Jester Leaps In: A Medieval Mystery (6 page)

We couldn’t see much of the city from this angle, although the Xerolophon, the Seventh Hill, loomed beyond the inner wall, with the Pillar of Arkadios at its peak. If you had never seen a mountain, you might very well assume that the top of that pillar was the highest point in the world. It certainly tended to remove the element of surprise from any attacker, whether they approached by land or sea.

We passed by military gates, by the Gate of Xylokerkou, by the Gate of Pege, by the road to Selivrias, and by the Holy Springs. By this time, Viola’s glances were directed toward me.

“You know, it really is a pity that we’ve come all this way, and then decided not to visit,” she commented. “They’ll think us rude. Or were you planning to make the assault by sea after all?”

“I want to go in by the Rhegium Gate.”

“Oh. I see. Because that is a much nicer gate than all of these closer ones.”

“Not particularly.”

“Why the Rhegium Gate?”

“Because if someone is killing all the fools, then he may be expecting the Guild to send someone. Since the Guildhall is to the west, he’ll most likely be having the gates watched from that direction. So, we’ll go a few gates north.”

We rode on while she thought about that. “You’re thinking that there’s more than one person involved.”

“I’ll assume that for safety’s sake.”

“But they’ll get word from the guard post at that Anastasian wall, won’t they?”

“Possibly. But no messengers passed us on the way.”

The ground rose a bit toward where the wooden bridge crossed
the moat. I pulled up Zeus and looked at the gate, the twinned towers flanking it on both the outer and inner walls. Viola followed my gaze, then looked back at me.

“Shall we?” she said.

I kept looking.

“You’re afraid,” she said softly.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve never encountered a task quite like this one. I have to find someone I don’t know in a city of four hundred thousand. And he, or they, will be looking for me. And they’ll have the advantage, because I do stand out in a crowd.”

“There are two of us,” she pointed out.

“There were six of them,” I replied. I took a deep breath, then exhaled. “All right, let’s go.”

The horses’ hooves clopped loudly on the wooden bridge as we crossed the moat. It was dry, revealing the ancient stonework of the scarps as well as piles of refuse at the base.

“Maybe I’m just ignorant of such manly things, but shouldn’t there be water in there?” asked Viola.

“Should be,” I agreed. “Last time I was here, there was. I wonder what happened?”

From the bridge, it was some fifty or sixty feet across the peribolos to the opening in the outer wall. No grass grew there, either because of the constant foot patrols or because the blood-soaked earth would permit none. The wall itself was maybe seven feet thick. I knew that the towers on both sides could rain rocks, arrows, boiling oil, or Greek fire down on anyone they didn’t like. I hope they liked us.

But that was a silly fear. There was a stream of commerce flowing in and out of the city through this gate: ox-drawn wains, peasant-drawn carts, children with baskets of dates and figs balanced on their heads, women with pails of milk hung from yokes on their shoulders, all the daily turmoil from the countryside
needed to keep the city supplied. Even in full makeup, I barely received a second glance.

I noticed some deep cracks in the masonry as we passed, perhaps remnants of some minor earthquake. Man could not breach these walls; God still could.

It was late in the day, and the sun was fleeing back down the Via Egnatia, abandoning us to the shadows of the walls. Another sixty feet across the parateichion, wide enough for an army to race from one entrance to another, and we were at the inner gate, the real monster, a tunnel through thirty feet of stone, brick, and concrete with the only light coming from the end. The various animal and human noises, squeaking wheels and clanking chains, all mingled in the gloom into a fair representation of what Hell would sound like in my dreams. Our horses were pressed together in the crowd, and I felt Viola’s leg brush against mine. Well, that belonged to a different dream altogether.

We emerged, blinking in the daylight, into a profusion of garrisons, stables, carpenters, armorers, blacksmiths. Huge ramps, broad enough to carry the larger engines of war, led to the ramparts high above us.

Yet for all the show of force, sections of wall had crumbled, and there were no workers in sight repairing them. It was late afternoon, yet some of the towers had no watch posted upon them, and the noise from the blacksmiths’ anvils was sporadic at best.

“Woe to the emperor who neglects his walls,” I muttered to Viola.

But she was looking everywhere else. The garrisons gave way to farmland, which seemed almost incongruous with the fierce stonework protecting it. Off past it lay the other six hills of this walled city, the great aqueduct of Valens spanning two of them, and then building after building, spire after spire, clusters of palaces to the left and right, and beyond them all, the immense dome of the Hagia Sophia, the church that dwarfed all churches.

But, glorious as it was, I had seen it before. I chose instead to observe my beloved as she beheld it. She turned her head slowly, her eyes darting everywhere, trying to take it all in at once. She almost seemed a child again, despite the wig, despite the beard, her face suffused with wonder.

“I’ve been to Paris, Rome, Vienna, Ravenna, and Venice,” she said finally. “None of them compare to this. It’s enormous.”

“All of those cities and thirty more would fit inside these walls with room to grow, my dear Claudius.”

She winced slightly at the male appellation, but we were here, and it was time to stay in character. There was a rumbling noise behind us, and we turned to see the several gates of Rhegium being pushed closed and the great beams used to bar them swung into place.

“We are trapped, my dear Feste,” replied Claudius. “The world is shut out, and we are joining the rest of the inmates in this magnificent prison.”

I slid off Zeus and started leading him to a nearby stable. Claudius did the same.

“On the contrary, the entire world is a prison, but we have escaped to another world. Walls can keep things out as well as keep them in. At least there is safety here.”

“Unless you happen to be a fool.”

I clapped her on the shoulder as men are wont to do to each other. She staggered under the blow and glared at me.

“There is freedom behind locked barriers, Claudius,” I continued. “Did not Aristotle say that a city defended by walls has a choice of alternatives, but a people without any walls are a people without any choice?”

She looked at the Vigla, the night watch, assembling, fully armed, for their evening patrol.

“Aristotle got it wrong,” she said.

Make not thyself an underling to a foolish man
.

SIRACH
4:29

I
t would take me several books to describe the grandeur of Constantinople but let me at least give you an idea of the city.

I mentioned that it was shaped like a horse’s head. Take the line made by the horse’s mouth—that’s the Mese, the main road, starting at the Milion, the marker for all distances. I suppose the horse would have to be smiling slightly for this to be accurate, much as my friend Zeus does when I do something stupid as opposed to merely foolish.

Now, put a bit in the horse’s mouth. That marks the Forum Amastrianum, where the horse dealers do business. This is where I threaten to bring my friend Zeus when he smiles at me for doing something stupid.

Attach a bridle to the bit. This would show how the Mese divides after the Forum Amastrianum, with one branch going off to the southwest, much as the rein would at rest. This road ultimately connects with the Via Egnatia.

The other branch goes northwest, parallel to the Golden Horn, and passes through the Charisios Gate to the road to Adrianople.

The vast majority of the buildings and people fill the space from the seawalls to the Mese and its branches, from the Golden
Gate all the way around to the Golden Horn. The quarters maintained by foreign cities—Venice, Pisa, Genoa, and Amalfi—are all by the seawall fronting the Golden Horn, each with its own piers and warehouses.

The Muslims, though possessing a seaside mosque outside the city walls, have their quarter up the Golden Horn near the stone bridge that crosses to the Galata district. The Jews, once in the city proper, have been relocated across the Golden Horn near the Galata Tower. I think the Venetians may have bumped them out, but that was a long time ago.

The Great Palace complex, where the emperors used to live before it became too full of ostentatious architecture, is just below the horse’s nose. The Blachernae Palace, where they live now, is up by its ear. The ear is pricked up and alert for signs of danger, both from without the walls and within. The Blachernae complex is the only neighborhood in the city that is walled on every side. Empires also face threats from their own people. The large triangle made by the forks of the Mese and the land wall is mostly farmland, hills, and the odd ravine.

Those of you who have been to Constantinople and who feel protective toward it may be somewhat offended by my choice of animal for comparison. Let me say in my defense that there are cities that I would compare to an entirely different portion of a horse’s anatomy. Consider yourselves fortunate.

By now, fellow fools, the clever ones amongst you will have deduced that I survived this particular story to write about it. Naturally, Historians are always survivors. But rest assured, not everyone you will meet in this tale will have the same luck.

We stabled our horses, paying a week in advance, and hoisted the saddlebags onto our shoulders. We hurried along as best we could, for the sun was setting, and to be caught out after dark
by the Vigla would have meant our immediate arrest. As newly arrived foreigners, one in disguise, we would have faced some unpleasant forms of interrogation.

Viola was puffing slightly under the weight of her bags. “Several leisurely weeks on horseback,” she grumbled. “Now, all of a sudden, we have to run? I don’t even remember how to walk after all that riding. My legs will never forgive me. I may never forgive you.”

“Look up for a moment, Apprentice,” I suggested.

She glanced over as the setting sun bounced its beams off the variegated domes and spires of the city proper, gold leaf and porphyry and a dozen different colors of marble transmuting the rays into something altogether glorious.

“All right, I forgive you,” she whispered.

There was a small neighborhood that had sprung up where the Rhegium and Romanos roads met, a grouping of taverns and hostels seeking to beguile weary travelers before the bulk of the city had its way with them. In the center of this larcenous cluster was the Rooster, an inn of uneasy repute that nevertheless set a fine table and, more to the point, possessed a worthy wine cellar. It was a two-story, brick construction, and the second floor projected out over the street, sagging slightly. The red, rounded roof tiles gave the inn the appearance of having a cockscomb.

Dinner, mostly of a liquid nature, was taking place, as the several men who stayed there had just returned from a day’s honest labor before sneaking out again for a night’s dishonest labor. The room, which was at the level of a general roar, became somewhat quieter as we made our entrance. Claudius, I observed approvingly, had adopted not so much a fierce expression as a studied bland one. The most dangerous men are those who choose not to reveal it, and the cautious appraisals of the toughs in the room acknowledged this truth.

I drew my usual stares, of course, mingled with some anticipation of entertainment. At least, I assumed that anticipation was there, though it may have been my vanity whispering in my ear.

The tapster was a tall fellow, heavily scarred about the face and neck, his knuckles thick and calloused. I caught his eye, and he limped in my direction.

“Drink or what?” he rasped. His Greek was fluent, but with an accent I couldn’t quite place.

“Drink, victuals, and lodging, my good fellow, assuming you are the proprietor.”

“I am. The name’s Simon. You’re together?”

“Indeed. My name is Feste, and this is my manservant, Claudius. How much for your best room?”

“My best room is taken. So is the second best. The two of you can have the last room on the right upstairs. You’ll have to share the pallet. How long will you be staying?”

I smiled. “It depends on how well we do.”

“Then I want two weeks in advance. Now.”

I sighed and paid the fellow.

“Claudius,” I said. “Take the bags upstairs. I’m going to introduce myself to our new neighbors.”

Oh, the resentful glare from my newly appointed manservant! Muttering invectives in my direction, she hoisted my bags on top of hers and staggered up the steep stairway.

“So hard to get good help these days,” I commented to the room in general, and a mild chuckle went around the crowd.

I secured enough space for Claudius and myself at the end of one bench, and helped myself to a portion of the jellied calves’ feet and a chunk of brown bread to sop it up. I think it was jellied calves’ feet. Jelly there was, and some species of foot in it. The wine was sweet and thick, almost a syrup. It was delicious.

“Syrian, is this?” I called to the tapster across the hubbub.

“Well done!” he shouted. “From the hills of the Krak des Chevaliers, where the brave knights of the Hospitalers protect us from the infidel. Good Christians with fine vineyards. Have you been there?”

“No, but this wine is ample argument for making the pilgrimage.”

Claudius rejoined us and went at the dinner with an appetite.

“You know your wine, Fool,” said a deep voice from across the table. I looked up to see a cowl with shadows inside. Only a sharp chin was visible.

“I’ve traveled a bit,” I replied. “A fool lives from meal to meal, and from drink to drink. One learns to savor the experiences, because occasionally all one has to dine upon are the memories of previous meals.”