“Yes. Yes, I admit it. I saw that villain on occasion. He would come here looking for Agnes.” Opilio’s forehead wrinkled and he leapt off the stool. “Is he the one responsible?”
“There may be some connection between him and her murderer. Why do you call him a villain?”
“He was a malcontent, excellency. Every cloud that passed over the sun was directed by the hand of the emperor. Every cold wind that blew came from the direction of the palace. If his evening meal was not cooked enough…well…it would have been perfection if it weren’t for the demon emperor.”
Apparently Opilio’s grief had unlocked his tongue and he was now talking without thought of the possible consequences.
“There was reason for his grievances?”
“Troilus was not a courtier. I know nothing of his family, but then why would I? Sedition’s good business to him. Many of his customers are former courtiers so he adopts their viewpoint, or pretends to at least. People prefer to deal with one of their own, someone who thinks like them.”
“People like Menander? Do you know him?”
“Yes, that’s another name I had tried to put out of my mind, but I remember him now. Whenever Agnes would start chattering about whatever disreputable function she’d been so thrilled to attend, his name would come up. He’s the worst of the lot. To him treasonous talk is entertainment. That and boys. Rather than cursing the emperor he should be thanking the Lord for his good fortune. I hear it was Menander who set Troilus up in business and even now he supplies half of his stock. No doubt he receives part of the sales price.”
“You told me before you did not think any of these plots were likely to result in action.”
“It’s nothing but idle talk. That’s why I dismissed it all from my memory. There’s no harm in words which are only whispered to those who already share one’s prejudices. Besides, even people who hate Justinian love sausage. And a healthy business enriches the coffers of the empire, does it not?”
“There aren’t many men who would maintain such a strong allegiance to an emperor who had deprived their brother of his head.”
“Perhaps Glykos deserved his fate.”
A stray breeze carried a gust of fragrant smoke from the sheds in the courtyard into the workroom, rustling the bundles of dried herbs. John wondered if Justinian had taken the revenge on the sausage maker’s brother that the Christian and patriotic Opilio had harbored in his own heart.
“When you told Agnes what you overheard in Francio’s kitchen, was that the last time you saw her?”
“Yes, excellency. It was the very day I made the delivery. Otherwise, I would never have remembered even those few verses. I never could memorize my Homer, the seas like wine and such. Agnes talked about your house often. She thinks…thought…of it as home. I tried to give her and her mother a home, but my house is hardly comparable to a mansion on the palace grounds.”
“It’s understandable, Opilio. We all remember places where we were happy. What else did you talk about?”
The sausage maker sighed and blinked his suddenly brimming eyes. “Nothing of great importance. We argued and she left.”
“Did she ever mention gossip about Theodora having a son? Troilus said it was the sort of thing that’s bandied about.”
“That’s just the kind of scandal that fool Troilus would relish believing, Lord Chamberlain, and about as authentic as those curiosities he sells. Why don’t you talk to Menander?”
Opilio’s shoulders heaved as he suppressed a sob. “Please, excellency. I would like to close my shop now. I must arrange my niece’s funeral. Where is she?”
“The funeral has already taken place, Opilio. I will tell you where she is buried so you can visit her grave.”
***
The boy barreled down the stairway leading up to the floor on which Menander lived.
John stepped aside to avoid a collision and grabbed a flapping sleeve, restraining the boy from crashing into Peter, laboring up behind.
“If you’re here to see Menander, he’s at home, but in no state for nothing,” the boy blurted out.
“Explain,” John demanded.
“He’s drunk again. Took me ages to get him upstairs.”
John released the boy who bounded away, almost knocking Peter down.
Menander’s door was locked. John hammered on it until he heard shuffling on the other side.
“Who’s that? Forgot something?” The words were slurred. “Wait…”
The door came open to reveal white-haired Menander wobbling from foot to foot, gazing down toward where a boy’s head should have been. He jerked his gaze up, gave a startled gasp, and staggered back.
His heel snagged on a rumpled garment and he toppled over into the glittering wall of treasures that bisected the room, dislodging a rectangular object.
Menander made a clumsy grab at it and missed. The artifact hit a small table and vanished in a tinkling burst of color.
Menander stared down in horror at bits of glass littering the embroidered wall hanging which served for a floor covering.
“There’s a day! I have lost a day of my life,” he wailed.
John realized the object had been the changeable mosaic which had startled Crinagoras.
“Surely it wasn’t that valuable?” John replied.
“You would be surprised, Lord Chamberlain. But then, many people have no appreciation for them. Figulus takes full advantage of those of us who retain our appreciation. They cost a hefty sum, but he says he needs the money for a good cause.” Menander suddenly looked around in alarm, as if startled by his own words. “What did I say? I am very tired, excellency. So very tired. You must excuse me.”
John gestured Peter to enter. The old servant glanced around and immediately looked almost as horrified as Menander.
Menander gave a bitter laugh. “Another interview with the Lord Chamberlain? Between you and Procopius I haven’t been so popular at the palace since the day I left.”
Peter’s expression changed to outrage at the manner in which Menander spoke to John.
John ignored it. “Perhaps you have given a fuller account of yourself to Procopius. Did you admit to him what you concealed from me? For example that you knew Glykos’ daughter, Agnes?”
“What? Agnes? I…I…”
“Is the wine clouding your thoughts, Menander? You moved in the same circles and did business with her friend Troilus.”
“When did you ask me about Agnes and Troilus, Lord Chamberlain? Surely I must have mentioned them?”
“What I am interested in now, Menander, are these fanciful tales about Theodora’s son.”
“Procopius badgered me about that as well. It’s an old story. He knew more about it than I do. That’s what I said. I said you have just told me more than I know, Procopius, so go and ask yourself. My advice is to ask Procopius.” Menander swayed.
John blinked. He did not feel too steady on his feet himself. His head began to pound again.
He realized Peter had taken hold of his arm.
“Master, forgive the familiarity but you do not look well. If I may say so, you won’t get any sense out of that old wine-skin.”
“What did you say?” Menander demanded. “Wine-skin? You called me an old wine-skin. Is that my fate? To be insulted by ancient menials?”
“My servant is right, Menander. I will return when you are capable of thinking clearly.”
With the swift change of emotion of the intoxicated, Menander burst into tears. “Ah…my precious icon!” He crumpled to his knees. “A day of my life…gone…And how do I know it won’t be the very day when the tyrant Justinian dies? A day I would have lived to see. Except for this…and now I have lost what would have been the happiest day of my life.”
Chapter Thirty