He thanked Prudentius for his assistance and got up to leave.
“If this murder is connected in some way to Nereus’ will as I suspect, then any of the witnesses might know something that the murderer would not wish revealed,” he told the lawyer. “That being the case, keep in mind that if a witness is in danger because of his connection to the will, the testator’s legal advisor might well not be safe either.”
Chapter Sixteen
“You say I’m possibly in danger just because I was kind enough to escort an old man around the city? That’s not fair! Not fair at all, is it, Anatolius?” Crinagoras’ soft mouth settled into a petulant moue as he looked away from John to his friend, seated beside him in the Lord Chamberlain’s study.
Anatolius pretended to be looking at the scene outside.
“And so now going in fear of my life is how my kindness is to be repaid!” Crinagoras concluded angrily.
“If any of the witnesses are in danger, I’d suspect it would be because of some connection they had with Nereus or an interest they had in the will, which obviously does not apply in your case,” John pointed out wearily. “Nevertheless, exercising caution would be the best policy for now.”
Crinagoras shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden seat set in front of the bucolic mosaic. “Lord Chamberlain, is there no cushion to be found anywhere in your house?”
Thomas, leaning against the door-frame, laughed. “A hard seat’s exactly what you need right now, Crinagoras. Less chance of dozing off. Remember, a murderer might be seeking you.”
Crinagoras shot an accusatory look at the red-haired Briton. “Why did you have to say that? I’ll have difficulty enough sleeping as it is.”
Thomas grinned. “What you need is to hire a bodyguard. As it happens, I’m looking for work and I’m also very handy with the blade, as the Lord Chamberlain can confirm from our adventures together during my last visit to your city.”
“It’s certainly a good offer,” Crinagoras mused, “but what kind of remuneration would you require? My poems and epitaphs are not selling very well right now. So many of my patrons are at their country estates.”
Thomas tugged thoughtfully at his mustache. “Ah, but there may be someone out there who’d be happy to write your epitaph free of charge.”
More than one person, John thought. “I realize you can’t afford to spend the entire morning answering questions, Crinagoras, so I will take as little of your time as possible. As I explained, there must be seven witnesses to an oral will. You and Gregory were two and there was also Nereus’ servant Cador. Did you recognize anyone else at Nereus’ bedside?”
“Half the population of the city was present, Lord Chamberlain. A riot might have broken out at any time, there was such chaos.”
“And who might all these people have been?” John asked patiently.
“Servants. Slaves. Common laborers.” Crinagoras sniffed at the memory. “I recall a rustic fellow and a very strange person who insisted on dancing with a man in ecclesiastical garments.”
Thomas didn’t quite stifle a laugh.
John glared at him.
“I’m sorry, John,” Thomas grinned, “but I had forgotten how entertaining Constantinople can be.”
“You may not find it quite so entertaining after a few days' stepping over the dead,” Anatolius remarked. “How entertaining do you suppose Europa finds it?”
“The riotous scene at Nereus’ bedside will not be re-enacted in this room.” John’s tone was sharp. “Now, Crinagoras, you say someone from the church was there?”
“Yes. In fact, I remember that he had something to do with the Church of the Holy Apostles. What a memory, eh, Anatolius? I learned that from the servant who showed Gregory and me out. She mentioned, for some unfathomable reason, that the preserved nose of some saint or other is on display there and said if she had to go through life wearing a nose like that, she’d as soon not be a saint.”
He paused thoughtfully. “A comely young lady, and obviously quite taken with me. What do you suppose she meant by telling me she didn’t want to be a saint? Perhaps she was hinting…?”
John ignored his ramblings. “And this person you describe as very strange?”
“The fellow wore rags and had skin so leathery he looked as if he’d been left on the brazier too long.”
Thomas observed it was a description that fitted many residents of the city.
“But how many of them insist on dancing with a churchman while a man lies dying in the same room?” Crinagoras asked. “Not to mention knocking over the water clock. His rustic companion appeared to find that remarkably comical.”
He wrinkled his small nose. “It made an awful mess, of course,” he went on. “I couldn’t help thinking how appropriate it was, in a terribly poetic way, since poor Nereus’ time was about to run out all at once, just like the water in the clock.”
“Time was about to run out for Gregory too,” John reminded him.
“Yes, unfortunately. We’d talked on the way to Nereus’ house,” Crinagoras recalled. “As a poet, I make a study of humors, of character, the ways in which men express themselves. Naturally, Gregory was impressed when he learned about my poetic skills, so I asked what he did for a living. Alas, the poor man had passed much of his life as a customs official.”
Crinagoras sighed at Gregory’s misfortune. “He did however purchase a poem from me, composed on the spot. I borrowed a kalamos from one of Nereus’ servants to write it down. One never knows when the Muse will favor one. It was a wonderful piece about the tragic story of Leander and Hero.”
That explained the dreadful poem he had found on Gregory’s desk at the customs house, John realized. Which in turn meant that the customs official must have returned there before he died. Did that shed new light on anything he had learnt?
“I would still prefer to fight with a sword than a kalamos any day,” Thomas was saying.
Anatolius continued to devote most of his attention to what was going on outside, as if he’d never seen passing excubitors or foraging seagulls before.
Crinagoras squirmed on his chair and grimaced. His attention was caught by the mosaic. He reached out suddenly to run an exploratory finger over the image of the girl Zoe.
At John’s sharp glance he drew his hand back as if the tesserae were red hot.
“And finally about the oral will itself,” John asked. “Think carefully. What did Nereus say?”
Everyone looked expectantly at the young poet.
“I have no idea,” he confessed, red-faced. “With all the commotion, I could hardly hear a word.”
Mithra! John thought. Was every avenue he found to be barred after he had taken only a few steps down it? “I see. Very well, Crinagoras, I won’t detain you any longer.”
“Yes, I’m certain you have some verses to write,” Thomas put in, “but make sure you bar your doors and windows first.”
Crinagoras struggled up from his chair. “How would you like some of my poetry?” he asked Thomas as he drew level with him. “The ladies all love to be wooed with a good romantic poem. I’ll trade my verses for your blade’s protection, what do you say, Thomas?”
The burly knight exhibited a grasp of Greek vernacular John had not realized he possessed and then shrugged his shoulders.
“For today, it’s a bargain,” Thomas concluded, following Crinagoras downstairs.
John glanced at Anatolius’ doleful face and suggested a stroll around the garden.
Soon they were pacing around the peaceful space. Heavy dew still spangled its bushes, shimmering on spiderwebs and dripping from leaves and branches.
“So many shades of green, all different and yet all known by the same name,” Anatolius mused. “Perhaps I should write a verse or two about that…”
John changed the subject. “You’ve been so quiet today I assume Senator Balbinus awoke with the sun this morning, despite his servants’ dire predictions to the contrary?”