The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

‘Tell me. Why did you ask about my grandfather’s name?’

‘Ah. That is to do with the question I wish to ask. You see, when I was growing up, I was told tales of a Chinese demon called Zhong Kui, who righted wrongs. It was an old tale, but it seemed to have got mixed up with a real-life foreigner whose thirst for justice meant he was called by the demon’s name too. His real name – to the Chinese – was Zu Li-ni.’

Katie laughed and clapped her hands like a young girl.

‘It must have been Grandpa! He investigated crimes for the Great Khan. He would be so flattered that he was remembered still.’

The old man smiled and nodded his head.

‘My father may even have met him. He certainly knew many stories about him. And my father had no small fund of his own tales too. In fact, your story of Zuliani has reminded me of one of them.’

He turned his head to the group of pilgrims, who still sat close to the fire, too bound up in a fear of their possible fate to fall asleep. The old man raised his voice so all might hear him.

‘My name is David Falconer, and I have a story to tell which, though it is brief, will get you thinking about another of the Deadly Sins. This one is about…

Gluttony

More than thirty years ago, I was travelling through the fabled land of Trebizond. Of course, many tales are told of the place, not least that it was the land where Jason and the Argonauts sought the Golden Fleece. But I have another tale to tell – a tale of a land that was all too real, populated by mortal men with similar failings to our own. It is a tale of murder.

The Empire of Trebizond is a splinter of the Byzantine Empire, which has come to rest on the southern shores of the Black Sea. Barely forty miles deep and two hundred miles long, it is, nevertheless, an opulent and secluded paradise made rich by the trade that flows through it. I came to it from the east by following the Silk Road to Erzerum, where several camel trains came together, bringing dyes and spices from Baghdad, Arabia and India, together with raw silk via the Caspian. This single great caravan of a thousand camels, each bearing three hundred pounds of merchandise, then wound its way over the Pontic Mountains, which protect the back of Trebizond, and down into the city that gazes out over the sea that is its lifeblood. Traders from the west venture there by water on a four-month journey that culminates in the protective, curved arm of the harbour wall. We, as I say, had come overland from the east.

Descending on the swaying back of a mule, I felt almost as though I had arrived by sea, with a lurching feeling of sickness in my stomach. My travelling companion and secretary, the monkish Brother Philip, chattered eagerly as we passed along the edge of the western ravine that protects one side of the city with its tumbling waters. I learned later that the eastern side of the city is similarly protected by another natural moat.

‘Master, you cannot imagine the view from here. The city falls away at our feet, and sweeps down to the waters of a great sea. And it is so lush. The trees grow steeply on either side and the colour of the flowers is overpowering.’

Being sightless, I drank in his description. And I shared his excitement, for I could smell the heady scent of pines that grew along the path. That, and the scent of the camel train’s contents – pepper, cinnamon, myrrh and spikenard – mingled with the local scent of fruits and musk and incense. It was the very essence of the city I was going to get to know well. We descended the Zagnos valley, skirting the upper town and the Citadel, and broke off from the caravan train to enter the lower town through a grand gateway. Philip led the way and my mount followed obediently. The monk’s voice piped up with excitement, describing all he saw. He was barely twenty, and his beard was a mere wisp of soft down on his cheeks. Everything he saw was a marvel to him, but I valued his description of the lower part of Trebizond as we rode through its narrow streets. It seemed the arrival of the caravan was an occasion for celebration. The main road that led back up to the Imperial Citadel was hung with patterned carpets and lined with men in glittering livery. Many walls were covered in holy paintings in ochre and red and dark blue. The inhabitants of this lower town, where the foreign merchants dwelled, were gaily dressed in tight robes quite unlike the loose garments of the West. Their chatter, and the noise of playful children, made it difficult for me to hear what Brother Philip was saying. I asked him to speak up.

‘I was saying that we shall have to dismount soon or we shall trample some child underfoot. It is like swimming against the tide. Everyone is making for the gate we have just entered.’

I called out to someone in the throng, ‘Where is everyone going, pray?’

A woman answered with a voice that had laughter in it. ‘Why, to the Meidan, where there will be games and food stalls to celebrate the arrival of the caravan from the East.’

‘Yes, we came with it part of the way ourselves. But I am seeking an official of the Emperor’s court. He is the keeper of the Emperor’s library, and goes by the name Theokrastos. Do you know where I might find him?’

I had an introduction to this scholar, given me by a Nestorian monk in the Yuan Empire. In truth it was a tenuous connection, for the grimy monk in furthest Tatu had only heard of Theokrastos second-hand through travellers on the Silk Road. But I had heard many stories of the library of Alexios II, Emperor of Trebizond and Autocrat of the Romans, and would use any influence I could exert to get to see it. The woman I spoke to doubted I would see the scholar today, however.

‘Everyone in the court will be on the Meidan, sir, and I must go or I will be at the back of the crowd and see nothing of the acrobats.’

I let her go, and dismounted from my tired horse. Philip did the same, and took my reins from me.

‘If we look for the sign of the Lion of St Mark, master, we will be sure to find accommodation. The Venetians are acquisitive but generous with their hospitality.’

I agreed and followed wearily beside the horses, as Philip led them down towards the harbour.

It took longer than I had expected to meet George Theokrastos. The Emperor’s court was a strange mixture of strict formality and indolence. And its officials were hidden behind a screen of bureaucracy. Written requests had to be made for any meeting, and these documents languished in stacks of similar entreaties, only to be dealt with in the mornings. Afternoons were a time of torpor. I made use of my frequent spare time by walking around the city in the company of Brother Philip. We were fortunate to witness a procession one day as the court made its way from the Citadel to the monastery of St Sophia beyond the western ravine. Philip called out excitedly as servants with golden axes, eunuchs in white robes, and Imperial Guards in shiny breastplates passed before us. We were forced back against the walls of the houses as princes in cloth of gold and black-clad Orthodox priests swinging gilded censers moved slowly by. The air was heavy with incense and excitement.

‘Look,’ cried out Philip over the buzz of the crowd. ‘There’s the Emperor carrying a crozier, and wearing a dalmatic with a design of eagles woven in purple and gold thread.’

It was the first time we had come across the Emperor, and I drank in the atmosphere.

The following day, I finally had my audience with George Theokrastos, the keeper of the Emperor’s books. I submitted my letter of introduction from Sauma, the Nestorian Christian in the East, and was pleasantly surprised that Theokrastos had heard of him. The letter oiled the ponderous wheels of the Trapezuntine bureaucracy, and Philip and I were soon immersed in Greek and Roman texts that had been rescued from the sack of Constantinople by Flemish soldiers of the Fourth Crusade. We had been allowed into the inner city, the second tier of Trebizond as it were, with only the impregnable Citadel still towering over our heads. But even the library was a palace, with white marble, ivory and gold everywhere. We soon settled into a routine, with Theokrastos bringing us examples from the Emperor’s collection like titbits for a valued guest. Philip took each tome in his hand and read while I listened and absorbed the text.