“How do you know this?”
“Customers grumble in front of me. What do I matter?”
“And you say that Troilus’ friend was involved in this…play acting?”
Jabesh looked distressed. “Yes. As I said, they don’t mean it seriously. Perhaps I should have said nothing.”
“No. I appreciate your honesty. Someone I spoke with earlier was not so forthcoming. He will soon regret it.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Lord Chamberlain! I am honored to have a second visit so soon!”
Opilio stood on a stool, draping a garland of links over the doorway to his shop. Glancing down, he must have taken note of John’s stern expression because the smile on his ruddy face faded.
“There’s nothing wrong with the sausages, is there? Were they not to your liking?”
“I haven’t tried them.” John’s tone was curt. “You will provide me with more information since you appear to have neglected to tell me everything you knew.”
The stout sausage maker climbed down, nearly lost his balance, and reached a hand out to steady himself against the wall.
“I’ve been doing my best to recall the smallest detail that might be of use,” he protested. “But I fear my poor brain is as empty-”
“-as one of your casings,” John cut in. “Just as it was a few hours ago.”
“That’s it, alas.”
“I find it hard to believe you would recall your niece associating with actors and actresses but her spending time with malcontents plotting against the emperor would entirely escape your mind.”
The color drained from Opilio’s face. “Plotting against…no…no…of course not. She’s a common little prostitute, that’s true enough, or at least she was when last I saw her. But a prostitute…that’s one thing…to plot against the emperor…that’s another thing entirely…”
“Indeed. After all, it is not treasonous to harbor a prostitute under one’s roof.”
“Treason?” Opilio looked stricken. “Why would anyone suspect me of treason? There’s no one in Constantinople more loyal to Justinian than I am. Why, I would kiss the ground our glorious emperor walks upon. I mean, if I ever found myself anywhere near such ground. Not that I would try put myself in the vicinity of the emperor.”
John was silent.
“I…I…but…Agnes…I turned her out!” Opilio stuttered. “If I’d known she was plotting against the emperor, I wouldn’t have turned her out, I would have turned her over to the Prefect immediately, even though she was my niece.”
John remained silent.
“I wouldn’t harbor a traitor if she were my own dear mother, excellency,” Opilio continued, near to tears. “In fact, I would hunt her down and strangle her with my own hands.”
“Justinian would be gratified to hear that.”
“And I’m not ashamed to say it. What is a relative’s blood as compared to the wellbeing of the empire? We are all mortal. The empire lives forever.”
The sausage maker stood to attention, with all the gravity of a silentiary at the entrance to Justinian’s reception hall, albeit a short, bent, bow-legged silentiary in a tunic streaked by bits of offal.
Was he truly worried about being charged with treason, or was he afraid the high official who was displeased might put an end to his business dealings with the palace?
“You understand if there is anything you are not telling me this time, you will regret it. Do you know a man by the name of Troilus? He sells curiosities.”
“The name isn’t familiar.”
“He is acquainted with your niece.”
“Agnes knows far too many men!”
“Then she never brought him to your home when she lived with you? It is possible he went by another name.”
“I did not allow Agnes to carry on her filthy business in my home, excellency. None of her acquaintances-men or women-were welcome, because they were all of the same sort.”
“Then you did not know Agnes had a taste for purple and that she comported with plotters?”
“As I’ve already told you, excellency, I know nothing of that. I can believe Agnes might have a taste for purple but as for seeking to bring down the emperor…” Opilio shook his head. “She’s a foolish girl. All she cared about when she lived here were baubles and vanities. I doubt she’s changed. On the other hand, a woman in her profession does not necessarily know the plans of those she entertains.”
“Are you sure of that?”
Opilio clasped his hands together as if on the verge of wringing them or praying. “I must be honest, talk about plots is often in the air, like smoke from the foundries,” he replied. “Every week there’s talk of such things, yet what is it? Just talk. That’s why I said nothing. After a while one doesn’t even take note of it. If any of these plans were serious, no one would be prattling about them in public, would they?”
He paused and contemplated the linked sausages framing his door. “Yes, excellency, you can depend upon it. It’s all just idle talk. I suppose those who once basked in the presence of the emperor must find it boring to live in this quarter. That’s why they hold all these meetings, at out of the way places, to liven their drab existences up a bit.”
“Exactly what out of the way places are you referring to? Don’t lie to me, Opilio. I am anxious to attend one of these meetings.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
A handful of men had clustered near the base of a porphyry column in the far corner of the spacious court between the Baths of Arcadius and the water. Morning sun spilled a silver wash across the court’s polished stone. John and Anatolius observed the men from a distance.
“A peculiar place to congregate if you’re planning to depose the emperor,” remarked Anatolius with a grin. “Or perhaps they don’t realize they’re conspiring at Theodora’s feet? I can’t say I see much resemblance.”
John admitted that the painted statue, which he knew was meant to represent the empress, did not much resemble her. “She may well have looked like that in her youth,” he concluded.
“If she had been the Christian’s Mother of God in her youth rather than a prostitute.”
John agreed that the empress had never worn such a beatific expression during any of his encounters with her, but then Theodora had long hated him. Why it was he had never discovered, although he suspected it was in part due to his high position at court, allowing him constant access to and possible influence upon Justinian.
Her statue gazed away from the city, as if it was looking away from the sinful world in the direction of the convent she had established on the other side of the water. John doubted she would be one of those powerful personages who in due course would retire to a life of contemplation.
“Remember, Anatolius, we only have Opilio’s word that he overheard Agnes saying this was a favorite meeting spot for her disaffected friends.”
At this hour there was no one else at the seaside court aside from solitary strollers. The sun had been rising as John and Anatolius made their way down a steep street that ran out of the Copper Market and ended at the Strategion, not far from the court in the northeastern corner of the city. Agnes seemed to have had a predilection for the hours before crowds flooded streets and squares.
John could appreciate that.
“Isn’t that Menander?” Anatolius pointed out the broad shouldered old man conversing in the middle of the group. In the sunlight the man’s white hair formed a nimbus above his craggy features. “Very suspicious, don’t you think? He certainly carries a grievance.”
“They could be discussing anything. The fine weather. The excellent statuary. The mosaic girl in my study.”
“Yes…well…I’m sorry about Crinagoras’ indiscretion.”
“I am not concerned with common gossip but, as you said, since Crinagoras wrote a verse referring to Zoe anybody in the city could know it as a result. I had hoped if I could find out how Agnes learned the name it might give me an idea of what and with whom she was involved and why she was murdered.”