“Gregory chose not to reveal the truth to Peter, Zoe. He had his reasons. Should I overrule Gregory’s decision?”
Zoe’s eyes gleamed in the flickering lamplight.
John looked down into his cup. “I spoke to Gregory’s wife for some time. I wanted to know the man better. He was a simple man, a soldier, not the sort one would expect to find working in a customs house’s administrative offices. He’d come by his high post almost by accident. It wasn’t a position he’d striven to achieve. I believe it never even occurred to him that Angelina might misinterpret his unexplained absences when he met with Peter. Perhaps he felt uneasy about misleading Peter about his station in life, not correcting his misapprehensions, and didn’t want to involve Angelina in the deception. After all, Peter is a servant, and Gregory employed servants…if it could in any way be characterized as a lie, it was one born of a kind heart.”
But does kindness justify a lie, Zoe wanted to know.
John had no answer. He realized also that Gregory’s motivation might well have gone beyond sparing his old friend’s feelings. He may have feared Peter would feel compelled to end their friendship if he became aware of the disparity in their social positions. At the very least, their relationship would have changed.
“The whole puzzle has become a labyrinth akin to the Minotaur’s maze,” he observed to Zoe, “and one that’s just as murderous, because you never know who might be lurking around the corner or in some dark alley.”
The mosaic girl expressed surprise at his choice of metaphor.
“It’s because I’m having a difficult time keeping my thoughts from galloping all over the place,” John confessed. “They insist on constantly returning to Crete. Cornelia and Europa returned there when they left Constantinople some years back.”
He sighed, took another sip of wine, and continued. “In private I sometimes called Cornelia Britomartis, after the Cretan Lady of the Nets. And why was that, you ask? Because the first time I saw the troupe perform, the sight of her snared me as securely as fishermen catch Neptune’s creatures in their meshes. Even so, when I approached her she sent me away after exercising that sharp temper and wicked wit of hers on me for some time. It took me two or three further visits to persuade her to my way of thinking, but then I had to join the troupe since she would not leave it. We traveled with them for a time, and many’s the night we spent under the stars away from the others, just us and the kindly darkness…” A smile briefly illuminated his face. “But perhaps I should not speak of such things to a young girl like you.”
“Perhaps not,” Zoe replied tartly, “particularly since you must keep your attention focused upon resolving the murder of Peter’s friend. Yet it seems to me that Gregory also wanted to preserve the past and managed to do so,” she went on, “because every time he met Peter he immediately stepped out of his life as an aging customs official and back into his vigorous, military youth.”
“As you say.”
“For all your wealth, you envy Gregory because he could do that and you cannot,” Zoe observed.
John silently raised the cracked cup to his lips.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
John entered Scipio’s emporium just as a man dressed in rags and a few stray flower petals was leaving.
The bookseller, fussing over the enormous mound of flowers the ragged fellow had left on a table near the door, looked up at the sound of John’s footstep.
“Welcome, excellency! Let me guess the reason for honoring me with another visit. You have been thinking about The Rustic Versifier and decided you must have it after all!”
“I fear I must disappoint you, Scipio.” John brushed a few stray petals off his cloak. “Aren’t all these flowers expensive?”
“My ragged friend offers them for a very reasonable price. Of course, there are many abandoned gardens in the city these days, but if it helps him buy a crust of bread…well…Are you certain you are not interested in the work of your friend Byzos?”
“No, I’m here to ask about something you said to Crinagoras.”
Scipio raised his eyebrows. “You’re a friend of Crinagoras? A man blessed by the Muses! But then you will already know that.” He tossed down the flowers he had been holding, rummaged in a crate under the table, and pulled out a piece of parchment. “I have a superb selection of his work, ready to be beautifully copied out by one of my excellent scribes.”
John found himself asking why Scipio had nothing already copied on hand.
“Why? Well…you know Crinagoras’ poetry, excellency. Whenever my scriveners copy it out…uh…they’re so moved…well…it’s all so tragic…they’re no good for anything until the next day, so I try not to overtax their sensibilities.”
“There is that, not to mention some might not find his work to their taste.”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I was getting at,” Scipio nodded. “Very upsetting for them, it is, having to copy such, well…Nevertheless, even the poorest words copied out in a fine hand on good quality vellum, perhaps, and enclosed in an expensive leather cover would please a lady. And isn’t it true that the most pleasing ladies are not necessarily the most literate?”
“I’m not here to buy Crinagoras’ poetry, Scipio. I’m seeking information about the fellow who calls himself a holy fool. I’ve been told you’ve been taking an interest in him.”
Scipio dropped the parchment back into the crate. “I hope to eventually be able to offer an account detailing his visit to the city and his antics while he was here, but I have yet to find an author. It’s a pity, because I’m certain it would sell very well.”
“That being the case, have you any notion where I can find the fool?”
Scipio brightened. “We can do business after all, excellency. The fool has been keeping me abreast of his exploits.”
John expressed surprise.
“The strange fellow got a ride with Byzos one day,” Scipio explained. “By what I hear, the fool has an unhealthy affinity for the dead. After Byzos had disposed of his cartloads of the departed that particular day, he brought the fool around here, to share a meal with him. I suppose Byzos thought he looked as if he needed some nourishment, but that’s the nature of these holy men. Always as thin as shadows. However, it gave me an opportunity to strike a deal with the fool. He drops in every morning for a loaf of bread and tells me where he’s going to be that day in exchange. I can always find a street urchin to follow him around and report back on the latest hijinks. I note them down for the chronicle I am collating. When this plague has passed, people will want to read all about the fool’s exploits. You can depend upon that, excellency.”
“No doubt. Meantime, where will he be today?”
***
From where John stood at the sea wall none of the burial pits Peter so feared were visible. A heavy pall of smoke half-obscuring masts and sullen water alike was the only evidence of municipal efforts to cope with the grim situation.
The raucous sound of squabbling gulls rose up on cool air redolent of the sea, overlaid with the sound of voices. Not the shouts of individual dockworkers, but rather the murmur of a group of people speaking all at once.
John trod to the bottom of a slippery flight of steps leading to a rocky strip of shoreline littered with rotting seaweed and other debris. There he halted to observe the situation.
A short distance away several people talked and gestured excitedly. A sudden shout directed John’s attention toward the water. Scipio’s information had been correct. He could see a spindly figure some way out.
It appeared as if it were dancing on the surface of the sea.
“Came out of nowhere, so it did,” someone loudly remarked.
“It’s magick, I tell you!”
“Smoke and sea spray. That’s all.”