“Glykos? I seem to recall some mention of the name. You say this fellow died about ten years ago? I was only a youngster at the time.”
“What about his family? I have reason to believe the mother and daughter remained in the city,” John said.
Francio shook his head. “It’s possible. Those who are banished from court might as well have sailed away across the seas.”
John knew that many who fell into disfavor fled for their own safety. The lucky ones-landed aristocratics who were allowed to retain any of their holdings-retired to what remained of their country estates, or to the estates of relatives. But most at the palace owed their wealth and privilege to their positions and any palace official, even one as powerful as the Lord Chamberlain, held office at the whim of the emperor. With a few words, Justinian could turn a rich man into a beggar. Even the sentatorial class was not immune to having all they possessed confiscated.
Francio had screwed his face up in thought. “I do see some former courtiers at the Bathos of Zeuxippos from time to time,” he said. “Anyone can get in for a copper coin or two. I suppose it’s a way for them to enjoy the sort of surroundings they left behind, as well as an opportunity to talk to old friends.”
“Or at least those who will still acknowledge acquaintanceship,” Anatolius put in.
“Perhaps one of these fallen courtiers would know something that would assist me?” John said.
“Indeed. And now that I think of it, I know exactly the man. His name’s Menander. He was a silentiary. He fell from favor a long time ago so he’s well connected to those who are no longer well connected. He knows everyone who used to be someone. What’s more Fortuna has favored you, because I saw him right here not an hour ago.”
“Where can we find him now?” John asked.
“He told me he was going to attend a poetry reading. He expected there would be plenty of wine, and his hearing isn’t that good anyway. You know the poet, I believe. Crinagoras.”
John suppressed a grimace. “Yes, he’s a friend of Anatolius. Every time he visits my house the walls ring for days afterward.”
Francio chuckled. “He does enjoy hearing his own verse. When I saw him this morning he was declaiming samples, to entice passersby to commission a work or two. His performances are always comical, even if it’s not his aim. Last time he surpassed himself, because he recited at the very foot of Demosthenes there and mumbled even more than usual.”
Anatolius remarked it was not surprising the orator’s bronze brows were furrowed and his lips tight. “I suppose we’d better go and seek whatever lecture hall Crinagoras is using,” he went on. “He’s bound to chide me for abandoning my muse for the law.”
“Crinagoras is going to entertain at my next banquet,” Francio said. “I hope his presence won’t stop you from attending. I’ll be serving Arcadian dishes. Just simple country fare. Very unusual for my gatherings. John, you’ll particularly enjoy the smoked cheese.”
“Is the cheese by any chance produced on one of those farms your family owns?”
Francio frowned. “It could be, I suppose. I deal with city merchants. I don’t know who supplies them.”
“Francio is not a man of business,” put in Anatolius.
“Certainly not,” Francio agreed. “Particularly when the business would keep me out in the hills someplace. Why would I abandon the court to live amongst sheep and geese? Besides, the family is keen on horses. I remember when I was a child…well…” His voice trailed off as his hand moved for an instant to the side of his crushed nose.
“Is this man Menander from a landed family?” John asked.
“Not that I know of. He is, or was, a self-made man, which is to say a man made by the emperor. At some time he was of some value to Justinian. Only he and the emperor can say why. So he was granted a postion, income, a luxurious residence. Then he ceased to be of value and it was all taken away.”
As he talked, Francio led John and Anatolius along a corridor where busts of emperors and philosophers on pedestals almost outnumbered the patrons. Doorways opened onto meeting rooms, libraries, and exercise areas. The only sign of the facilities themselves was a breath of humid air from an intersecting hallway leading further into the complex.
They found Crinagoras in a semicircular lecture area with a raised platform facing several benches. The benches were empty except for a long haired boy nibbling at a small wedge of cheese.
“Your audience is late in arriving?” Francio remarked.
“Oh, no,” came the reply. “Indeed, there was an excellent turn out. My reading’s finished. I’ve been writing shorter poems, to match my humble subject matter. No epics for onions!”
The poet was dressed in the voluminous old fashioned toga he always wore for his performances. John thought he looked pudgier than when he had last seen him. The ruddy features, framed by sandy curls, looked even softer and more child-like than John recalled, as if the man were aging backward.
Crinagoras gestured toward a table covered with empty earthenware dishes and jugs. “It all went exceedingly, wonderfully well, Anatolius. I provided just precisely the right amount of bucolic refreshment. Yes! The wine and cheese lasted exactly as long as the audience did.”
“Was Menander here?” Francio asked. “We’re looking for him.”
“Menander?”
“A big old fellow. White hair. Gaunt. Stooped. Looks like the Olympian Zeus after a year in the emperor’s dungeons.”
Crinagoras frowned, setting his double chins in motion. “Well, let’s see…I can’t remember. I become caught up in the verse. I find myself transported into realms of imagination far removed from our tawdry, everyday surroundings. The audience might as well not be there.”
“Menander was here,” the boy on the bench piped up. He looked thirteen or fourteen. “I can tell you where he lives, if it’s worth something to you.”
Francio scowled at the youth. “And how would you know Menander?”
The boy shoved the remains of the cheese into his mouth before speaking around the bulge in his cheek. “I’ve had to help him home when he’s drunk often enough.”
Chapter Twelve
Home, to Menander, was a tenement behind the Church of the Mother of God. Francio remembered some urgent business and took his leave of John and Anatolius as soon as it became apparent that Crinagoras insisted on accompanying them.
The church and tenement were not far from the workshops of the artisans John had visited that morning. The rain had stopped and the lowering sun turned puddles and wet roofs red.
As the trio made their way through the russet light, the poet declaimed at Homeric length. “I need to stride the streets and fill my lungs with the same air as the simple folk.”
He gesticulated so wildly his toga flapped and billowed like a sail. “Yes, those of us who make our living by our wits have yet much to learn from those humble souls who have nothing more than their stained and work-worn hands between themselves and an empty stomach.”
He skirted the filthy, bare feet of a man sitting in a doorway, ignoring an outstretched, skeletal hand.
“Uncharitable bastards!” The croaking cry of the beggar followed them down the street. “May you rot!”
John swiveled on his boot heel and glared back. One look at the Lord Chamberlain’s expression and the beggar found an urgent reason to leap up and scuttle away.
Anatolius gave John an inquiring glance.
“Perhaps I’m not in a charitable mood,” John told him. “Besides, you’re always telling me I shouldn’t be filling every palm I see on the street.”
Crinagoras looked pained. “I’m not so sure that I can find inspiration in a beggar. Certainly not from such a foul and insulting beggar. A ragged child, perhaps. For even the homeliest subject can become poetic in the hands of a master. Consider if you will Virgil’s encomium to his salad. I intend to recite it at Francio’s banquet since plain fare is the menu.”