokrastos paused in his narrative, and I could tell he was unsure if he was saying too much. I nudged his natural loquaciousness.
‘A threat?’
Theokrastos licked his lips.
‘Yes. He has just showed me a scrap of parchment on which was written the words – “Death awaits he who hesitates.”’
I felt a frisson of excitement run up the back of my neck. Perhaps murder was lurking on the sidelines after all.
It took a day or two for Theokrastos to arrange a meeting for me with the recipient of the death threat. Apparently, Panaretos had laughed crudely at the thought of a blind man resolving the issue of the author of the note. But the librarian had convinced him to at least speak with me. When I did so, I believe that I convinced him that, being blind from birth, I had tuned my other senses to such a degree that they more than compensated for the lack of sight.
‘In fact,’ I said to him, ‘I believe the Chinese surgeon who plucked me from my mother’s womb in terrible circumstances, not only saved my life, but gave me a unique opportunity to do good in the world.’
I don’t think it was such platitudes that swayed his decision, but the fact that I could track him enough to appear to be always looking at him. I have been told my pale, blue-green eyes are quite riveting, and nothing can be more disconcerting than a blind man ‘looking’ at one. In
truth, he was easy to follow using just my ears, for he was a fat man whose every movement was accompanied by wheezes and grunts. Even when he thought he was testing me by remaining silent, the whisper of his slippers on the marble floors of his abode was enough for me to locate him.
In the end, Philip and I were invited to a lavish dinner, where there would be present representatives of the major trading partners of the Empire of Trebizond. I was to share the meal with a Florentine, a Genoan, and a Venetian. It would be an interesting evening, especially as Panaretos suspected one of the men to be the author of the message. Which one it would turn out to be was why I was there. But first, I asked to be sent the offending message, so that I could examine it. It arrived on the morning of the fateful meal.
I took it in my hands and felt the quality and nature of the parchment. I immediately realised it was a piece of a bigger sheet, as one edge was crudely cut. It was also of medium quality, and not of the finest vellum. Probably of goatskin as that was the most easily available local material. The roughness of its surface felt to me as if it was a palimpsest – that is, a parchment sheet that had been used before and scoured of its original writing. If so, it might therefore be possible to discern the writing that has been obscured, and discover something from that. That would be a task for Philip, and I passed the parchment on to him.
‘Please read what you can see, Philip.’
‘Yes, sir. It says, “Death is waiting for him who hesitates.” Just as the librarian said.’
I waited, expecting more from him, but nothing came. I had hoped I had trained him better than that, so I had to prompt him.
‘And in what language is it written?’
Philip mumbled an anxious apology, and I could almost imagine his ears turning red as I had been told they did when he was embarrassed.
‘I am sorry, sir. It is written in Greek.’
‘And in what style of Greek, if you please?’
He paused, and I heard him puff out his cheeks.
‘Grammatically, it is correct, but I would say by the hand that it was written by someone whose natural language it wasn’t.’
So, it could have been scribed by someone from an Italian city-state – either Florence, Genoa, or Venice. I smiled.
‘I was once told of a Florentine, a Genoan and a Venetian who were each left five hundred ducats by a rich man on condition that after his death they would each put twenty ducats into his coffin in case he needed it in the afterlife. The Florentine and the Venetian duly put in their twenty ducats, and quietly left the room. The Genoan walked over to the coffin, reached in and took out the forty ducats and put in a promissory note for sixty ducats.’
I heard Philip gasp.
‘How appalling. I hope he did not get away with such a sacrilegious act.’
I sighed, but refrained from telling the young monk it had been a joke. Though there was a serious intent to my jest. Genoans were renowned for their double-dealing and meanness. Perhaps the one I was to meet had been crass enough to engender fear in Panaretos, when subtlety was a better course. Neither the Venetian nor the Florentine would have surely tried such tactics. But I was keeping an open mind as Philip guided me up the slope that led from the lower city through the gate into the upper city, and past the Panagia Khrysokephalos Church. Panaretos lived as close to the Emperor’s citadel as a member not of the royal family may without actually being inside the royal walls. Even so, the end of the street afforded a glimpse of the palace. Philip described what he saw for me with awe in his voice.
‘I can see white marble pillars, and a courtyard set with orange and lemon trees, and oleander. There is a fountain in the centre of the courtyard and big, bronze double doors beyond.’
I could sense him turning to face me.
‘If it is so grand just on the approach to the palace, how grand must it be beyond the doors?’
I, who had experienced the fabled luxury of the Great Mongol Khan’s summer residence called Xanadu, could imagine how ornate it might be through those doors. But it was impossible to describe to an austere fellow like Philip, a monk from northern Greece, who had literally sat on a pinnacle of rock in the Meteora region before travelling east on a mission to convert idolaters, and then becoming my companion. Now, I nudged his arm and reminded him of our goal.
‘The delights of Johannes Panaretos’ residence will be enough grandeur for your eyes this evening. And you need to keep them wide open for me.’
I knew he lacked the subtleness I needed to interpret every sign that may come our way today, but what he lacked in perceptiveness he made up for with a remarkably retentive mind. What he couldn’t whisper in my ear during the evening, I could worm out of him later in the seclusion of our lodgings. It was then he would tell me what the three traders looked like. Apparently, the Florentine, whose name was Giacomo Belzoni, was small, dark-complexioned and compact, with neat and fastidious manners. The Venetian, by contrast, was a tall bear of a man with fair hair, given to sprawling in his chair. His name was Alessandro Ricci. Finally, there was the Genoan, who I suspected the most of the three. Giovanni Finati was stockily built, and probably at home in a ship with his bandy legs and rolling gait. I was to identify them to myself during the evening by their speech, which did seem to fit the word pictures Philip drew of them for me later.
All three were already in Panaretos’ house when I arrived, and the wily Trapezuntine forbore from mentioning my blindness. I think he thought it a jest to see which of the Italians would guess it first, and which would be so discourteous as to mention it. No one did. But then I was adept at disguising my deficiency, which I hardly saw as one after so much time. I probably seemed to them just a sybaritic Englishman relying on his servant to cut up his food and present it to him.
The food, by the way, was excellent. The first course was a compote of hare, stuffed chicken and a loin of veal, all covered in a sauce with pomegranate seeds. This was followed with various pies stuffed full of goslings, capons and pigeons. The pastry case was not as the English served – quite hard and inedible, they are called ‘coffins’ – but soft and crumbly. It was a delight, therefore, to eat the case as well as the contents. The third course was a sturgeon cooked in parsley and vinegar, which was a joy after such a preponderance of meat. Though I and his other guests were flagging, Panaretos showed no signs of slowing down, and continued to stuff his fat face with all the food that was presented at the table. I could hear his jaws chomping on the delicacies. But, besides the conversation that accompanied the banquet, I was intrigued by the presence of another person flitting in and out of the room as the courses progressed.
Each time a new course arrived, the undoubtedly tempting aromas were accompanied by something more subtle and human. A scent of patchouli oil wafted into the room at the same time that I could hear the slippered feet of someone much lighter than our host drifting round the room. At the arrival of the sturgeon, this person, who had to be a woman – unless it was a young eunuch or made-up boy – passed quite close to me and I heard the rustle of silk. I could bear it no longer, knowing that I could not see what the others did naturally. I interrupted the Venetian, who was talking about the alum mines at Kerasous, and invited Panaretos to introduce the mysterious beauty. It was a calculated risk on my part, for it could have been a catamite, but I didn’t think so.
‘Are you not going to introduce us to your wife, Panaretos? She looks so beautiful and modest, serving us in silence.’
The fat Trapezuntine grunted in surprise, knowing as he did my affliction, but did as I requested.
‘This is Baia Bzhedug, and she is my Circassian beauty.’
The tone of his voice suggested to me that his wife was more a piece of property than a companion. I sensed that Baia was bowing to me as I heard the rustle of her silk robe, but I held my hand out anyway. After a moment’s hesitation, I felt the warmth of her delicate and slender hand in mine. I raised it to my lips. The Genoan, Finati, called out his approval of my gesture.
‘Bravo, Englishman. You are not such a cold fish as some of your compatriots. During all our trade negotiations, Panaretos never once gave away the fact he had a beauty for a wife.’
I felt the woman’s hand tense in mine, and allowed it to slip free. The scent of patchouli oil drifted from the room. Meanwhile, puffed up with pride, Panaretos began to expand on his wife’s family history. I could hear his fat lips drooling as he munched on the sturgeon and spoke at the same time. I could almost feel the spit spraying from his gluttonous mouth.
‘She is from Sochi, and claims to be a princess. Though in this house, she is my cook and housemaid. Many of the Circassians are no better than idolaters, and have no standing in Trebizond. Still, she is passing pretty, as you say.’
As if to emphasise his point, he chose to call out at that moment, ‘Wife, where are the subtleties, the jellies?’
In response, Baia announced her return with the slapping of her delicate, slippered feet on the marble floor, and her aroma of patchouli. With her, she brought jellies, and cream covered in fennel seeds and sugar. I could smell the overwhelming sweetness of the dishes, but refrained from sampling them as I was already full to bursting. Panaretos and the others – including Philip – had no such restraint, and Baia’s reward for all her efforts was the sound of the slurping lips of her husband and his other guests.
‘Which one do you favour for the death threat, Philip?’
My young companion coughed nervously, and hesitated. It was the day after the banquet, and I wanted to review my impressions of the three traders. I didn’t really expect much from Philip, but it was useful for my own thoughts to talk them over with him. If I got bored, I could always ask him to read the opening of the Adventures of Clitophon and Leucippe. I would enjoy his embarrassment at least. I was therefore pleasantly surprised when he began an accurate analysis of each man’s motives.
The Deadliest Sin Page 13
