Jester Leaps In: A Medieval Mystery (13 page)

“Glad to be useful,” she said. Then her face fell. “You’re letting me do it because I’m shorter than you, aren’t you?”

“And for your training, sweetness. In particular, I want you to check one place that an outsider may have missed. The dwarves maintained an escape tunnel in the lower level. There’s probably a trapdoor somewhere. I expect that’s where they kept anything they didn’t want found. Wait until I draw a crowd, then go to work.”

“Yes, milord,” she muttered, and drifted off.

I worked the square for a good hour or so, thinking that would be enough time for her to accomplish the task. I paid particular attention to the guards passing through, calling to them and abusing them mildly to bring them over and get them involved—anything to keep their attention away from that tiny palace opposite.

I was in good form, and even attempted a few tumbles with success. The leg had definitely come a long way since we left Orsino. But as the hours passed, there was no sign of Viola. I
was running out of my street material, and was improvising off the crowd and worried that I was going to have to bring in some lengthy ballads when I saw her staggering back across the square. She was white as a ghost. I finished quickly, plucking from the air the silver thrown to me. Then I collected my gear.

Viola looked ready to faint. I took her by the arm and steered her into a nearby tavern. It took a large cup of wine to pull her back. I had one myself as a precaution, just in case what she had was contagious.

“I found something,” she said finally.

I waited. She reached into her pouch, pulled out three things, and placed them on the table in front of me: a knife, dried blood still visible on it, and a pair of studded leather collars that might have fit a brace of large dogs or small men.

“They never left the house,” she said. “They were in the tunnel.”

I insert these events into my history to show my readers how unreasonable a thing wickedness is and how difficult it is to guard against it
.

O CITY OF BYZANTIUM, ANNALS OF NIKETAS CHONIATES
, P
. 63

T
he place had been ransacked,” Viola said. “Everything had been turned over. The cushions were slit and the stuffing pulled out. The pallets had been cut to pieces, and every item of clothing had been ripped to shreds.

“I went through it all, just in case they had missed something. I looked in places that a small hand might use and a large one miss. There was nothing. Finally, I found the trapdoor to the tunnel.”

She took a long sip of wine and refilled her cup.

“I’ve seen dead people before. But they’ve always just died, and they’re laid out properly and dressed nicely. And since I’ve met you, I’ve seen my share of those who died by violence. But to see these two—they had been hacked apart. It was savagery, what was done. Someone must have kept at them long after they were dead, and then thrown them down there where the vermin could get at them. I cannot get the sight out of my mind.”

“You will,” I assured her, placing my hand on hers for a moment. “It will fade in time.”

She gripped my hand hard.

“I still looked,” she insisted. “Do you understand? I went down there, and I searched them, and crawled over them to search the rest of the tunnel. I found nothing, Feste.”

“Then there was nothing to be found. I’m sorry you had to experience this.”

“Why did they leave them there?”

“Maybe they couldn’t leave the building safely with the bodies. Or maybe they left them as a message.”

“A message for us?”

“For whoever came looking for them.”

“Does that mean they know about the Guild?”

“Maybe. You’ve probably noticed I’ve been trying to come across as a rogue fool rather than a Guildman. It might buy us a little confusion when the time comes.”

“You didn’t send me down there knowing they’d be there, did you? As another test?”

I shook my head adamantly. “Guild training is not that cruel. Nor am I.”

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

I paid the tapster, and we walked home. Viola was unsteady at first, but regained her footing slowly but surely.

We spent the remainder of the day rehearsing. Two important performances were coming up: before the Varangian Guards at their weekly bath on the morrow, and at the Hippodrome the day after. I had had an idea for a routine that would be relevant to the locals, and purchased a small pile of red bricks, a few scraps of wood, and a cart to transport them.

“Are you planning to build your own garrison?” asked Claudius. “Must I lay siege to you to regain your affections?”

“Milady, I would capitulate without battle. Let me show you some tricks with bricks.”

That Saturday was the hottest day we had had so far. Dogs slunk into what little shadow they could find, too parched and dispirited to even bother licking themselves. I gave my face a good, long scrub and made sure it was absolutely dry before applying my whiteface. Flour has a nasty tendency to cake up on a sweaty face.

Simon hailed us from outside the Rooster’s entrance. He was hitching up a donkey to a wagon.

“We travel to the same place,” he called. “Help me load my wagon, and I’ll give you a ride there.”

Four oaken casks stood ready to be taken to their execution. We lifted them together, Claudius straining mightily. She hopped in back, and I sat up front with our host.

“What good is that little fellow as a servant?” he muttered to me as he flicked a whip at the beast.

“Not much, but he’s learning the act,” I said. “He’s actually quite talented.”

Simon glanced back at her.

“Look, what goes on between the two of you is your business,” he said quietly. “Just try not to be too open about it in public. The weight of hypocrisy can crush you in this city.”

“Point taken,” I said. “Are you just transporting wine, or will you be dispensing it as well?”

“I am the official tapster to the Varangian Guard,” he said proudly. “Old Crusaders stick together. That’s why so many of them come my way.”

“That, plus the whorehouse down the alley,” I commented.

“Fortunately, they don’t serve drink there,” he said, grinning. “A man can build up a powerful thirst anticipating the act of love.”

“And a need to celebrate it afterward. You have an ideal location. One of Father Esaias’s innovations?”

The smile vanished. “I’d rather not discuss him,” he said.

I changed the topic hurriedly, and we gossiped the rest of the way there. The donkey began panting as it took the slow rise to the Akropolis, so the three of us jumped down and walked alongside it. It was in this manner that we made our entrance into the Great Palace complex.

There was no single great palace in the Great Palace complex. It was, instead, a series of buildings, each more magnificent than the last, the product of several mad or overweening emperors competing with their ancestors or pleasing their mistresses. All of this perched on a vast terrace overlooking the Bosporos. The Hagia Sophia loomed to our left, its vast dome reaching so close to Heaven that a man would be tempted to try to jump directly there. Claudius gaped at it, as all do upon seeing it up close for the first time.

“What holds it up?” she wondered.

“The hand of God,” I said. “We’ll visit it some other time.”

One used to enter the Great Palace through an ancient pair of bronze gates, but Isaakios, in the full flush of his newly acquired divinity, embarked upon a series of misguided building projects. “Renovations,” he called them, but he ransacked the grand old buildings of this area and carted the materials all over the empire, mostly building churches honoring Saint Michael. Three laborers were crushed to death when they took down the entrance gates to transport them to the church in Anaplous. I suppose that they appreciated their martyrdom to holy construction, but they didn’t even rate an inscription on the building.

The baths were near the Arsenal, which was situated close to where the Mangana Palace used to be. The palace was another
victim of Isaakios, despite its dedication to Saint George. In truth, Saint George was never of much use around these parts. If he ever went toe to toe with Saint Michael, I’d put my money on the commander.

The baths were new, made of mismatched marble blocks pirated from the razed structures. They were a gift to the Varangians from Isaakios in gratitude for the inaction of the guard when he deposed Andronikos. One might even call the baths a bribe if one were the sort of person to say that sort of thing. Which of course, I am.

Henry, the English captain, was waiting outside with three of his men. He saluted us, adding a special bow to the wine. Then each of them picked up a single cask like he was swinging a toddler into the air and carried it inside, Simon following.

“Fine muscles,” commented Claudius.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Soon you’ll be seeing them in all their glory. By the way, Simon suspects us.”

“He does?”

“He thinks we’re lovers.”

“He knows I’m a woman?”

“Not in the least. He just thinks we’re lovers, and cautioned us accordingly.”

“Then I can stare all I want once we get inside, and still be in character,” she said, chuckling softly.

“But you’re still coming home with me.”

“Probably.”

The legendary baths of Zeuxippos supposedly had a slew of bronze and marble statues intended to inspire noble and artistic instincts. The Varangian baths were also surrounded by statues, but their intended purpose was to inspire soldiers. They were divided between the martial and the lascivious, with an emphasis
on the latter. Aphrodite, Helen, Circe, Cleopatra, and many other unlikely idealizations of the female form beckoned across the waters to the scarred veterans who fought for their favors.

These waters poured from pipes in the walls, carried from the Aqueduct of Valens by lesser aqueducts, heated on the way by passing over braziers maintained throughout the day by teams of slaves. The main bath was big enough for several hundred men. There was a platform in the middle with a small bridge leading to it.

“That’s where you’ll be performing,” said Henry, pointing to the platform, “after the musicians are done. The fellows all speak Greek, but if you could throw in something in English or Danish, it would be appreciated.”

“I can do both.”

The musicians were all women, a comely quartet that could have given some of the statues a run for their money. They were not wearing much, and the not much was made of transparent silk that left little to the imagination. But soldiers aren’t known for possessing much imagination, so that was probably just as well. The ladies trotted across the bridge and set up on the platform. Then, when they had their instruments ready, they wrapped blindfolds around their eyes. Thus was modesty preserved.

“They’re really quite good,” observed Henry as they began to perform. “And they play well, too.”

“They put the Muse back in music,” I said.

A fanfare signaled the opening of the main doors, and a brigade of Varangians marched in, fully armored. They formed ranks at the side of the baths, axes gleaming in the torchlight. Then, on a command from Henry, they stripped in a matter of seconds, their gear placed beside them in identically formed heaps. They continued to stand at attention.

I glanced at Claudius, who had discovered something fascinating about a hangnail on her left hand and was busy examining it.

“Long live the Emperor, Alexios Comnenos!” shouted Henry.

“Long live Alexios, our lord and charge!” they shouted in unison.

“Company, bathe!” ordered Henry, and with a whoop and a splash they dove in.

Suddenly, a company of soldiers became a pack of little boys, racing and wrestling and splashing the musicians. The sopping wet silks clung to the women and virtually disappeared, prompting ribald hoots from the men. The women played on gamely, managing to keep time despite the occasional deluge. The water wasn’t doing the harp strings much good, but the men didn’t seem to mind the sogginess of the sound.

“Remember, lads, some actual washing should occur,” called Henry as he joined them. Now that he was bare, we could see that he had more scars than any of them.

Simon was set up in a corner, serving cups of wine at such a pace that I was worried that four casks would be inadequate. I was especially worried that there would not be any left for me after my performance. The tapster was in his element, chatting with one soldier after another, greeting most by name.

After some time, Henry motioned to us to begin our performance. I walked to the center of the platform.

“Hail, noble Varangians!” I cried. “In honor of your esteemed traditions, I have come to recite a heroic saga that dates to the beginnings of the guard. It should last about another hour. I think it will take that long to get the likes of you clean again.”

There was a happy roar from the men. I struck a declamatory pose.

“ ‘When Olaf was king,’ ” I began, and then they laughed as
a club struck me in the head. I turned angrily, but could not find the culprit.

“Really, gentlemen,” I admonished them. “Have you no respect for culture? I shall begin again. ‘When Olaf was king, and the very waves . . .”