“Don’t you worry someone will steal these beautiful things?” Anatolius asked. “Treasures like these would normally be kept closely guarded. This building is hardly secure.”
“There you are mistaken, young man. I chose this abode carefully. You must have noticed it abuts the church. Practically every tenant works for it, so I am surrounded by lectors and sub-deacons, by those who fill the church lamps, dust the icons, and polish the reliquaries. Weak though my physical fortifications may appear, my riches are protected by a mighty fortress of devout and honest Christians.”
“Indeed,” said John. “But those who are employed by the church do not share your palace background. Do you keep in touch with former friends? With others who have been banished? I’ve been told that you are well known among those who have lost their places at court.”
Menander stiffened. “I have no complaint against Justinian whatsoever. If you are fishing for rumors and sordid gossip-”
“That’s not my purpose. What makes you think so?”
The old silentiary stared at the red glass icon in his hand, set it on the plate next to the cheese, and sighed. “I am sorry, Lord Chamberlain. I spoke hastily, I admit. The last time someone began making inquiries about my acquaintances it soon became apparent he was far too interested in hearing scandalous tales about Theodora and grievances against the emperor. I’m not naive. I understand the ways of the court. When I realized what he was after and tried to put him off, he was not very civil.”
John asked the name of the inquirer.
“He called himself Procopius. He accosted me at the Baths of Zeuxippos. He claimed to be writing a history and said he was employed by the general Belisarius.”
“I believe Belisarius is currently in the city. He was recalled under a cloud.”
“Let’s hope he remains in disfavor then. No doubt the emperor can’t wait to start some new, ruinously expensive military venture now that the plague is over. Perhaps we were luckier being ruled by the plague. At any rate, this Procopius was an unctuous and unpleasant little man.”
Crinagoras sniffed. “I’ve heard of Procopius. I understood he was planning to pen some turgid prose about Justinian’s architectural projects. The subject is as inspired as the typical legal document.”
“I am not interested in rumors,” John said. “I can hear as many as I wish at court. But I do seek information about a man named Glykos. What do you know about him?”
“Glykos? He was a tax collector, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. He owned a house on the palace grounds, opposite the excubitor barracks, not far from-”
“I’m familiar with the house, Lord Chamberlain. By sight, that is. Glykos himself, however…”
“It’s his wife and child in which I’m interested,” John replied. “Glykos was one of those men the emperor had executed following the riots. His wife and daughter were spared, but thrown onto the street. The girl was named Agnes.”
Menander shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’ve never encountered anyone related to Glykos. The mother and daughter most probably turned to begging or prostitution. They could well be dead by now what with the rioting then and the plague just past. Or they might have departed from the city. If so, they could be anywhere.”
“Is it possible they assumed another name?”
Menander’s eyes narrowed and he pulled himself up straighter. For an instant John glimpsed the formidable demeanor that must have served the old silentiary well in the days when he presided over the great bronze doors leading into Justinian’s reception hall.
“I assure you, I have never heard a word about the unfortunate mother and daughter, whatever name they might have chosen to go under, even if they are still alive.”
Crinagoras gasped.
Glancing around, John saw the poet hastily put down a small, rectangular mosaic, an icon depicting a golden cross.
“What’s the matter?” Anatolius asked.
Crinagoras eyed the icon warily. “It’s been taken over by a demon,” he stammered. “I…I…turned it toward the light and it changed from a cross to a…to…well…”
Menander laughed. “It serves you right, young man. Didn’t I tell you not to disturb my belongings? May you have nightmares!”
“I have seen mosaics like that,” John said. “Where did you obtain this one?”
“I don’t remember, Lord Chamberlain. I’ve had it for years.” He gestured around the treasure-packed room. “It’s hard enough for me to keep track of the value of all this, let alone recall where every item came from.”
Chapter Thirteen
John, Anatolius, and Crinagoras stood at the foot of the tenement stairs and contemplated walking back through the inky puddles of the alleyway, now barely visible in the deepening twilight beyond the doorway.
“I shall have to at least wrest some verse from this miserable excursion,” muttered Crinagoras. “I’ll call it A Paludial Passage. What could be more emblematic of the common life than slogging through muck and mire and-”
“I’m glad someone has found some inspiration here,” Anatolius broke in. “John, you don’t believe Menander knows nothing at all about Glykos’ family, do you?”
“No. I would have expected him to have heard gossip or rumors if nothing else. It isn’t surprising Menander would be uncooperative. A man who has been expelled from court isn’t likely to have any great love of those who remain there, regardless of what he might say about Justinian to my face.”
Anatolius looked down and scowled. “I’m in agreement with Crinagoras. I hate thinking I’ve got my boots soaked for no good reason. Perhaps Menander should be reminded of the consequences of misleading you?”
“I don’t want to frighten him. There are plenty of others in his position and I wish to avoid spreading alarm about inquiries coming from men living in the palace.”
John turned toward the woman they had seen sitting on the stairs on their way up to Menander’s room and asked her where he could find the owner of the tenement.
The woman, who had been studiously ignoring the trio, looked away from contemplating the wall. “I hope there is nothing amiss, excellency?” Her tone was anxious. “I collect rents and keep watch and you can be sure I am ever alert. It’s not everyone who will trust a woman with matters of business, but the owner of this fine dwelling is one.”
The fading light fell against the wall beside her, illuminating a line of charcoal marks and smudges where a few had been rubbed away. The woman herself remained in shadow, a faceless figure with a rasping voice.
“Who is the owner?” John asked.
“The Church of the Mother of God,” was the surprising answer. “All the tenants here work for the church in one way or another. Their lodgings are so close to it they don’t mind paying a little extra for the privilege of not having far to walk.”
She tapped the line of charcoal marks on the wall. “As you see, I keep track of them most carefully. I hope nobody is spreading bad things about any of them, excellency. Most are poor, but all of them are honest.”
Anatolius complimented her upon the honesty of the tenants.
“The three of you are from court, aren’t you? I am very observant, sir,” she replied. “Menander isn’t in trouble, is he? If he were, I would never try to conceal him from you. My job is to watch and collect rents. I work for the church, which instructs us to obey the emperor in all matters.”
John did not observe that since they had just visited Menander, concealment would not have been possible. Instead, he asked the woman how long Menander had been a tenant.
“He’s been here for years, excellency. Never been any bother. I will say. Very quiet, he is, even when he’s imbibed too much. That’s all I know. As I said, my job is to collect rents and keep watch. Also to make certain nobody lets half a room out behind my back. Not that I don’t sympathize, for it’s difficult to scratch out a living and getting more so every day.”