Seven for a Secret (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Mistress, the gentleman has arrived!”

Cornelia turned and saw Peter peering through the doorway to the bath.

She had decided to look in on the workmen who had arrived earlier to begin repairing the neglected room. Two of them were up to their ankles in green gruel at the bottom of the circular marble pool which occupied most of the space, seeking to unplug the drain with a heavy metal rod. The third, a paunchy, middle-aged man who had introduced himself as the mosaic maker Figulus, stood on the edge of the basin, next to the marble Aphrodite, scowling up at the cracks in the domed ceiling.

“The gentleman? What do you mean, Peter?”

“I was in the garden and heard footsteps, and caught a glimpse of someone going upstairs. A stranger.”

“You didn’t confront him?”

Peter looked surprised. “I thought you must be expecting a visitor.”

“No. I’m not expecting anyone.” Cornelia could feel her breath coming faster. She chided herself. The city made her nervous, as did John’s investigations.

The visitor could be anyone. A friend of John’s. Someone on business. A palace messenger. She made an effort to control her breathing. “Figulus, are there just the three of you?”

He had been prodding at some loose tesserae in the wall mosaic and pretending not to listen to the conversation. “Yes, lady. Just three. The Lord Chamberlain said he wanted these mosaics…um…altered, rendered more fitting. Do you have any idea exactly what he has in mind?” He shuffled his feet.

Cornelia saw Peter’s lips tighten as he glanced at the mosaics which so discomfited Figulus. They depicted in a detailed, earthy manner what the goddess Aphrodite symbolized.

Perhaps the mosaic maker had misheard John’s instructions.

“No, I don’t want any alterations,” Cornelia replied. “They are to be repaired. I like them.”

She went into the hallway, which was cluttered with tools, bags, and barrels of tesserae and plaster.

“Let’s find out who our visitor is,” she said to Peter. She couldn’t entirely keep anxiety out of her voice.

As she started back down the hall, she heard one of the workmen, his voice amplified in the empty, marble room, laugh. “A lady like that likes pictures like these. Wish I was his excellency!”

“Not me!” came the reply. “You don’t know anything about the Lord Chamberlain, do you, you fool?”

The atrium was deserted. The front door stood open, a cart piled with building materials visible on the cobbles beyond.

“Do you have a weapon, Peter?”

“Yes, Mistress, but it’s in my room upstairs.”

“Never mind then.” Cornelia started up the stairway.

“Mistress, you shouldn’t go up alone!” Peter protested, following her.

How ill advised to leave the door open, Cornelia thought. It had probably never occurred to the workmen that a Lord Chamberlain wouldn’t have swarms of servants close at hand instead of one elderly man.

No one to shut doors and guard them against intruders.

The wooden steps creaked under her feet.

There was no one in the hallway upstairs. She went into the kitchen and picked up the poker beside the brazier.

“Take one of the knives, Peter. We’ll risk appearing very inhospitable if it turns out to be a senator or someone sent by the emperor.”

The weight of the iron poker in her hand made her breath come more easily as she stepped out into the hallway again, half expecting someone to burst forth from one of the rooms.

She lowered her voice before speaking to Peter. “The footsteps you heard? Was it just one person or more?”

“Only one.”

Of course, Peter’s hearing was not very reliable. Cornelia took a few steps. She set her jaw and exhaled slowly. When she’d traveled with the troupe, she had specialized in leaping bulls in a recreation of the old Cretan tradition.

There always came that time, as the bull charged, when it was necessary to take the decision and leap, to bridge the chasm between thought and action despite fear.

A hulking assassin might have lain in wait. Or she and Peter might find themselves facing a band of armed ruffians.

She raised the poker and stepped into John’s study.

A slender young man, his hair prematurely silver, lounged at John’s desk and stared pensively at the mosaic on the wall.

He barely turned his head at her entrance, but merely put down John’s wine cup. “Ah, there is someone alive in this place after all. I was beginning to think that cunning child on the wall was the sole inhabitant of the house.”

The man was dressed like a merchant in a well cut blue tunic and a short, dark blue cloak. He did not appear to have a weapon.

“Who are you and what is your business?” Cornelia demanded.

The man stood, without any display of urgency. “Have I disturbed you? I’m most sorry. I was given to understand the Lord Chamberlain wished to speak with me. I thought I’d save him the trouble of seeking me out again. As a courtesy, you understand.”

“Do you consider it a courtesy to simply walk into people’s homes and wander around unannounced and drink their wine?”

“When I arrived, there were fellows hauling things in so I just followed them,” the visitor protested. “There was nobody at the door and the furnishings are so sparse, I thought the Lord Chamberlain must have moved out while the work was under way.”

“And you are…?” Cornelia demanded.

“My name is Troilus. I am a dealer in antiquities and curiosities, which is why this mosaic so intrigues me. I only wish I owned such a wonderful piece of art.”

“The Lord Chamberlain is not here.”

Peter lifted the knife he used to chop onions. “Shall I see the villain out, mistress?”

“No, we’ll both escort him out. I will tell the Lord Chamberlain you called, Troilus. I’m sure you will be hearing from him very soon.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“You entered my house uninvited. I will have an explanation.”

At the sound of John’s voice, Troilus looked up from the bench in front of his shop upon which he was arranging a display of glassware. His face went as white as his hair. “Lord Chamberlain!”

“You seem startled, yet I am told you didn’t appear concerned when you were discovered trespassing.”

“I didn’t hear you. You walk very quietly. Naturally I was startled when you addressed me.”

The ensuing silence was broken by the hollow drip of water.

When John arrived, the grating in the corridor wall next to the sundial maker’s shop was open. A torch by the entrance partially illuminated the sub-basement beyond. In the middle of the cavernous space sat Troilus’ establishment, a rambling, ramshackle conglomeration of planks, bricks, and canvas.

The sub-basement had once been used as a cistern, judging from the dark water stains rising to shoulder level on the widely spaced granite columns that vanished overhead into a smoky fog of darkness. Fallen columns, mostly shattered, were strewn across the puddled concrete floor.

“Lord Chamberlain, I presented myself at your house because my neighboring merchant told me you wished to interview me, and naturally I thought it would be permissible to—”

“If you think it acceptable to enter a dwelling without authority, why do you keep this business locked up when you are away?”

“But there were workmen going in and out,” the other protested. “I meant no harm.”

“Those in the house had no way of knowing that. I could have you prosecuted, particularly since you invited yourself to sample my wine.”

“Your wine? I mistook it for a jug one of your servants had forgotten.”

“After you had sampled it.”

“Not at all. The aroma of that kind of Egyptian wine is quite distinctive to those who are familiar with it.”

The color had returned to Troilus’ face, along with the arrogant demeanor Cornelia had described. He was not, as she had thought, old. His hair had grayed early and he had the prematurely lined skin of a hermit newly arrived from the desert.

“Then you would steal from the servant but not from the master?”

Troilus set the molar-shaped flask he had been holding on the bench displaying his wares, next to a trio of hexagonal green glass jugs decorated with flowers in wheel cut lozenges. “I should think a servant owns nothing in his master’s house, Lord Chamberlain. Perhaps I could interest you in some of my glassware? Take anything you want as payment for the wine. You could use another wine cup perhaps?”

“I could, if the cup can explain to me why you were dragging a large sack in here late one night last week.”

Troilus shrugged. “I’m a merchant. I deal in goods. I’m often to be seen dragging sacks. My task is easier than that set Sisyphus since it’s all downhill to my shop. My customers drag their purchases back up into the light.”

If Troilus had expected a smile from John, he didn’t get it.

“Have you been robbed, Lord Chamberlain? I assure you I never deal in stolen goods. Not knowingly. I purchase my wares from respectable people and sell them to the same.”

“This sack was about as long as I am tall. You were seen with it eight days ago, around midnight. What did it contain?”

Troilus laughed. “Now I understand! Helias has been spying on me again. Isn’t that right? It’s on account of my antiquities. Not everyone admires glorification of the human form or understands pagan beliefs. I’ll wager he told you I was dragging a corpse. Do you think he invented that tale on the spot? It’s a favorite slander of his. He even brought the City Prefect here once. Nothing came of it.”

John requested details.

“It was years ago. He’s harassed me for that long. I’d move rather than put up with it, but what other place could suit me so well? As you see, I have room to expand down here. We’re standing in what’s left of Lausos’ palace after it burnt down sixty or so years back. After I moved in, I came across some excellent pieces from that famous classical collection of his and they gave me a good start on my business venture.”

“Indeed. And I suppose you aren’t paying anyone rent either. However, I haven’t come to inquire about your business. I would advise you to think carefully, because if you can’t answer my questions you might have time to reflect on it in a much darker place than this. Now, about the sack Helias described. What was in it?”

“How could I forget that purchase? Step inside and I’ll show you.”

John ducked to avoid the lintel of the crooked doorway. Inside, a miasma of smoke glowed in the light from lamps scattered amidst haphazard piles of goods. It was akin to standing in the cargo hold of a wrecked ship or for that matter in Menander’s cluttered room. In fact, many of the items on display might well have been purchased from Menander. Hadn’t the actress, Petronia, told him that Menander was well known to the troupe which worked practically on Troilus’ subterranean doorstep?

“I needed a roof over my merchandise,” Troilus explained. “The vaults are in disrepair, and when it rains, it’s like a waterfall down here. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll retrieve the object that inflamed Helias. I shall not be long.”

Troilus vanished into a back room.

John looked around. A dozen amphorae of varying sizes, most notably one suitable for transporting the wine supply for a Dionysian banquet, sat against one slanting wall. A plain wooden stool nearby displayed an ivory triptych with a Biblical scene. Perched beside it—and John suspected it was not by accident—was a bronze candlestick in the form of a naked Aphrodite, hands above her head, standing in a frozen froth of wavelettes.

Other offerings on sale included clay lamps of lewd design encrusted with representations of male organs. On a low table decorated with insets of ebony and mother of pearl sat bronze combs, cooking pots, and statues of pagan deities. A tray of jewelry invited the eye to untangle its carelessly heaped contents—finger rings, some displaying enamel bezels, a gold chain necklace threaded with garnets, silver wire earrings with pearl pendants, and a child’s green glass bracelet.

Had all this merchandise been legally obtained, as Troilus claimed, or had his stock been stolen from homes abandoned when their owners fled the recent plague?

An item John would not have expected to see in any business caught his attention.

The large skeleton stood in a cobwebbed corner. The back end had belonged to a horse, but grafted to the front were the bones of a man. Closer inspection did not immediately reveal the means by which the parts had been fastened to each other. However, the man’s thigh bones could be discerned, welded in some manner to the larger equine bones. The human bones, especially the legs, appeared deformed and eaten away in spots, whether in the course of their marriage to the remains of the horse or from disease John could not venture to guess.

“I see you admire my centaur.” Troilus had returned, hauling a sack of the size Helias had described. “Might you be interested in purchasing such a rare and unusual curiosity? It would cause much comment if you displayed it in your atrium.”

John declined the offer. He could imagine Peter’s horror at having such a monstrosity in the house, even though it had obviously been manufactured.

“Here I have an exceedingly rare artifact, Lord Chamberlain. The owner didn’t want to part with it, but his wine supplier was pressing him for payment. It’s one of the items which offend Helias. There’s another.”

He gestured toward a shadowy alcove.

John felt his skin prickle.

A soldier peered out at them.

“That’s Saint Sergius,” Troilus said. “He’s an automaton. Sadly, he no longer works although I’ve thought of having him restored. He could scare off thieves. Do you think a saint would object to guarding a shop? After all, the saints are supposed to look after us, aren’t they?”

He smiled. “I was told that after appropriate preparations, when set in motion red liquid bubbles from his shoes. It represents the blood shed when the martyr was forced to run for miles in footwear with nails inside. Even as that dreadful sight unfolds, the saint raises his hands to heaven, holding the palm branch of martyrdom. Thus may we all overcome pain and sorrow and receive our reward.”

Was the piety in his tone exaggerated?

“The frond was missing when I purchased him,” Troilus continued. “It appears that during a particularly lively social gathering, poor Sergius suffered at the hand of an intoxicated guest, whereupon his companions thrashed the careless man with the palm branch. It had come loose, but that broke it entirely.”

“These unusual goods of yours must be extremely expensive. I’m surprised you can find buyers in a spot like this,” John observed.

“Buyers find me, Lord Chamberlain. They have to find me. No one else sells what I sell. Do you know what financed me when I first set up shop? It was the nose of Zeus from Olympus. It was from a statue in that collection of Lausos I mentioned. Who knows what else might still be down here? I’ve scarcely begun to explore all the corridors and basements and cisterns.”

He seemed unconcerned about being confronted by Justinian’s Lord Chamberlain. Nor did he appear in any particular haste to reply to the question of what he was doing in John’s house. “What I’m interested in, Troilus, are the contents of that sack. I do not intend to wait further. Speak.”

“My apologies. Here, I’ll show you.”

Troilus bent down and turned the lip of the sack back, revealing the shiny head of the largest leather phallus John had ever seen. It was the length of an entire man.

“There’s Helias’ so-called body,” Troilus smirked. “It would probably distress the pious hypocrite more than a corpse. I’ve nicknamed it Polyphemus. I wager some wealthy brothel owner will pay me a tidy sum to put him on display. Or perhaps I could interest the troupe. I do a lot of business with them, scrounging up various odd items needed for their performances.” He pulled the sacking back over the obscene artifact.

“Do you know an actress from the troupe? A woman named Agnes?”

“Oh, yes indeed. She likes to try on the jewelry I have for sale, although she never buys any.”

“Perhaps you have given her some baubles?”

“What do you mean, Lord Chamberlain?”

“That she is more than a customer. That was the impression I had from Petronia.”

“You’ve been talking to Petronia? I see. For a man of your position, you do spend a lot of time in places less salubrious than the palace. If I owned that fine house of yours, I’d stay there. Well, Petronia sees things from her own perspective, but, yes, you could say that Agnes and I are friends.”

There was nothing in Troilus’ tone to indicate that he had learned about Agnes’ death, from Petronia or in any other manner. John thought it best not to say anything.

“And how familiar are you with the company Agnes keeps?”

“Not very. Except when they come to me in search of a trinket or a bit of the past.”

“Did Agnes say anything about dissatisfaction with the emperor?”

Troilus laughed. “Who outside the palace doesn’t grumble about the emperor? Or inside the palace, I imagine. You would know better than I.”

“I understand that concocting intrigues against Justinian is a popular sport? Did Agnes mention such scheming?”

“We don’t talk about politics much, Lord Chamberlain.” Troilus stared at the sack at his feet. “People like to fantasize but these dreams they cultivate of returning to the palace have as much to do with reality as Polyphemus there. The last time I saw Agnes she was recounting those rumors about Theodora’s bastard son and imagining how he might be used against Justinian.”

“One variation or another of that rumor makes the rounds every year. It’s nearly as popular as accounts of Theodora’s escapades with the geese during her acting days.”

“Exactly. So you agree with me it’s all nonsense, Lord Chamberlain? I do a considerable amount of business with former courtiers. They love to spread such scandalous reports.”

“People like Menander?”

“Yes, like Menander. You do know everyone, don’t you? Now he’s a man who’s always selling and never buying. As I was saying, these people will dwell on rumors. I suppose it adds some excitement to their lives and what else can they do being now as powerless as beggars in the streets? I say if it makes them feel better to talk about a long lost son enlisting the excubitors to depose Justinian with the blessing of the empress, well, perhaps they’ll feel like purchasing a few more valuables from me in anticipation of celebrating the great day. Particularly since the day will be a long time coming.”

“Indeed. And when did you last glimpse Agnes?”

Troilus paused for thought. A draught stirred the smoky haze in the shop as a guttering lamp threw animated shadows across the walls.

“It was the very night I hauled in Polyphemus,” he finally replied. “I hadn’t seen Agnes for a few days and wondered what had become of her. So early the next morning I went over to Petronia’s room, where she often stays. To my relief, Agnes was there. However, she rushed out not long after I arrived and I haven’t seen her since.”