Tom Harper: The mosaic of shadows

He brought me to place where an old woman sat by a damp fire, stirring a black pot and muttering gibberish to herself. Next to this was a makeshift tent, a wide bolt of purple cloth draped over two sticks which formed a doorway. The fabric looked remarkably like that used for decorating the streets during imperial processions, though I did not say so.

‘Elymas,’ said the boy, and ran off.

I watched him vanish behind a pile of rubble, which might have been somebody’s house, and felt an overwhelming urge to follow. But I had come this far: I would take the final step, however ill-advised and reckless. Ignoring the crone by the fire, now giggling like a demon, I crouched down nearly to my knees and crawled into the tent.

The cloth must have been of a fine weave indeed, for within its folds all was darkness, though smoke from the neighbouring fire had somehow managed to choke the black air. I coughed; my eyes watered, and I snatched my hand to the knife at my ankle as I heard a movement beyond.

‘Elymas?’ I challenged.

There was a wheezing from the back of the tent, and the fluid sounds of a man clearing his throat.

‘Elymas,’ a voice answered at last. It spoke hesitantly, uncertainly, and did not sound Roman.

‘Do you understand Greek?’ My feet were flat on the ground, still poised to spring, but I had lowered the knife.

Elymas did not answer. My hopes sank. Then, in the silence, a dog barked twice, so near to me that my sword arm flew up in a blocking arc. The movement unbalanced me, and I toppled back clumsily onto the sandy floor.

‘Do not be afraid,’ said Elymas, his voice devoid of all comfort. ‘Sophia answers all questions.’

‘Sophia?’ Not the hag by the fire outside, I hoped.

The dog, from somewhere close to Elymas, barked twice more. My eyes were slowly growing used to the gloom in the tent, and I could now make out the dim shape of a hunched old man, his white beard like a ghost in the darkness, sitting cross-legged before me. One hand rested on a black shadow next to him, which might — but for the barking — have been taken for a cushion.

‘Sophia,’ repeated my host, and again the dog barked twice.

A ludicrous notion entered my thoughts. ‘Sophia is your dog?’

Two quick barks were the apparent, improbable confirmation of this truth.

‘And Sophia will answer my questions?’ I wondered if perhaps there was more than wood on the fire whose smoke had filled my lungs. ‘And, naturally, she speaks Greek.’

This time there was only a single bark.

‘What does that mean? She does not speak Greek?’

Two barks.

I looked around for the door flap, which had unaccountably fallen shut. What would Krysaphios say if he knew I wasted my time and his gold conversing with performing animals?

I saw Elymas pat his bitch affectionately on the flank. ‘Not speak,’ he said brokenly. ‘Understand.’

I stared at him venomously. ‘She understands Greek?’

Two barks protested she did.

‘Tell me then, Sophia,’ I began, wondering how far I was willing to take this charade. ‘Can I find a mercenary for hire near here?’

Sophia looked at me disparagingly, then put her head between her feet and huffed through her nose.

‘What?’ I demanded, caught between impatience and the spell of this unlikely dream.

Elymas was wracked by a silent fit, rocking back and forth on his haunches. When it had subsided, he stuck a bone-thin finger into the sand before him and inscribed a circle, with a smaller circle, two eyes and a mouth within it.

Long experience of charlatans, as much as the clarity of his picture, gave me the answer. ‘You want money for speaking to your dog?’

A pained expression crossed his face; he shook his head vigorously, and pointed to the bitch.

‘Your dog wants money for me to speak to her?’

Sophia raised her jaw a fraction, just enough for a couple of weary barks. Internally abusing myself as an idiot, I drew an obol from my purse and tossed it into the sand in front of the dog.

She eyed it haughtily, then turned to lick her backside.

With the utmost reluctance, I added a second obol. Still she paid me no heed. A third obol followed, and then — swearing there would not be another — a silver keration.

Sophia turned back to me and gave two contented barks.

‘Now,’ I said heavily. ‘Can I find a mercenary near here?’

Two barks, though even a dog might have known that. I would demand far more for my coin.

‘Where can I find them?’

I earned scornful looks from dog and master. ‘Can I find them on the Selymbrian road?’

One bark.

‘Near the road?’

Two barks.

I paused, unable to think of any landmark which would help direct this line of questioning. ‘Are there many men who can help me?’

One bark.

‘Only one man?’

Two barks.

‘Is he a barbarian? A Frank?’

One bark.

‘A Roman? Like me?’

Two barks.

‘And this man will find me a mercenary?’

Two barks.

‘Does he have a name?’

Two barks.

Again I halted, as I came against the immutable fact that without a name or a location, this dog could tell me nothing. Nothing, in fact, that I did not already know or guess — and that, of course, was the nature of its trick. I had been a fool to convince myself that it could be otherwise, to succumb to the smoke and darkness and gnomic utterances of this false magician. I shuffled backwards, shooting the bitch a final, evil glare.

And in that second where we met each other’s gaze, I swear I saw the dog lift her head, open her mouth, and say quite distinctly: ‘Vassos.’

My jaw sagged in astonishment. ‘Vassos?’

Two dainty barks.

‘A man named Vassos?’ I repeated, edging forward. ‘The man I seek is named Vassos.’

And with two final barks, the dog turned her back on me and began chasing her tail.

I stumbled into daylight reeling from the strange encounter, my mind locked in a tussle of doubt and wonder. The woman with the pot had vanished, her fire now little more than embers; I breathed in deep lungfuls of cool air and hoped it would blow through my head also. During my uncommon career I had sought information from every rank of life, from city officials to notorious criminals, and often I had implored God for revelation; never, though, had I spoken with a dumb animal. What could I do but see how her story was resolved?

It soon emerged that she had done me a great service — more than many human informants have rendered me. Although I spoke no Frankish, nor Bulgarian nor Serbic nor any other of the immigrant languages of this place, the name ‘Vassos’ was like a charm: no sooner did I speak it to those I passed than comprehension lit up their faces and they gestured animatedly in one direction or another. I was led gradually westwards, through endless alleys of broken hovels towards the walls, until at length a gypsy loitering by a well pointed directly over my shoulder and said definitively: ‘Vassos.’

I turned to see a house, itself remarkable enough in those surroundings. It seemed far older and better constructed than anything else around it: it might once have been a farmhouse, when these were virgin fields, but it was decayed and charmless now. Whoever owned it, though, had money enough to put a stout oak door on the hinges, and iron bars across the crimson-curtained windows.

I rapped on the door, wondering what business I disturbed inside. There was no answer.

‘Vassos,’ said the gypsy across the street, watching me and laughing.

I hammered the door a second time. Still it did not move, but in the corner of my eye I noticed one of the curtains tremble. I ran to it, just in time to see a woman’s head vanish behind it.