Mary Reed - One for Sorrow

“Mine is a dangerous quest.”

Kaloethes drew his bulk up straighter, causing the wooden bench to creak loudly. “I am familiar with danger myself.”

Thomas coughed, releasing a spray of wine. “I don’t doubt it, having met your wife.”

Kaloethes grinned and poured Thomas more wine. You couldn’t hold against a man what he said when his tongue was loosened by drink. He’d seen babes in arms who could hold their wine better than Thomas. “My wife has large ambitions, Thomas.”

“Indeed, everything about her is large.”

Kaloethes felt the need for more wine himself. “Can you believe that when I met her she was a wood nymph?”

“As easily as I could believe the girls at Madam’s were once husky charioteers.”

“Well, it is true. And now? I can see that beautiful young girl in my memory but there’s nothing else left of her.” Kaloethes felt his eyes stinging. “She is gone, Thomas. Dead. That young girl I once loved is dead.”

Kaloethes noticed Thomas’ face darkened suddenly and his features tightened into a grim frown. Obviously the knight sympathized with his plight.

“You know people at the palace?” Thomas asked. “How about whoever’s replaced the unfortunate Keeper of the Plate? It might be useful if an interview could be arranged.”

“Now, that might not be out of the question although gold would almost certainly have to change hands. But I thought it was some sort of relic you sought, not palace treasures?”

“Yes, but-”

“Come with me,” Kaloethes said suddenly. Taking the lamp, he lifted a trapdoor in a corner of the kitchen. The men descended a rickety ladder into a musty catacomb.

“We keep our stores down here,” the innkeeper explained.

He could see Thomas’ eyes widen as he looked around at the crates and boxes piled to the ceiling. Several were open and close enough to make out clothing, cheap pottery, and domestic bric-a-brac. Balanced precariously on and among the boxes were chairs, ornate tables, and decorated chests.

Thomas stooped to pick up a scrap of shredded fabric. “Your vermin at least live well with nests of silk. I know I am not alone in taking comfort at Madam’s.” He smiled. “If you have a favorite there, I’m sure she would appreciate some of these things.”

“Most of them belong to my wife. She’d notice if anything was missing.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows. He took an unsteady step and leaned against a pile of crates.

The thought occurred to Kaloethes that he was alone with an apparently inebriated man who was carrying a large amount of money. It was immediately replaced by the thought that the inebriated man was armed with a sword.

Kaloethes reached into a long, wooden box and drew out a yellowish bone. “Look, this is what I’ve brought you to see. An authentic relic of Saint Prokopios. Not just a knuckle or a finger. The entire thigh bone that bore his blessed weight.”

He turned the bone around in the feeble lamp light.

“Martyred by being thrown into a pit of rats and devoured by all appearances,” Thomas observed.

“It is somewhat distressed, I agree, but that is no doubt why it was offered to me for a very reasonable price.”

“No, my friend, this is not the type of relic I am seeking.”

Kaloethes tossed the bone back into the box. Perhaps Thomas held his wine better than it seemed. “I was assured it was authentic and I have no reason to distrust the rag seller’s nephew,” he grumbled.

They climbed back up the ladder, Kaloethes breathing hard with exertion and frustrated by his inability to persuade Thomas to part with some of his remaining coins. His opportunity was slipping through his fingers.

“I know you are on a quest, Thomas, but even one on a quest has to pay the bills. You strike me as a man who would dare much. I might be able to offer you some tasks which could benefit both of us financially.”

“I fear not, friend. The task I have undertaken is enough for now.”

Through the window Kaloethes saw gray light creeping into the courtyard, as dawn arrived to reanimate his besieging army of creditors.

“Think about my offer, Thomas,” he whispered as they crept up the stairs. “At least think about it.”

John suppressed a yawn while the elderly Quaestor worked his way through the legal preliminaries to reading Leukos’ will with the patient determination, but none of the artistry, of a spider spinning its web.

It had been another late night.

Felix had had to be assisted to bed. He kept blubbering Berta’s name. John found it distressing because the memory would humiliate Felix, if he were to recall it.

Then there had been the encounter with Theodora. That was definitely an occurrence best forgotten. As were his hopes of negotiating approval of his investigation from Justinian.

John stifled another yawn, tensing his jaw painfully. The reading had been scheduled for a cramped hearing room near the law courts. There were no windows. Apparently the reality of the outside world was considered an unwanted intrusion.

John had brought with him the pouch Leukos had been carrying when he died. The few trinkets it contained were worth little. But it was part of Leukos’ estate, and John was hoping that someone from Leukos’ family would be there to claim it.

The Lord Chamberlain glanced around at the handful of people seated in the stuffy room. There was no one he recognized. A few men who appeared to be minor officials, professional acquaintances of Leukos, perhaps. Several others might have been hangers-on, present just in case they were mentioned in the will. It had been foolish of him to hope that some relative might attend, someone who could shed some light on Leukos’ past, perhaps even on the recent past, and on what may have caused his death.

There were more yawns. A fly explored the wall behind the droning Quaestor, and in the end, those assembled learned that Leukos, Keeper of the Plate, had granted manumission to his slaves and placed the bulk of his estate in the hands of John, Lord Chamberlain, to dispose of as he saw fit. John signed and swore out the required documents before the Quaestor.

When he was done, John returned to Leukos’ house. Perhaps he had missed some pointer to the truth during his recent visit. Certainly a person’s home should reveal something about its inhabitant, but Leukos’ residence was barren of the man’s personality. How-why-was this so?

The house had the air of a building to which no one would return. The water clock remained dry. The kitchen walls retained the odor of meats that had been boiled there. In the hall the suggestion of recently consumed meals mingled with the cloying perfume used in preparing Leukos for burial.

Someone, presumably the servant Euphemia, had thrown open cupboards and chests prior to packing their contents into the crates strewn about the tiled floor. John examined several plates, an ornamental lamp, a set of candlesticks. Compared to the treasures with which he had dealt, Leukos’ possessions were simple.

John found Euphemia in Leukos’ bedroom, carefully removing clothes from the chest at the foot of the bed and smoothing out their wrinkles one last time.

“I’m happy to see you’re still here,” John told the girl. “I wish to ask a few more questions.”

Euphemia turned her gaze to the robe draped over one arm. Her finger traced the gold embroidery along the hem.

“If it’s about my master’s visitors or his doings, I can’t tell you any more, sir. I’ve thought about it since we talked, but I’ve told you all I know.”

“And the other servants?”

“I asked them. They know less than I do.”

It was hard for John to imagine that Leukos would have intentionally involved himself in any questionable activities. Could he have unintentionally done so? There were the mysterious night time visitors. And Leukos had worked closely with Xiphias, a man who was capable of anything.