Jester Leaps In: A Medieval Mystery (20 page)

“No, milord.”

“Hm. Well, you came at a good time. Alexios is in constant need of amusement as he ages, and the vacancy has been too long unfilled. I wish you well.”

He opened the door and beckoned to the Captain.

“Show them out,” he said. “And provide them with a document for safe passage at night. I expect the entertainment will occasionally last that long.”

Claudius and I bowed and followed the Captain.

“What did he have to say?” asked Stanislaus.

“I believe the intention was to exclude you from the conversation,” I replied.

“Very good. But tell me anyway.”

I stopped.

“Everyone wants to know what everyone else is saying,” I complained. “Is there no respect for privacy anymore?”

“Is your loyalty to the Emperor or to the Treasurer?” asked Stanislaus.

“Is there any difference?”

“It depends. What did he say to you?”

“That he wanted me to spy on you, Captain.”

He laughed at that. “All right, Fool. Have it your way.”

“You don’t trust him.”

“I don’t trust anyone,” he said.

“But I thought you said you were loyal to the man who pays you. Isn’t that the Treasurer?”

“No,” he said, bringing us to the side entrance. “The Hetairia report to the Grand Keeper of the Doors, if you can imagine such a title. He holds the purse strings. Very tightly, in fact, but there you are. But our loyalties are to the Emperor, no matter who actually gives us the gold.”

“I’ll never understand this bureaucracy,” I said. “Will we be seeing you at the Rooster later?”

“Perhaps,” he said. He pulled out a document from a desk near the entrance, scribbled a few words, and placed the seal of the Imperial Guard upon it. “Here, this will give you safe passage in case you run into any of the Vigla after sunset.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

The sun was already setting as we left Blachernae. Fortunately, we had no other errands and were able to take a direct route across the Lycos to the Rooster. All around us, people hastened home, trying to outrun the closing of the gates and the patrols of the Vigla.

“What cowled visitor do you suppose awaits us tonight?” asked Claudius as we walked.

“Thalia said she was going to meet us last night,” I replied. “I wonder what kept her.”

“I wonder who is keeping her,” said Claudius.

“What did you think of Philoxenites?” I asked, changing the subject.

She chewed her lower lip as she considered the question.

“He didn’t seem that menacing to me,” she said. “He plays his own game, of course, but he seemed more interested in trying to use us than in finding out what we know.”

“Yet that could be his way of misdirecting us. We now know that those seats were his at the time Zintziphitzes overheard the
plot against Alexios. And he certainly has the resources and the soldiers.”

“Is he using the Imperial Guard?”

“Probably not, since they don’t get paid by him. The Varangians, on the other hand, are paid directly from the Imperial Treasury, so he has a pretty good selection of killers at his beck and call. Given the lack of trust between him and Stanislaus, I’d think the Guards would be a less likely choice.”

It was dark when we came to the Rooster. We had to show our pass to one patrol before then, which delayed our return. As it turned out, the sergeant had seen us at the Hippodrome, so we escaped without too much annoyance.

Peter Kamantares, the butcher, was coming from around the back as we arrived, toweling himself off vigorously.

“Hail, fools,” he said. “There’s still stew, maybe even a few pieces of meat left in it.”

“Another souvenir of your trade?” I asked.

“Not today. Michael killed more than he could sell today, so we have a bit of venison to share.”

“We are fortunate to live with such bloodthirsty men,” said Claudius. “It makes for a rich diet.”

“Aye, it does at that,” replied Peter. “Although in my case, my clothes are so bespattered that I frighten the ladies away. A considerable drawback, if you ask me.”

We entered the Rooster to the usual roar. Except for Asan, the regulars were all there. The Russians were staring disconsolately at the dwindling pile of coins they had left. It turned out that one of them had sought to win their passage back by gambling, but chose one of Father Esaias’s establishments. The dice were unfriendly.

Simon brought us wine. The stew was a good one, and we toasted both Michael for the deer and Simon for cooking it.
Despite the presence of the giant Stephanos at the table, there was still ample meat left for Claudius and me. The others were already at the end of their meals and bade us a good evening. Simon began clearing the tables as we each took a second portion.

“It is a hungry business you’re in,” he observed.

“We were performing before the Emperor,” I said proudly. “We entertained him for quite a while, but he neglected to provide a meal for us.”

“The Emperor!” he exclaimed. “You have come up in the world. Will you be leaving me then?”

“Not just yet, friend Simon,” I said. “There is little permanence in a fool’s life, so we will continue here. Especially since we paid you for two weeks in advance. By the way, was there anyone asking for us while we were out?”

“No,” he said, thinking back. “Were you expecting someone in particular?”

“No,” I replied. “Just hoping some more work would come our way. An excellent meal, my host. Good night.”

“No soldiers tonight,” remarked Claudius as we went upstairs.

“The Varangians rotated out, remember? And Stanislaus wasn’t certain he would be here.”

“The place certainly didn’t lack for noise,” she said. She yawned as we came to the entrance to our room. “I wonder where Asan was tonight. What’s wrong?”

I pointed to the floor. “He’s here.”

He was on his back, eyes still open, a look of surprise on his face. I squatted down by him and rolled him over. There was a single stab wound in the middle of his back. The blood on his cloak was sticky to the touch.

“Someone must have blamed him for trying,” said Claudius.

“Did you ever notice that he was of your height?” I said. She looked at me. “Same color hair. Similar cloak, in fact.”

She looked down at him. “Someone was waiting in our room to kill us. Asan walked in, deciding to ransack it when we were out.”

“And was killed in our place,” I concluded, standing up. I looked at the body. “I must say the timing is a bit inconvenient for us.”

“More so for him.”

“Yes, but here’s the thing. Putting aside the attempt on our lives, we now have a murdered man in our room. Not the sort of thing one wants to bring to the authorities around here.”

“Don’t you think they’ll want to help?”

“The Vigla? No, I think they will assume that we killed him; then they will seize us, torture us, and execute us.”

She looked at the body. “You’re right. Not at all convenient. Very inconsiderate of the murderer, if you ask me.” She unshuttered the window and looked out. “We face the rear of the building. It might be easier to lower him out the window than to take him downstairs.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “Wait. We can keep this simple. We just wait until the others have fallen asleep; then we’ll bring him to his own room.”

We sat together, keeping vigil over Asan’s body, flicking occasionally at the flies that were beginning to gather, until the sounds from the other rooms gradually ceased.

“We must be getting closer,” she murmured.

“I suppose so,” I said. “Always a good sign when they try to kill you. Makes it easier to find out who it is. The trick is surviving.”

“So far, so good,” she said.

There was silence at last, broken only by the marching of the Vigla somewhere in the distance. We poked our heads out into the corridors and listened until we heard sufficient snoring from
the other rooms. Then we hoisted up our unlucky burglar and brought him to his room. We laid him on his pallet as gently as we could; then I reached down and closed his eyes.

We tiptoed back to our own room without being discovered, then collapsed onto the pallet, holding each other tightly.

“May we sleep now?” she asked. “I don’t think our murderer will come back again tonight, and Asan is no longer a problem.”

“Something just occurred to me,” I said, getting to my feet. “We are going to have to report this to the authorities after all.”

“But I thought you didn’t want to bring in the Vigla.”

“Not the Vigla. The real authority around here. Come on.”

We went back out to the street. Despite the freedom of passage conferred upon us by Stanislaus, we kept to the shadows and alleys, making our way toward the Lycos River, looking for a church.

Easy enough to find in this city. Constantinople has over two hundred churches, from the immensity of the Hagia Sophia down to the tiny brick buildings dedicated to saints so obscure that after martyrdom God Himself must have looked at them when they came before His throne and said, “And you are . . .”?

There was more than one church dedicated to Saint Stephen, of course, but there was only one Saint Stephen’s Church on the Lycos. It was a medium-sized brick structure. Despite the lateness of the hour, it seemed to be doing good business. People were coming and going like it was a market day.

We entered through the front doors to find a few dozen men and women crowding the area between the doors and the ikonostasis. Our Lord and His Mother waved merrily from the painted screen, beckoning to the lost souls to walk through the doorways into the sanctuary. The penitents were lined up before a simple wooden chair next to the deacons’ entrance that was
playing the part of the Bishop’s Throne tonight. Father Esaias was seated upon it, a golden alb and stole draped over his customary cassock. A pair of burly priests stood on either side of him, ready to mete out contrition with a pair of stout clubs if need be.

We took our places in line and watched the proceedings. Each person would walk up to the chair, kneel before Esaias, and speak in hushed tones. Frequently, a sack was handed over as a donation to the church. The sacks were of varying size, and many of them jingled. Esaias would extend one bony hand in blessing, usually with some coin in it. On some occasions, the sacks were apparently too small, for the blessing consisted of several blows to the head rather than coin. The recipients of these attacks begged most wholeheartedly for forgiveness, then slunk into the night, no doubt to repent.

“Should we have brought something?” whispered Claudius.

“We are bringing news,” I whispered back. “I am not sure that he is going to like it.”

Our turn came, and we went up together and knelt before him as the bodyguards looked at us in surprise.

“Forgive us, Father, for we have sinned,” I said.

“Wrong church,” he replied. “Sin is not necessarily condemned in this sanctuary. Although sinners may be.”

“Can we talk privately?”

He looked out at those remaining. “Anything not routine business?” he called. There was none. He turned to one of the other priests. “Father Theodore, take over. Father Melchior, come with me.”

Esaias led us down a flight of steps into the crypts below the church. He paused before an altar with a panel depicting Saint Stephen behind it. He crossed himself, then slid the panel aside and led us down another flight of steps into what turned out to
be a group of rooms appointed more lavishly than some palaces I have seen.

He reclined upon a red-silked couch and motioned to us to sit on some chairs opposite.

“What is it, my son?” he asked.

“Asan was one of your men?” I asked.

“A lesser thief with aspirations but little talent,” he said. “I hear you using the past tense with him.”

“He was killed tonight. At the Rooster.”

“By you?”

“No, Father. We came to report his death, and to assure you that we had no part in it.”

He folded his hands and lay back, the very picture of a dead priest.

“Where was he killed?”

“In our room.”

“When?”

“Sometime during the day, I think. He was there when we returned.”

“Why was he in your room?”

“We’ve caught him twice trying to steal from us.”

“Then damn him for a fool,” pronounced the priest. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Still, there would be no reason to kill him for stealing from you, at least not for anyone else. Do you think that someone killed him thinking he was one of you?”

“That thought did cross our minds.”

He stood abruptly and pointed to the floor before him.

“Kneel, sinners,” he commanded.

Not knowing what else to do, we knelt. He placed a gnarled hand on each of our heads as if to pronounce a benediction.

“He may have brought his death upon himself,” he said. “But it is not true that you had no part in it. Your very presence set in motion the circumstances that led to it. Therefore, under our code, you owe us a life.”

“But . . .”

“Or a death. Rise and prepare to accept your penance.”

We stood, uncertain as to what he meant.

“The death you owe us will be of the man who killed Asan. I am not interested in any niceties of policy or politics as to this matter. Our society demands retribution. A death for a death. You have become our chosen instrument of revenge.”

“But we don’t know who killed him.”

“Then I expect you to find out. If it is connected with the deaths of your fellow fools, then no doubt you will nose him out, or be killed in the attempt. If that happens, we will continue the quest. On the other hand, the man you seek may be closer to home. Perhaps someone at the Rooster caught him stealing and acted hastily. Have you considered that?”

“No,” I admitted.

“You share a house with a hunter, a butcher, a large ruffian who is in fact one of my enforcers, and a band of increasingly impoverished and desperate Russians. It could be any one of them.”

“True enough,” I said. “What shall we do about Asan’s body?”

“Where is it now?”

“We took it to his room.”

“A wise course of action. Let events play out as they will. I assure you that Simon will not bring in the guard. He prefers as little notice as possible. Now, go in peace, my children. But return with news of your progress.”