“This isn’t your scrawny, stringy street mongrel. It’s a well fed watchdog. Quite succulent, it is. It was chained in the courtyard of a deserted mansion. Its master probably died. The poor thing would’ve starved to death. We did it a good turn, and saved it from a terrible end.”
“You ought to be working as a thief,” grumbled the new arrival. “Why do you bother to train bears?”
The thief shrugged. “I love bears, my friend! Beautiful animals they are. Bear training isn’t all about nomismata, you know.”
John strode forward, past the cages.
“Ah,” the rat catcher said with a leering grin, catching sight of him. “Looks like a visitor from the palace!” The man was snaggle-toothed, John noted.
“Then you better be polite,” the thief hiccoughed, contriving to bow while still remaining seated on the straw-strewn cobbles.
“Have you come to tell us the games are to start again?” the first speaker asked, looking hopeful.
John shook his head.
“See, see, I told you!” shouted a man perched on a stool. “When Sappho left, she not only took my good fortune, she took everyone else’s as well!”
Fortuna may have frowned upon the bear trainers, John thought, but perhaps at last her humors had improved so far as his quest went. “It’s about Sappho I wish to question you.”
“Is she at the palace now?” The man he addressed looked incredulous. “Not but what she was always very lucky, for me at least. Whenever she was with me and I rolled the dice, I won.”
“She wasn’t lucky, it’s those weighted dice you use!” one of his companions remarked.
John quelled the man with a glare. Turning back to the fortunate wagerer, he asked his name.
“Theodora’s father,” someone muttered loudly.
“Her son!”
“Brutus,” said the man to whom John had directed the question.
“No, he isn’t,” revealed the rat catcher. “Brutus died last week. The man you’re talking to is Epiktetos.”
“Bastard!” Epiktetos shouted.
“Oh, you mean, he’s the one who’s Theodora’s son?” hiccuped one of the imbibers.
“No matter, I’m interested in Sappho,” John said.
“I’ll wager you are!” The speaker followed the comment with a snigger.
John turned and stared at the man, who suddenly got up, announced he had to relieve himself, and left the courtyard. The staccato sound of his running steps echoed around the small space as he took his chance to flee.
“About Sappho,” John went on. “What do you know of her whereabouts?”
“Nothing, sir,” Epiktetos responded. “I haven’t seen her since last winter.”
“She’s probably dead by now, like so many others,” the thief put in helpfully.
“Not so!” another voice contradicted. “I saw her only last week!”
“You saw her and didn’t tell me?” Epiktetos’ voice rose in outrage.
“Well, I’m fairly certain it was her. The woman I saw looked like her, only she wasn’t wearing yellow.”
“Then it definitely wasn’t Sappho, you fool,” Epiktetos said, an opinion the other trainers appeared to share.
John turned to go. It was obvious he would learn nothing here.
He glanced at the Hippodrome as he retraced his steps. The great building was silent, waiting for horse-racing to resume, but would its thousands of marble seats ever be as crowded as they had been in the past? So many in the city had died, and among them a number of charioteers.
The horses, however, had long since been removed to one of Justinian’s country estates. Although it was not known to the populace at large, as his confidant John knew the order had been less due to the emperor’s concern for the teams than to avoid the animals’ being stolen and eaten. As the plague maintained its grip, the usual foraging by half wild curs had become easier. Fattened on abundant human flesh, the packs were now beginning to be hunted for food in turn, as attested by his recent interview with the bear trainers.
John recalled the hot, oily taste of grilled fish. Very few fishermen brought their catches to Constantinople now. Neptune’s bounty was largely unharvested.
What macabre chance had carried his thoughts from horses to fish, he wondered.
Because Neptune created the horse, his memory told him, and horses race at the Hippodrome.
“But none are so fair as the team pulling Neptune’s chariot, his horses tossing manes of gold and skimming over the sea on gleaming bronze hooves,” John said out loud.
Chapter Twelve
John emerged from the gloom of a narrow alley into the light of a nondescript square near the docks. If strangers could not assist him in furthering his investigations, it might be time to seek the aid of old acquaintances.
As he had hoped, Pulcheria perched in her usual spot on the steps leading to a warehouse portico. Tripod, her three-legged feline companion, frisked around beside her, worrying at a small rat as Pulcheria braided together several pieces of red cloth. The bright strip of fabric thus created would doubtless soon join other colorful scraps ornamenting her tangled hair, complementing the rainbow of rags in which she was dressed.
It was a homely scene, more so than the bedlam at Prudentius’ house despite the fact it was outdoors.
Pulcheria looked up at the sound of John’s quick step. She smiled and cocked her head artfully, presenting him the half of her face that was still a pretty woman’s rather than the melted wax horror of the other side, the result of burning lamp oil thrown by an angry client.
“Ah, it is my friend from the palace.” She climbed to her feet and gave an exaggerated bow. “How may Tripod and I assist you today?” she asked as she took her seat on the worn steps again.
John sat down beside her. “I shall naturally make any time I take worth your while, Pulcheria.”
“Oh, I do like dealing with men from the palace. They’re always so very generous.”
John took the hint and handed her an appropriate amount. She studied it carefully with her one good eye and then, with a satisfied nod, tied the coins into the hem of the tunic she wore beneath her gaudy rags. The action momentarily revealed legs streaked with dirt.
“Ah,” she said with a sly laugh, “of late life has been so hectic I have been unable to make my accustomed regular visits to the baths.”
“Hectic, you say?”
“Yes, hectic!” Pulcheria flung her thin arms wide, setting their attached rags and ribbons fluttering and startling Tripod. “With the city in the grip of sudden and painful death, it’s hardly surprising the churches have never been so full. A friend of mine who ministers to weaknesses of the flesh in the Augustaion complains the constant singing and praying coming night and day from the Great Church is very bad for her trade.”
John ventured the suggestion that it might also be likely that such constant reminders of sin would dampen the ardor of prospective clients.
“That’s exactly what I said! It’s as obvious as fleas on a mangy dog, excellency. In fact, I strongly advised her to move to another square right away. Just so long as it wasn’t this one.”
“This is a tranquil spot compared to where I’ve been recently.”
“A rare lull. Already this morning I’ve entertained six clients. However, that’s no surprise since so long as heaven has been satisfied with prayers and a coin or two given in charity, once men are well away from all that singing and praying, it’s time for them to satisfy their bodies. Yes,” she mused, absentmindedly scratching a grubby ankle, “for some of us city dwellers, the plague has been a godsend of a different sort.”
John asked what she meant.
“For one thing, with so many lying dead in the streets beggars have been having a much easier time. The departed are less inclined to refuse the outstretched palm, aren’t they? Yes, beggars all wear new boots these days.”
Glancing at Pulcheria’s ragged garments, John observed that evidently she had not taken advantage of the unexpected bounty to be harvested in every square and alley.