Mary Reed: Seven for a Secret

“When did Menander bring Troilus to you?” he asked.

“It would have been around ten years ago. Troilus was about fourteen then. I don’t know where he lives now. He doesn’t come to see me very often. In fact, the morning Agnes was murdered was the longest time I’ve spoken to him in years.”

“Are you certain he remained here for hours?”

Petronia confirmed it was the case. “He and Agnes were inseparable. They met while he was still living with me. She was living with the sausage maker.”

“You told me Agnes spent time with those who once lived at the palace. She enjoyed play acting, pretending she was still part of the imperial court.”

“A young woman’s fancy. They all enjoyed play acting, imagining they were still respected members of the court. Poor Agnes was only a child when her father was executed. She was never to live the life of a fine lady, even for a little while.”

Petronia looked down at the diadem she held. It must have reminded her that she was dressed like an empress herself. “We help them relive what their lives were once like,” she continued. “That’s why they love the theater.”

“What do you know about Troilus’ background?”

“Nothing at all. He could have been a fish seller’s son for all I know. He had to pretend to be well born for business reasons. People who have been at court are more comfortable dealing with those who share their attitudes.”

“Did those attitudes include a dislike for the emperor?”

“I would prefer not to say anything about that. You are, after all, Justinian’s servant.”

“I am well aware Justinian is not universally loved. I have also been given to understand that the various alleged plots hatched in the Copper Market amount to little more than scurrilous mimes.”

“Then you know all there is to know about Troilus’ attitudes,” Petronia replied.

John and Anatolius left Petronia and turned their steps to the thoroughfare that led toward the Augustaion and the Great Palace. John walked a few paces ahead. He was turning matters over and the harder he thought, the faster he walked.

“Troilus is Theodora’s son,” John muttered.

Anatolius managed to catch up to John. “What did you say? Troilus is Theodora’s son?”

“Yes. Or at least he holds himself out as her son, when it suits him. I’ve finally managed to piece most of the mosaic together. I’ve been listening to people for days. Their stories are all interesting enough by themselves. Like the tesserae I saw in Michri’s shop. Colorful in isolation, but the picture they form when assembled correctly is much more fascinating. Listen to my argument and see if you can rebut it. It will be good legal practice.”

“I will if I can keep up with your stride,” Anatolius complained.

John did not diminish his pace. “I’ve recounted all the facts to you more than once, my friend. Now, consider that according to the empress’ servant Theodoulos, the soldiers who pursued the boy reported he vanished as if into thin air in the Copper Market. Alba told me she’d watched a boy chased by men in military garb hide inside Lazarus’ pillar. Afterward she considered what she saw to be a miracle because the boy was never seen or heard of again. In fact, she told Menander about it while trying to convince him to change his ways.”

“That might have piqued Menander’s curiosity about the pillar.”

“I believe it did. About the same time the stylite’s acolyte discovered Lazarus had disappeared from the top of his column and been replaced by an automaton. Menander had at least two automatons, Alba told me. One she remembered must have been the Sergius I saw in Troilus’ shop. The automaton on the pillar was also a soldier, the other half of the pair of military saints. Everyone knew Menander had sold much of his collection to Troilus over the years, but it appears their connection was closer than that.”

Anatolius agreed it was likely, given the information just provided by Petronia.

“I am taking a leap into darkness,” John admitted, “but I believe Menander was intrigued by Alba’s story. Alba said there were guards posted in the square for several days, but Troilus was up on the pillar with the body of Lazarus for longer than that. After the guards had gone, Menander must have climbed up into the column during the night, if only to be in a position to contradict Alba the next time she mentioned it to him. He must have been surprised to find Troilus. He sent the boy to live with Petronia, as she just told us. He wouldn’t have wanted him staying in the same building as Alba because she might have recognized him.”

Anatolius grinned. “I have it! Just as the acolyte guessed, someone left an automaton behind so no one would notice the stylite’s absence for some time! And who do we know who had not one but two of those useful artifacts?”

“Indeed. Menander didn’t want attention drawn to the pillar, in case anyone from the palace was still looking for the boy.”

Anatolius frowned and asked John about the whereabouts of the missing stylite.

“That’s part of the mosaic I haven’t yet filled in,” John admitted. “The square isn’t much traveled at night, particularly after the shops are closed, not to mention the local populace can’t be relied on to be forthcoming when questioned, as we’ve discovered ourselves. It wouldn’t have been difficult to take an automaton to the column or to smuggle a boy or a body away after the guards were no longer stationed in the square. In the meantime the boy could have eaten the stylite’s food.”

“But what could Menander want with this boy?”

“Menander had grievances against the imperial couple. No doubt he thought that a son of Theodora-even if one only purported to be such-would be useful to him one day.”

Anatolius stepped around a dog eating offal. “And Agnes involved herself with actors and disgruntled former courtiers and officials and the like, the same circles in which Menander and Troilus moved. But what conclusions do you draw from this? Is a plot really being fomented or is it just more play acting?”

John and Anatolius passed basket-laden shoppers, begrimed laborers carrying the tools of their trade, and twittering clerks. If any of them heard Anatolius utter the word “plot” they pretended to be deaf. It was not the sort of information you admitted to knowing if you valued your life.

“If Troilus is Theodora’s supposed son then he must be one of the plotters, since they cannot proceed without him,” John replied.

“He doesn’t appear to be the one who murdered Agnes, since she was alive when the sundial maker Helias spied Troilus dragging a sack about in the middle of the night, given she was arguing with Troilus in Petronia’s room the next morning,” Anatolius said. “And indeed why would Troilus murder Agnes? Petronia said they were inseparable.”

“Think of Dedi’s vanishing skull act, Anatolius. It appears to be magick only because a skull would not burn the way it does. Once you realize that what you thought was a skull isn’t one, but rather a thin, flammable counterfeit, then it does not appear so remarkable. Fostering a false assumption or two and some skilled misdirection can make perfectly unremarkable events appear quite sinister. Or, for that matter, make sinister events appear unremarkable.”

“What do you mean, John? What misdirection? And where are we going in such a hurry?”

They had crossed the Augustaion, and were walking toward the Chalke. Gulls flapped out of their way, protesting as they were forced to abandon the city’s discarded debris on which they’d been dining.

John glanced at his companion. “Do you remember you mentioned you saw Felix entering a tavern not far from the cistern where I found the girl’s body and on the very same morning? A coincidence, it would seem. But how was it he happened to be on hand to rescue me when I was attacked in the street, not to mention being at the right place at the right time to prevent Theodoulos from throwing himself into the sea?”