Mary Reed: Five for Silver

Paraskeve hurried over to greet John, beaming. He had one of those round, snub-nosed faces that never age yet never look quite adult. Over his work tunic he wore an embroidered rectangular apron.

“How can I serve you, excellency?”

“I’m trying to find a man I believe may live in the area. Do you know a customs official named Gregory?”

“Yes, indeed I do.” Paraskeve looked crushed.

“I shall naturally reimburse you for the information.”

Paraskeve waved a stubby-fingered hand. “No. No, please, there is no need. I must apologize if my disappointment showed. The plague has all but carried my business off and I hoped you might wish to order…that is to say, for future use of course, not wishing any tragedy on your household, or in other words…” He floundered to a halt.

“I understand,” John replied. “Although I would have imagined a tomb builder would be overwhelmed by work in the midst of so much death.”

“The dead don’t purchase tombs, excellency. My customers are dying before they can make appropriate preparations. Constructing a proper tomb can take years. It’s not just hacking a few stones about, as some in the profession are wont to do.”

“You’ve had business dealings with Gregory?”

“Not exactly, but I can tell you where to find him. You can’t miss his house. Continue up the Mese from here and it’s the house just before the obelisk the candlemaker erected in front of his emporium.”

“You don’t know Gregory personally?”

“No. He is, however, said to be a good Christian.” Paraskeve’s tone was abrupt.

John asked why people had formed this opinion.

“For one thing, he petitioned Justinian to renovate the Church of the Holy Apostles.” Paraskeve didn’t seem inclined to add a second thing.

“Emperor Constantine built that church to be his tomb, didn’t he?”

Paraskeve’s cherubic face brightened suddenly. “That’s right. There’s a fine example of forethought, excellency. It’s one reason I set up my workshop as close as I could to the church.”

John inspected a carved piece of black-veined marble leaning against a pile of sandstone blocks. As he bent to examine the partially completed inscription, heat from the sun-warmed stone touched his face. He read the half finished verse aloud. “‘Do not believe you have twice five thousand years; death is close at hand, thus while-”

“-you breathe, while there is time, live in a fitting fashion,’ Marcus Aurelius,” Paraskeve finished the verse.

“You are quite a philosopher, I see.”

“Not at all, excellency, but when you’re in the business of constructing tombs you just can’t avoid Marcus Aurelius. I think I must’ve engraved every word of his miserable Meditations at some time or other.”

“You don’t agree with his thoughts?”

“I’m an optimist! Tomorrow I might die, but as long as I know that it means I’m still alive, doesn’t it? How could an emperor be so gloomy? Especially considering just about everyone’s going to die without ever being emperor. I encourage my customers to choose contemporary verses, if verse they must have. Something specially composed. Not that I can afford to engage a decent epigrammist the way things are right now.”

“So you think we should contemplate our deaths to the extent of commissioning our tombs?”

“Please, excellency! Clients who commission tombs, well, their deaths are the last things on their minds. No, not at all. I’ll give you an example. Years ago a basket-maker came to me. At the time he was practically a youth. He had his tomb constructed in a secluded corner of a cemetery just outside the city wall. Was he contemplating his mortality? Hardly! He wanted to impress a young woman whose hand he sought. It worked too! A man of sufficient substance to finance such a project at such a young age and so responsible and practical as shown by the very act…well, excellency, women like men who have their tombs already built. Now he tells me he and his wife take a basket of food out there on sunny days and enjoy the country air.”

John remarked that tomb construction sounded like a very interesting profession, but before he could turn the conversation back to Gregory, Paraskeve, seemingly happy to have someone to talk to for a time, had embarked on another story.

“So the bootmaker’s tomb is no more than a hand’s-breadth from the Via Egnatia, practically in sight of the city. Naturally it gets as dusty as the boots he sells,” Paraskeve concluded. “Ah, but consider this! It’s also readily seen by every footsore pilgrim. What a fine advertisement for his goods. Idle boasts read much better as epitaphs!”

John agreed there was some truth in the statement.

“Then there was a certain senator,” the other rushed on. “You’d know his name immediately were it to pass my lips. His tomb overlooks the Marmara from a promontory on his estate. He was so pleased with the edifice I built he hired me to add apartments to it where he could sit and meditate.”

“I can’t say I would want to spend more time than necessary in my own tomb,” John observed.

“His wife apparently felt the same. She was horrified and refused to set foot near the place.” Paraskeve laughed. “Ah, but then again, his mistress is not so squeamish and I understand is much given to meditation!”

“Did Gregory have a family?”

“A wife, but he refused to show her my design for their final resting place. It was a representation of the hold of a cargo ship. The tomb itself was in the shape of a crate, adorned with angels and set amidst monumental amphorae and crosses. They would be part of the heavenly ship’s cargo, bound for some higher land, you see. Very appropriate for a high-ranking customs official. I still have the…but wait! Why are you asking me about Gregory? He’s not been taken off too?”

John confirmed his suspicions, without elaboration.

Paraskeve’s shoulders slumped. “I may as well throw those sketches away then. His wife won’t commission anything like that, you can be certain of it. On the other hand, there are other customs officials who might be interested, aren’t there? Yes. I shall save them, then. Now you, excellency. Have you made suitable arrangements, if I may be so bold?”

“I don’t intend to have a tomb built.”

“It’s natural enough to be afraid of death, but it’s no use pretending-”

John cut him off abruptly. “I don’t fear death. What happens to my remains doesn’t concern me in the least.”

***

John rapped again at Gregory’s door.

There was no reply.

He stepped back and looked up at the second story window. There was no movement behind the tiny panes.

While to passersby the house displayed only a plain brick facade, doubtless it was well appointed inside. At four stories, it looked out over the roofs of the surrounding buildings. From the top floor, Gregory would have had a magnificent view of the Sea of Marmara.

For years the customs official had met Peter, often not far from here. The pair might have walked right past this very house. What would Peter have thought if he knew his old army friend lived here, rather than in some dingy tenement? What if he were to find out?

John debated questioning Paraskeve further, but decided he had heard enough tales of the tomb builder’s trade and started back. Better to go home to his evening meal and further thought on the knotty problem with which he was grappling.

As he drew level with the Church of the Holy Apostles the noise of a sudden uproar broke out, sounding somewhere between a fully fledged riot and a flock of angry seagulls. The church doors burst open and white-robed figures rushed into the street, shrieking in terror. Most were children.