“No.”
John curbed his irritation. “You are a member of his household and know when he is expected to return?”
“No, I’m not.” The short man spoke in an aggrieved tone. “I’m Anthemius. I’m a brickmaker by profession. Aristotle and I merely share these premises. Rentals in the city are outrageous, not to mention since this cursed plague arrived there hasn’t much call for bricks. Yet there seems to be plenty of money for antiquities and oracles. Aristotle brings back huge sums every day. I don’t know how he does it.”
Evidently Anthemius had been waiting for an opportunity to air his grievances. He scarcely paused for breath as he rattled them off.
“All day long I’m attending the door and it’s always Aristotle whose services are being sought. Nobody seems to have any use for a brickmaker any more. However, as I told you, Aristotle’s not here right now. Would you care to step in to take some refreshment and wait a while? I could show you some of my handiwork. You might well find it of interest. I do excellent work, sir, if I say it myself.”
Declining wine, John followed the man inside. The atrium had been turned into a storage space and held piles of stacked bricks. In the inner garden patches of weeds alternated with areas of hard-packed earth.
John noted the source of the smell. A concrete-lined pit almost filled with urine. A tethered donkey grazed contentedly nearby. Several long mounds of earth, some of them overgrown, testified this house too had seen losses.
Anthemius intercepted his glance. “You get used to the smell, sir. Aristotle keeps talking about going into the leather business, but so far he hasn’t done much about it except collect one of what you might call the necessaries.”
John commented on the pitiful mounds.
Anthemius scratched his head. “Sad, isn’t it? Most of them were there when I arrived a few months back. Don’t know who they are, since Aristotle never spoke of his family. They’re all gone now. The last one was buried right after I arrived. It was a bit of a surprise to me since there was nobody in the house but us, or so I thought. Then, in the early hours one morning, something woke me up and I looked out of my window and what do you think I saw?”
John indicated he could not guess.
“Aristotle was burying the last member of his family. Well, I couldn’t see too well because it was so dark, but the departed was either wrapped in white or stark naked, but either way, it was tragic, sir, tragic. I didn’t like to observe such a private matter, so I closed the shutters as soon as I realized it wasn’t one of those stealthy nocturnal visitors who come to steal whatever they can run off with.”
“Doubtless if it was your cudgel would soon have persuaded them otherwise.”
Anthemius lifted the cudgel and tapped it lightly in the palm of his free hand. “Indeed it would and in fact it has done so on occasion.”
“You’ve had to fight off intruders recently?”
“Just a few rambunctious children, actually,” Anthemius admitted.
“No one has attempted to break into this house?”
“No. I’d know if anyone had tried to get in. I’m here most of the time right now, with so little call for my bricks. And that reminds me, sir, I was going to show you samples of my work.”
He led his visitor across the malodorous garden and through a passage that emerged at the back of the house. A rambling, ramshackle shed occupied one corner of a patch of land surrounded by high stone walls.
“That shed’s my workshop,” Anthemius explained. “My kiln’s been cold for some time, since as I said business is extremely scanty. I do have some very nice samples to show and I can easily produce more if needed. I’m very proud to put my mark on my work, I am, and that’s the truth, sir.”
Anthemius pointed out sights of interest. Bricks were stacked neatly in straw-separated rows. Their sizes ranged from those that could be held in the hand to others that looked as if they would take a couple of strong men to lift. Some were triangular, while others were decorated or molded specimens.
“I tell my patrons if they need only the common sort of inexpensive bricks to hide behind a marble facade, they can go elsewhere. My work is of the highest quality. In fact, I would venture to say that if the pharaohs had been able to use my bricks for their pyramids, those odd constructions would be in perfect condition today.”
Anthemius tapped his cudgel gently on a pair of bricks sitting atop the nearest pile. Larger than average, they displayed a bas relief showing a woman between two beings which were obviously goddesses.
“None of my patrons has ever guessed what these are, sir,” the brickmaker continued with a sly grin. “They’re Egyptian birth bricks. In the old days the ladies squatted on them to give birth. Sounds most uncomfortable, doesn’t it? These of course are replicas and I always make that plain when I show them. There’s not much call for them these days, of course, except perhaps as conversational pieces. I enjoy making them. They are much more creative than your typical brick, don’t you think?”
John agreed. The brick’s bas relief was certainly well executed.
“I give the ones damaged in the firing to Aristotle. He likes to give them as gifts to prospective patrons. They always catch their interest, he says.”
John wondered whether the seller of antiquities might be less punctilious than the brickmaker in declaring the recent origin of the birth bricks, especially since damaged bricks would look a lot older than they actually were.
“I see we have a visitor, Anthemius! I trust you’ve been keeping him entertained.” A big man with a mournful face and the bearing of an aristocrat strode into the brickyard. His dark robe was decorated with elaborate, multi-colored embroidery. A mantle studded with glass beads completed the guise of a courtier.
“Aristotle, this gentleman wishes to see you.”
The seller of antiquities made a low bow. “Welcome, excellency. How may I assist? I can see you are a man of the world and therefore not too likely to be interested in oracles, but I can also offer a very fine collection of ancient statues and artifacts, including a few that would cause a lady to blush!”
John introduced himself, wondering why Aristotle had formed the impression he was a man who would be interested in artifacts that would make ladies blush. “I regret that I cannot take advantage of your generous offer, Aristotle. In fact, I am here to ask you a few questions.”
Aristotle colored angrily. “Has somebody been complaining to the authorities again about my donkey keeping them awake? Or the smell? Why shouldn’t I keep a donkey, excellency? They have worse in the palace menagerie! It’s a fine thing when an honest man cannot even try to make a living without some dainty-nosed insomniac causing trouble!”
“Is it about the donkey, sir?” Anthemius looked chagrined. “You didn’t say it was about the donkey.”
Before John could reply, Aristotle spoke again. “I intend to eventually go into selling fine leather goods. It will be a much steadier trade, at least when times are better. Meantime, my donkey will soon earn its living by hauling my larger antique pieces to clients. That’s a problem that’s caused some difficulties lately. I’m waiting to purchase a cart at a reasonable cost, so the beast is currently enjoying a holiday.”
John assured Aristotle he had no questions concerning the donkey.
“I’m pleased to hear it, excellency. Do you know, this lack of suitable transport is costing me money right now? You’d think carters would be glad to have something that never breathed to haul about, rather than someone that once lived. Less offensive to the nostrils, for a start. However, with all the work they have right now, they charge such outrageous prices when heavy lifting is involved that it’s impossible to afford very much help. Some of my larger statues, now, I’ll gladly part with them for half of what they’re worth, if you’d provide your own transport.” He paused hopefully, then sighed at John’s obvious disinterest. “If it’s not about the donkey, what did you wish to question me about?”