John suppressed a smile. “Well, after all, it is a pagan shrine, isn’t it?”
“Oh, indeed!” Godomar nodded. “Now I have no objection to naked statues as such, even if they have wings on their shoulders such as grace the one in there. Its workmanship is certainly very excellent. But it is a male statue after all, and I fear that Bertrada’s interest in it is…well…”
John sighed. Sensing that a discussion of naked pagan idols, with or without wings, would not prove useful he changed the subject and questioned Godomar about Castor.
“All I can tell you about the man is that he has an interest in blasphemous and impure works,” was the curt reply.
“You have seen his library, Godomar?”
“No, but I’ve had the misfortune of discovering many of its volumes around Zeno’s villa. Some of them were in the possession of my charges. I would prefer not to describe what Bertrada was reading-and she’s still only a child.”
“Is Bertrada acquainted with Castor? Has she perhaps visited his library?”
Godomar frowned. “You insult my vigilance, Lord Chamberlain. Do you think I would ever allow such a friendship? Fortunately we’re only visitors and the sooner we are gone the better. The Lord willing, we’ll survive to leave.”
“It seems Castor’s volumes are everywhere yet the man himself is nowhere to be found,” John mused.
“The only time I’ve seen him was at the banquet, Lord Chamberlain.” Godomar turned abruptly and walked toward the villa without a word of farewell.
John lingered for a while, watching the gardeners at work. A breeze picked its way through the shrubbery lining the path, rustling parchment-dry leaves. Perhaps, he thought tiredly, Castor really was just away on business after all.
John sighed again. His thoughts turned to Hypnos, who personified sleep-and whose twin brother was Thanatos, or death.
He could only hope that Anatolius’ investigations were proceeding more fruitfully than his own.
Chapter Twenty-two
The red-faced shoemaker blustered on while Anatolius patiently made notes on a wax tablet.
“Castor is one of my finest customers, barring the emperor. Half the patricians in the empire wear my boots, you know. Quality recognizes quality, that’s what I always say. However, Castor has not come by recently. Yet how can I be surprised? My boots will outlast the Hippodrome. Yes,” Kalus lamented, “I am putting myself out of business with the quality of my wares.”
Anatolius scratched through the name Kalus in the list on his tablet. Speaking of boots, he thought sourly, even though he had nearly worn out his own spending the entire day tramping around Constantinople visiting the merchants listed in Castor’s account books, all he had ascertained was that the missing man had not recently conducted business with any of them.
Kalus led his visitor out of his office and back along the hallway to his wares. From unseen workshops behind them came the muted sounds of hammering. The heavy smell of leather, mingled with the acrid odor of the urine in which it was tanned, enveloped the establishment.
“He’s very particular about what he orders, is Castor,” Kalus went on importantly. “His sandal thongs must be the correct length and always dyed black. There again, he is a man of discerning taste. Like all of my customers.” He glanced down at Anatolius’ footwear and frowned. Although he said nothing, it was obvious he did not find it admirable.
The lowering sun spilled its deep red light into the shop and across its display of elegant boots and sandals. Kalus rearranged several pairs to show them to better advantage.
Anatolius politely thanked the boot-maker for sparing time to talk to him.
“Aren’t you Senator Aurelius’ son?” the other asked. “A fine man, if I may say so. It was my father who set my feet on the road to success. He was the wisest man I ever knew, sir. An army marches on its feet, that’s what he told me when I was a young man. The wisest words ever spoken, don’t you think? Armies will always need their feet well shod and I am proud to say that Justinian has placed his army’s feet in my hands. Imagine that, in my hands, yet at the same time those very feet are in Italy! The streets of Ravenna will be happier under sturdy military footwear than beneath the crude sandals of barbarians, I’m certain. I ask you, where would Belisarius be without my boots?”
Anatolius indicated agreement with every word spoken by Kalus and managed finally to escape.
He strolled down the street, emerging into the Forum Bovis. As he crossed the open space’s busy expanse he recalled that he had shared a cup of wine with more than one young lady while sitting near the great bronze head of a bull at its center. While a cup of wine would be very pleasant right now, there was one more call to make on John’s behalf and he must not linger.
The last business belonged, so its plaque declared, to the scribe Scipio, whose emporium was discovered after traversing a narrow street that was not exactly a dim, dangerous alleyway but neither was it a broad, colonnaded avenue. The familiar odor of ink and parchment that met Anatolius as he stepped inside its shady interior felt welcoming after the long, hot day.
Scipio was a small man with a shaved head. His white tunic was a palimpsest of ancient and more recent ink splatters. As the scribe rose from his desk to greet his visitor, Anatolius noticed the right side of his nose was as black as a Nubian’s. Disregarding the fact that a scribe always kept his hands clean, the thought came to him that the man must be left-handed, habitually rubbing his nose with his free hand while he copied. He wondered if his flash of insight was anything like those that John experienced while he was unraveling some knotty puzzle or other.
“Can I help you, sir? Is there a particular work you’re looking for or have you something you wish to be copied?” Scipio’s gaze moved toward the tablet Anatolius carried.
Anatolius replied that he wished to ask a few questions if Scipio would be kind enough to answer them.
“We are able to copy out ten pages for a semissis,” the scribe answered quickly, anticipating the question usually put by his visitors. “A third of that is just for the parchment. Alas, the price for it just keeps increasing. Eventually it will ruin me, sir.”
Anatolius made the same inquiry as he’d been fruitlessly making all day. The answer he received was little different from all the rest.
“Though I expect we’ll hear from him shortly,” the scribe added, “since we’ve almost finished the copy of the Enneads that he commissioned.”
Anatolius looked around. The shop’s few shelves held no more than seven or eight codices along with a few scrolls. He was inspired to ask another question. “Did Castor usually commission works or did he generally purchase items from your stock?”
“Both. In addition, he often calls upon us to produce copies of his own works.”
Anatolius asked about the nature of these works.
“Philosophy, science, religion. Every imaginable subject. Castor is man of great erudition.”
“Do you have any of these works on hand?”
“Not at present. However, I suspect he will be bringing more work soon since it has been some weeks since I last saw him.”
“He is a very good customer, it seems.”
“If only all my clients were like Castor! You’d be amazed at the number of students we chase away, not to mention common men of law and the like. They handle my excellent wares with no intent to buy. Nor even the means to buy them, if they were honest, not even if they had a whole year’s salary concealed about their pitiful persons. They could scarcely afford the parchment we write on, let alone the writing itself. However, I see you know something of our profession and I suspect you’re equally economical with your parchment.”