Five for Silver: A John, the Lord Chamberlain Mystery (19 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

“The plague shall not have me! Let it but place its black talons upon my shoulder and I shall cast myself into the waves to join my beloved!”

Anatolius glared at the expostulating Crinagoras, uncertain whether his companion was making an observation or rehearsing his performance for Theodora’s banquet. From the fact he spoke in Latin rather than Greek, he guessed it was a rehearsal, not that Crinagoras did not have a tendency to lapse into Latin at the drop of a poetic impulse.

“If you don’t let me enjoy the country air in peace, I’ll give you cause to cast yourself into the waves!”

The country air smelled of manure from the stables where they’d just left their horses, but it was still a relief compared to the stench of death and burning in the city.

“Now you’ve fallen silent for a space, isn’t that a blackbird? You don’t usually hear them in the middle of the city.”

“The blackbird sings also for the dead.” Crinagoras released a sigh like a dying breath. “Try to remember that, will you? I’ve left my tablet at home.”

Crinagoras’ tireless tongue had made the relatively short ride out to Blachernae feel very long indeed. Though it lay on the outskirts of Constantinople, the place gave the impression of being deep in the countryside.

Anatolius remarked that since imperial banquets were normally held in perfumed and gilded surroundings, the location was a novel one.

“I would far rather attend such an event in comfort at the palace,” Crinagoras replied, “but we must endure whatever the empress orders. No doubt my recitation will serve to distract her guests from their vexatious surroundings. It’s a pity you were not asked to recite, Anatolius.”

The other shrugged.

Crinagoras turned the conversation to other matters. “We can certainly expect superb fare. I predict at the very least pigeons’ wings fricasseed in wine, honey-sauced lamb, several rich sauces, and exquisite sweetmeats. I do hope there will be poppy seed pastries, they’re one of my favorites. And the wines, Anatolius, the wines! Why, by all I hear we’ll soon think Bacchus himself is in charge of the imperial cellars!”

Crinagoras talked on about the expected gustatory delights as they followed a pebbled path through a wood composed largely of oaks. Scraps of purple silk fluttered from branches, marking the route to the repast.

While Anatolius was familiar with imperial whims, which could hand an orator gold coins or his own head with equal impartiality, he still considered the idea of an outdoor banquet unusual. There had, of course, been the unforgettable occasion when Justinian held a reception on several ships tied together on the largest lake in the palace grounds. A grin flickered across his face as he recalled how the glittering event had been cut short by a strong wind which had suddenly sprung up and precipitated Theodora’s indisposition. It was just as well, he thought, that on that occasion John had not been present. Given the latter’s loathing of deep water, he might have found himself more ailing than the empress.

Reminded of his friend, he wondered if John had made any progress in his search. His speculations were interrupted by Crinagoras.

“Bear!” the poet cried.

“For a main course? At a court banquet? Surely not. Then again, with an appropriate sauce-–”

“No. No! There’s a bear!” Crinagoras staggered backward, practically into Anatolius’ arms.

Anatolius heard the rustle of undergrowth and the crack of breaking branches. A dark shape loped through the cedars. An enormous black bear. It came to a halt, blocking their path.

Crinagoras spun around, prepared to run. Anatolius grabbed his shoulder. “Be still.”

The beast unleashed a rumbling growl.

Crinagoras made a tiny, keening noise, like a dying rabbit.

There were shouts from the surrounding woods. Crashing, the clash of metal on metal. The bear’s head swung toward the racket, its flanks heaved, and it lumbered off with deceptive speed, vanishing into the trees on the other side of the path.

Almost immediately an excubitor appeared from the direction in which the bear had come. He was banging two metal pots together. Other guards appeared, all similarly armed with cooking utensils. They plunged after the bear, yelling and clanking.

Trailing the pack came Felix. The bearded captain’s booming obscenities could not conceal the truth that his weapons were a copper night soil pot and a soup ladle.

“I suppose bears flee bad language,” observed Anatolius.

Felix launched into an even viler oath, then stopped. “Mithra! My quiver seems to be empty! Not to mention I’m getting hoarse. But you seem to have grasped the situation, Anatolius. We have been ordered to chase Theodora’s pet away, without ruffling its fur. It doesn’t like loud noises. I hope.”

“Is this the bear from the menagerie? I thought you were supposed to let it loose in the countryside?”

“According to Theodora this Imperial estate is the countryside.”

“Well,” muttered Crinagoras, “there are plenty of trees for the bear to lurk behind if it wants to ambush anyone.”

“Bears don’t usually bother with people, not even plump poets,” Felix informed him. “It’s the smell of food for the banquet that’s attracted it.”

“But having a bear roaming the grounds. Isn’t that dangerous?” Anatolius wondered.

“The emperor and empress never go out for a stroll without an armed guard,” Felix reminded him.

“But what about guests, or anyone who might wander in by mistake?”

Felix glared into the trees. The sound of the chase had nearly faded away. “Yes, as for such folks, that’s Theodora’s idea of humor. ‘How was your walk? Oh? I thought I’d mentioned my bear!’” The excubitor gave his night soil pot a couple of half-hearted bangs with the ladle and trudged away after his men.

“Oh my,” groaned Crinagoras. “All that glorious food awaiting us and now I have the most dreadful stomachache.”

They continued more slowly, finally emerging from the wood into a meadow that sloped down from the back of the imperial residence. An enormous purple canopy had been erected in the center of the open space. Diners were already seated at a long table under its shade.

Anatolius could tell that this was what passed, at court, for an intimate gathering. There was a subtle difference in the indecipherable buzz of conversation. The guests were all members of Justinian and Theodora’s inner circle, Latin speakers, like the emperor and empress, and unlike most of the population. The emperor, he understood, would not be in attendance, which made the gathering one of Theodora’s affairs.

An attendant met the newcomers and showed them to their seats.

“What is this?” Crinagoras stared down at his three-legged stool. “Are we expected to milk goats? Where are the couches? I’m not so certain I care much for the country, Anatolius.” He lowered himself gingerly.

“On the other hand, you should be extremely honored to be sitting so near the head of the table.” Anatolius pointed out a gilded and plushly cushioned chair set a few arm-lengths away.

As he did, an imperial carriage rattled around the side of the residence and pulled up next to the canopy. As everyone stood, Theodora emerged from her conveyance.

In keeping with the bucolic surroundings, she wore a short brown tunic, one that might well have belonged to a farmer’s wife provided the farmer had happened to plow up the chest full of jewels that adorned the rough cloth, and bartered his crops for the golden bees ornamenting her hair.

The obligatory announcements and encomia accompanied her ascent to the makeshift throne. Anatolius paid little attention, having written them.

Servants bearing silver salvers appeared and began a circuit of the table.

Horrified gasps erupted among the guests.

At first Anatolius did not understand, then, as one of the servants drew nearer, he realized with a trickle of shock that those now serving the first course had almost reached their last.

The servants were covered in black boils and their tight-fitting tunics did little to disguise the huge swellings in their armpits.

Theodora emitted a caw of laughter. “My friends, fear not! Is not your righteousness an armor? Eat and be thankful! The entertainments will begin shortly!”

Shrinking away from the slaves circling them, her high-born guests, as frightened by the empress as by the plague, tried to subdue their cries of dismay.

Anatolius looked at the chunk of bread that had been set before him on an earthenware plate and then at the small jug of water beside it. Crinagoras, as pale as a lily, poured water into his cup with a shaking hand.

Theodora, with a scimitar of a smile, nodded to an attendant, who strode swiftly away.

A few heartbeats later, a cart rolled into view and even the presence of the empress could not mute the chorus of full-throated cries that rose into the azure sky.

The cart was piled with half-naked dead and driven by a wizened, sinewy man dressed only in a dusty loincloth.

“It’s that holy fool I saw at Nereus’ house!” Crinagoras looked prepared to run away as the macabre conveyance rumbled to a halt at the head of the table. “He looks ready to join his passengers at any instant!”

As if to prove Crinagoras wrong, the driver gave a terrible grimace, leapt from his perch, and scrambled onto the table. He danced along it wildly, kicking off plates and overturning cups with filthy, bare feet.

“Eat the bread of affliction and drink the tears of sorrow,” he shouted, making an obscene gesture at Crinagoras as he went by. “They’re more than you deserve! Eat well and hearty, my friends, for tonight you may be traveling in a cart like mine! For all your finery and fancy airs now, your only attendants then will be the flies, and who will sacrifice on your behalf to Zeus Apomyios?”

Theodora laughed loudly. One or two of her guests tried valiantly to follow suit, but their forced merriment was put to rest when one of the dead suddenly sprang from the cart.

Anatolius nudged Crinagoras in the ribs. “See, they’re all alive. It’s just one of Theodora’s nasty ideas of entertainment.”

“Alive?” Crinagoras appeared about to swoon with relief.

It was true. The dead had already risen and were now reenacting the arrival of the plague in the city and its deadly progress through the streets. The plague itself, Anatolius noted, was played by the driver, who, with coarse comments and foul language, strutted about slapping his fellow performers’ faces and exhorting his listeners, including the empress, to repent their sins while they still had time. Those struck by the fool staggered, wailed, and fell down in convulsions.

“My friends, eat, drink, as the holy fool bids you,” Theodora urged, sinking her teeth daintily into a miniature loaf which, Anatolius noticed, was gilded.

Crinagoras choked down a crumb or two and then asked Anatolius in an undertone if he thought any of the servants really were suffering from the plague.

“Of course not. I told you, it’s just something she considers amusing.”

The performers, having mimed agonizing deaths, were loaded on the cart by a pair of guards. The holy fool climbed back on the table, waved skeletal arms, and urged the assembled company to sing a blasphemous ditty with him.

“Interesting that Theodora knows all the words, isn’t it?” Anatolius noted. “The fool reminds me of someone, but I just can’t call him to mind.”

Trailing curses, the holy fool finally remounted his cart and drove off as a few of his passengers waved feeble farewells.

Theodora smiled benignly at her guests. “I trust you have taken his exhortations to heart. Now, I have invited a few luminaries to inspire us further during this dark time. Lucilius…” She nodded toward a stout, red-faced fellow seated directly across the table from Anatolius.

The man rose to his feet, revealing that he wore a ludicrously oversized toga. He bowed. “Lucilius is most humbled to be permitted to enter into the presence of our most glorious empress. Were the emperor here I would implore him to commission your fair likeness in gold and silver, marble and mosaic, ivory and paint, for every corner of our city so each of us could always bask in your light. However, I most certainly would not engage the portrait painter Dordanus, who has never yet produced a good likeness, and that includes his own children.”

Several of the guests tittered. Crinagoras pursed his lips with displeasure.

“Let us hope that none here need resort to the ministrations of physicians,” Lucilius continued. “Why, just last week a physician killed his patient while operating. It was a mercy, he told the widow, because otherwise your husband would have been lamed for life.”

Theodora guffawed.

“Did you hear,” Lucilius went on, “that the very same physician called on a statue of Jupiter yesterday? And even though it was marble and Jupiter, its funeral’s tomorrow.”

“I’ve heard that jest before,” muttered Crinagoras, his voice barely audible for the laughter all around.

Lucilius waved his wide sleeves, giving the impression of a fat seagull unable to get off the ground. “Which is it better to trust, a physician or a soothsayer? A traveler went to a soothsayer to ask whether it was safe to sail to Bretania. The soothsayer consulted his oracle and said, ‘If you have a new ship, and an expert captain, and set sail in the summer rather than the winter, and the winds are favorable, you will have a safe voyage, unless of course you’re captured by pirates.’”

“Nicarchus,” Crinagoras said in outraged tones. “Those are all epigrams written by Nicarchus. The villain’s stolen them and is passing them off as his own!”

“I shall give you some advice myself, my friends,” Lucilius was saying. “Steer clear of toads, vipers, and Isaurians. Also at all costs avoid those afflicted with the pestilence, mad dogs, and Isaurians. Keep far from scorpions and burning tenements, and did I mention Isaurians?”

Crinagoras fretted as the literary thief rambled on. “Why did the empress invite me here, if this sort of nonsense is what her guests are likely to enjoy?”

“They enjoy whatever Theodora says they will enjoy, Crinagoras. No doubt your poems will serve as a welcome contrast.”

“Yes, there’s that.”