Seven for a Secret (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A crowd under the colonnade almost within sight of Opilio’s shop brought John to a halt. He paused and waited for the pavement to stop tilting under his boots before attempting to plunge ahead through the closely packed bodies.

By the time his dizziness passed, Peter had managed to catch up again, not that the old servant would ever admit to finding it difficult to keep pace with John’s loping stride. “Are you feeling unwell, master?” he panted.

John reassured him.

Cornelia had been furious when John insisted he interview Opilio immediately. He’d practically been killed and hardly had he opened his eyes when he was off to let the ruffians finish the job, she declared, although at great length and much more colorfully. She had been only slightly mollified by the prospect of Peter going along to keep an eye on things since if fisticuffs developed he would be there to summon help.

It was as well Peter had not heard her comment, as he would have been mortally offended.

“Master,” Peter was saying, “it must be providence that brought us this way just now. Here is exactly what you need. One of Zachariah’s melons.”

John looked in the direction Peter indicated, toward the front of the crowd. He realized he had been so intent on simply forcing himself along that he had hardly taken note of his surroundings. That was dangerous in Constantinople, but how else could he have missed seeing the man who was lying on his back on the ground, juggling melons with his bare feet?

A young woman sold melons from a crate nearby. She caught sight of the Lord Chamberlain, whose height made him visible above most of the onlookers and whose expensive garments distinguished him from the others.

“Are you in need of a cure, excellency? Who among us does not have something that needs attention?” she asked. “And who is to say that these melons are not as miraculous as the ones which healed Zachariah?”

John glanced at the prone juggler, who was keeping three melons aloft. His legs worked frantically. The fist-sized melons barely touched the man’s filthy soles before they were sent back into the air.

“The ones Zachariah juggles cost more,” the woman remarked. “They are even more efficacious.”

“I would like to buy you a melon, master,” said Peter in an eager tone. “I’ve bought them before now, on my way to or from the market. They are always refreshing, and I hear their curative powers are undeniable.”

“Certainly you’ve always had strength to return home from the market, however heavily laden,” John replied. “I will buy one for each of us, but not the sort that has been juggled, if you don’t mind. I shouldn’t have made you rush out to accompany me.”

John moved through the knot of spectators and completed the transaction with the melon seller.

“Look, all of you,” she said loudly. “If our wares are good enough for this fine gentleman from the palace, why should you hesitate to buy them?”

The woman and the juggler looked well dressed for street performers. John imagined the juggler must be young also, though he had not managed a good look at his face, his muscular legs being more visibly presented.

John moved away.

“Do you want to wait for Zachariah’s homily, master?” Peter asked.

“I think not. There is some urgency in talking to Opilio.” John took his blade from his belt, cut a melon in half and handed it to Peter, then sliced his own. It was sweet. Whether it possessed miraculous powers was not immediately evident. “Why does anyone suppose these melons have special virtues?”

“Because they cured Zachariah,” Peter replied. “Or at least ones like them did.”

“From what affliction did he suffer?”

“He was born without the use of his legs. He grew up a helpless beggar, sitting in doorways. It’s true, for I passed by him many times, before the miracle.”

John inquired if the miracle had involved a melon.

Peter wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “It was a whole cart load of melons, master. It was early in the morning but Zachariah had already taken up a spot at the edge of the market where he had been eking out his living for some months. The place was filled with merchants and farmers. Many had come to know the poor crippled man who was not blessed as they were with the ability to labor long hours for his sustenance. A rickety old cart, too heavily laden no doubt, hit a rut as it passed where he lay against the wall. The axle snapped, the cart tipped, and an avalanche of melons came rushing directly at Zachariah.”

John hefted the remains of the melon he had been eating. “I would hardly think even a cart load of these would pose much danger.” He tossed the rind into the gutter.

Peter frowned. “But master, imagine the shock of seeing them all rolling at you if you were unable to escape. But that is when the miracle occurred. Without even thinking about it, Zachariah leapt up and raced to safety. He’d been healed. It’s true! There were many in the market who witnessed his cure.”

“I see.” John recalled the story the mosaic maker Figulus had related concerning the spilled tesserae. “The streets of the city must be filled with miracles for those who can see them. I would never have thought produce a convenient means of divine intervention.”

“The hand of the Lord is everywhere,” Peter replied. “You have perhaps heard about the glass manna?”

John indicated he had not.

“An amazing tale, master!” Peter beamed. “A starving beggar, searching near the palace walls for scraps to eat, came upon baskets full of the finest banquet fare. There was fish and bread and fruits in endless variety, or so he thought. Ah, but on closer inspection he discovered this food was like none he had ever seen before. It was made entirely of glass. The man immediately fell to his knees and gave thanks.”

It must have been the fruit Michri had mentioned, John thought. He didn’t tell Peter it had been Theodora, and not the Lord, who was responsible for its appearance outside the palace. “And why did a starving man give thanks for baskets of glass food? Perhaps he was thankful he hadn’t bitten into it before he noticed what it was?”

“But this food was beautifully made and highly unusual! He sold it off piece by piece to dealers in such things, and so the glass food filled his belly for far longer than the same amount of real food would have.”

Peter might well have had many more miracles to relate, but they had arrived at Opilio’s shop and John left the old servant to stand guard beneath the wooden sausage.

***

Opilio was rearranging baskets of links that sat on the floor in front of the counter.

“You lied to me again.” John said without preamble.

Opilio raised his balding head in alarm. “Lord Chamberlain! How good to see you once more!” His expression gave lie to the words.

“I seem to be meeting with you more often than with Justinian, Opilio. Unfortunately, it is because you persist in refusing to tell me the truth.”

The stout sausage maker straightened up with a grunt. “I can’t imagine what you mean, excellency.”

“You said you hadn’t seen Agnes for a long time after you banished her from your house. In fact, you saw your niece less than a month ago.”

Opilio gaped at John. “But how…”

“Because less than a month ago you made a delivery to a courtier named Francio.”

“Yes. I’m helping to provision a large banquet.”

“While you were in his kitchen you overheard a piece of gossip. It concerned a certain chamberlain.”

Opilio rubbed the bristles on his chin. “Something about a chamberlain…a Lord Chamberlain…” His face sagged into a look of horror. “Not about you, excellency? You aren’t the Lord Chamberlain who…who…?”

“Who what, Opilio? Who talks to the wall? This is the third time I’ve spoken to you. Your refusal to be truthful suggests I’m now talking to the wall in this shop. I will have some answers now.”

“Please, we should speak in private.” Opilio gestured toward the archway behind the counter.

The room beyond smelled of herbs and spices, of savory, rue, and coriander. Bundled leaves and lengths of stalks hung from its ceiling and walls. It was a short time before John became aware of another underlying odor—a repulsive stench which came from stained and scarred wooden tables laid out with an array of sharp-edged devices such as might be seen in a surgery or a torturer’s chamber, the skinned carcasses dangling from hooks, the iron pans brimming with offal. The work room opened on to a courtyard which contained fire pits and crude smoking sheds made of planks. A pair of plump pigs lay in a small pen.

The large gold painted cross nailed to the back wall of the courtyard struck John as incongruous. If sheep and goats and pigs envisioned an afterlife they must believe themselves destined for a heaven quite different from this sausage manufactory.

He wasn’t surprised that Agnes, having grown up on the palace grounds in the house John now occupied, had not wanted to work in such a place.

A boy was sloshing lengths of entrails in a tub of water, cleaning out their contents, the very job Opilio had complained about his niece refusing. The sausage maker ordered the lad to mind the shop.

“You can see, Lord Chamberlain, that the birth of my delicious sausage is no more beautiful than any other birth.” He waved flies away from his face. “As to that absurd and disrespectful verse. Such gossip does not bear repeating.”

“You have repeated it, Opilio, and in front of Agnes. It is the only way she could have learned about the mosaic and whenever you saw her, it could not have been long ago.”

Opilio paled. “She hasn’t been spreading that tale around, has she?”

“Then you admit she got that verse from you?”

“I…er…well, I meant it as a lesson, excellency. An illustration of the depravity of the sort of people with whom she insists on associating. If our glorious emperor should discover such disrespect…” He clapped his hands together. When he opened them a enormous green fly dropped lifelessly to the floor. “That will be the end of you, just like that, I told her. But the foolish girl will never listen.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard worse. How often do you see Agnes?”

Defeated, Opilio shrugged. “Not often. She comes and goes. When she has nowhere else to stay, she turns up here. She is my niece, after all, the daughter of Comita. If Agnes had been our daughter, rather than my brother’s, she would have grown up differently.”

John could understand why the sausage maker had not been able to disown his niece entirely.

“Opilio, I regret having to tell you. Agnes is dead.”

Opilio looked at John mutely. The buzzing of flies sounded louder.

The sausage maker shook his head. He slumped down on the stool where the boy had been sitting to clean casings.

“She was found a little more than a week ago,” John went on. “I have been looking into the matter.”

“Looking into…but why…what happened? Was it an accident?”

“It appears she was murdered.”

Opilio made the sign of the Christians. “I warned her many times, excellency. Thank the Lord her mother was spared hearing this. Perhaps they are reunited. Heaven is merciful, even to actresses. More merciful than I was.” He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“You were correct to warn her against the life she took up and the associations she made.”

“Was it to do with those foolish plots her friends were always chattering on about?” Opilio’s tone was suddenly fierce. “If it was, I’ll make sure—”

“Justice is for the emperor to dispense but you may be able to help its administration. You said you did not recall the names of any of Agnes’ acquaintances, but then again you didn’t remember talk of intrigues the first time we spoke. It may be that a name or two has come back to you. Troilus, perhaps? He was a close friend of your niece.”

“Yes. Yes, I admit it. I saw that villain on occasion. He would come here looking for Agnes.” Opilio’s forehead wrinkled and he leapt off the stool. “Is he the one responsible?”

“There may be some connection between him and her murderer. Why do you call him a villain?”

“He was a malcontent, excellency. Every cloud that passed over the sun was directed by the hand of the emperor. Every cold wind that blew came from the direction of the palace. If his evening meal was not cooked enough…well…it would have been perfection if it weren’t for the demon emperor.”

Apparently Opilio’s grief had unlocked his tongue and he was now talking without thought of the possible consequences.

“There was reason for his grievances?”

“Troilus was not a courtier. I know nothing of his family, but then why would I? Sedition’s good business to him. Many of his customers are former courtiers so he adopts their viewpoint, or pretends to at least. People prefer to deal with one of their own, someone who thinks like them.”

“People like Menander? Do you know him?”

“Yes, that’s another name I had tried to put out of my mind, but I remember him now. Whenever Agnes would start chattering about whatever disreputable function she’d been so thrilled to attend, his name would come up. He’s the worst of the lot. To him treasonous talk is entertainment. That and boys. Rather than cursing the emperor he should be thanking the Lord for his good fortune. I hear it was Menander who set Troilus up in business and even now he supplies half of his stock. No doubt he receives part of the sales price.”

“You told me before you did not think any of these plots were likely to result in action.”

“It’s nothing but idle talk. That’s why I dismissed it all from my memory. There’s no harm in words which are only whispered to those who already share one’s prejudices. Besides, even people who hate Justinian love sausage. And a healthy business enriches the coffers of the empire, does it not?”

“There aren’t many men who would maintain such a strong allegiance to an emperor who had deprived their brother of his head.”

“Perhaps Glykos deserved his fate.”

A stray breeze carried a gust of fragrant smoke from the sheds in the courtyard into the workroom, rustling the bundles of dried herbs. John wondered if Justinian had taken the revenge on the sausage maker’s brother that the Christian and patriotic Opilio had harbored in his own heart.