Mary Reed - Three for a Letter

As he emerged into the square, John wondered what other surprises the missing mime had in store for him.

“Barnabas isn’t hiding under one of the pallets here, I can assure you of that, John.” Isis’ smile took the sting from her waspish denial of any knowledge of the elusive dwarf.

The plump Egyptian had greeted John in the reception hall of her establishment. Its semi-circular courtyard was discreetly screened from the busy square beyond by a portico housing several shops, many of which she was part owner.

“You know I would never accuse you of harboring a criminal, Isis,” John protested with a smile. “However, the theater isn’t too distant from here and you’ve often said that half the world passes through your door. Or perhaps more than half now, given that your girls stroll up and down the courtyard all day?”

“And a fair bit of the night as well, John. It does entice a few of the more timid sort of patron to venture past the little gilded Eros at our door. Once they’re inside my house, few are dissatisfied with our services.”

John knew that Isis took considerable pride in her new house, which had replaced one burnt down during riots a year or two before. “Yes, I can imagine it might be difficult to leave your excellent establishment before parting with a few coins.” John’s gaze skimmed over the closest of a number of mosaic plaques set beside the doorways along the wide corridor leading from the reception hall. The plaques depicted the particular expertise offered within each room with graphic specificity.

“Stay and talk for a little while,” Isis said. “You look as if you’ve had a grueling morning. While I really can’t help you find Barnabas I can at least offer you some wine.”

John followed her down the corridor and up the stairway to her private apartments.

“Just as a matter of interest, Isis, how is it that you can be so certain you can’t assist me?” John settled down on an overstuffed couch in her sitting room and took the proffered goblet of wine.

Isis, about to bite into a large honeyed date selected from a silver tray on the inlaid wood table beside her couch, drew her full lips into a pout of displeasure. “So, John, is this chat to be devoted only to business matters after all? You know how much I love reminiscing about the old days in Alexandria!”

Like John, Isis had resided for some time in that bright city although they had never actually met there, a detail she always conveniently overlooked.

“I’ll visit you again very soon and devote a few hours to talking about the old days, I promise. But I have an audience with Justinian this afternoon, so I hope you won’t feel offended by my questions.”

Isis finished sampling her date before answering. “Of course not, John,” she finally said. “But you see I am certain that I cannot help you because I have long since barred dwarfs from my house. My rule is that if you can’t see over the head of the little Eros outside, you will not be admitted.”

John expressed his mystification at such a policy.

“You’ve lived in Egypt and so you know we consider the dwarf Bes to be a most benevolent god, for he guards against all manner of misfortunes. But what it all boils down to is a question of good business practice. Long ago I found that men of such small stature will fight my other patrons at the drop of an insult, whether one that’s real or merely perceived. They seem determined to prove that their lack of height doesn’t mean they are lesser men. For the same reason, they tax my girls more heavily than the emperor’s collectors, and they complain.”

John set down his goblet. The possibility that there was anything a Constantinople prostitute might find unnatural was one that had never occurred to him. He said so.

“You’re surprised? Let me tell you, the girls in my house never entertain men working in the theater. Especially mimes. There are no men more lascivious than mimes and if anyone spurns their advances, well…and Barnabas is a famous mime. Need I say more?”

“Well, Isis, at least I’ve learned something from my inquiries this morning even if it isn’t directly concerned with my current investigations.” John got up from the couch, relieved to be freed from its overly soft embrace. “All the same, it may be that one of your employees might hear something of Barnabas from a patron, in which case I would be very interested to learn of it.”

“If they should, I’ll send word to you immediately. One who murders a child deserves all that he gets, but first he must be caught and I’ll do whatever I can to assist you to do that.” Isis waved a soft, beringed hand emphatically to underline her words.

John parted with yet another coin. He and Isis were old friends, but business was business and their friendship never interfered with that.

***

As he left Isis’ establishment, John realized it would soon be time for his audience with Justinian. He would have to attend even though his search for Barnabas or information concerning his whereabouts had so far proved fruitless. He had not really expected to find his quarry in the crowded city but he had, he hoped, contrived to provide himself with several extra pairs of eyes to keep watch for the missing mime.

His walk back to the palace took him past the theater. He briefly considered stepping in again to have another word with Brontes. However, deciding against a second visit, he instead cut down a short alley nearby. Emerging into the sunlight of another nondescript square, he had to step quickly aside to avoid treading on a three-legged cat that suddenly scuttled across his path.

The cat loped with remarkable speed to the portico of a warehouse a few paces away. Sitting there was a woman he had hoped to find. He had encountered her in the course of a previous investigation when she had provided him with valuable information about life on the streets of the city.

“Pulcheria!” he greeted her.

The woman looked up, startled. There was no mistaking her. Her hair was decorated with colored scraps of ribbon, her clothes a wild, layered collection of garish tatters. More memorable yet, while one side of her face retained a hint of its youthful beauty, the other was a shapeless mass where the flesh had melted like a guttering candle, the result of burning lamp oil flung at her by an unhappy client. She fixed John with her one good eye as her mouth made half a smile.

“Do you remember me?” John asked.

She got to her feet in a flurry of multi-hued rags. “Who could forget such a tall, handsome fellow? And a man of mystery, no less! I see that you’re much better dressed than when we first met, excellency. Perhaps your fortune has changed for the better? Though I think it’s much more likely that it is now exactly as it was then.”

“I apologize if you feel that I misled you when we first met, my friend.”

“Friend? When was the last time you visited me? Come now, you’re here on business, plain and simple, and nothing more. Am I not right?”

It was true, John admitted. “Then tell me, you’re familiar with the theater in the next square?”

“Of course. When there’s a performance there’s not a street anywhere near it that can boast a single one of us working folks. We all go over there where we can easily find clients.”

“Do you have an acquaintance with any of the actors who work there?”

Pulcheria nodded, the bright ribbons in her black, matted hair fluttering.

John quickly described the man he was seeking.

“Barnabas, you mean?” Half of the woman’s face creased into a grin. “Sometimes on a summer day I hear what sounds like thunder, as if a great storm is approaching over the sea, yet there’s not a cloud in the sky. Then I realize that Barnabas must be performing and the thunder I think I hear is the laughter of his audience. I remember when I first came to live in this square, excellency. I was rendering service in that very alley and my client suddenly became incapable from laughter. I was mortified, fearing he would not pay me, but he told me not to mind, he was just recalling Barnabas. He’d seen his act with the phalluses not long before. And in fact he did pay me, despite lack of satisfaction.”