The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

‘Grammatically, it is correct, but I would say by the hand that it was written by someone whose natural language it wasn’t.’

So, it could have been scribed by someone from an Italian city-state – either Florence, Genoa, or Venice. I smiled.

‘I was once told of a Florentine, a Genoan and a Venetian who were each left five hundred ducats by a rich man on condition that after his death they would each put twenty ducats into his coffin in case he needed it in the afterlife. The Florentine and the Venetian duly put in their twenty ducats, and quietly left the room. The Genoan walked over to the coffin, reached in and took out the forty ducats and put in a promissory note for sixty ducats.’

I heard Philip gasp.

‘How appalling. I hope he did not get away with such a sacrilegious act.’

I sighed, but refrained from telling the young monk it had been a joke. Though there was a serious intent to my jest. Genoans were renowned for their double-dealing and meanness. Perhaps the one I was to meet had been crass enough to engender fear in Panaretos, when subtlety was a better course. Neither the Venetian nor the Florentine would have surely tried such tactics. But I was keeping an open mind as Philip guided me up the slope that led from the lower city through the gate into the upper city, and past the Panagia Khrysokephalos Church. Panaretos lived as close to the Emperor’s citadel as a member not of the royal family may without actually being inside the royal walls. Even so, the end of the street afforded a glimpse of the palace. Philip described what he saw for me with awe in his voice.

‘I can see white marble pillars, and a courtyard set with orange and lemon trees, and oleander. There is a fountain in the centre of the courtyard and big, bronze double doors beyond.’

I could sense him turning to face me.

‘If it is so grand just on the approach to the palace, how grand must it be beyond the doors?’

I, who had experienced the fabled luxury of the Great Mongol Khan’s summer residence called Xanadu, could imagine how ornate it might be through those doors. But it was impossible to describe to an austere fellow like Philip, a monk from northern Greece, who had literally sat on a pinnacle of rock in the Meteora region before travelling east on a mission to convert idolaters, and then becoming my companion. Now, I nudged his arm and reminded him of our goal.

‘The delights of Johannes Panaretos’ residence will be enough grandeur for your eyes this evening. And you need to keep them wide open for me.’

I knew he lacked the subtleness I needed to interpret every sign that may come our way today, but what he lacked in perceptiveness he made up for with a remarkably retentive mind. What he couldn’t whisper in my ear during the evening, I could worm out of him later in the seclusion of our lodgings. It was then he would tell me what the three traders looked like. Apparently, the Florentine, whose name was Giacomo Belzoni, was small, dark-complexioned and compact, with neat and fastidious manners. The Venetian, by contrast, was a tall bear of a man with fair hair, given to sprawling in his chair. His name was Alessandro Ricci. Finally, there was the Genoan, who I suspected the most of the three. Giovanni Finati was stockily built, and probably at home in a ship with his bandy legs and rolling gait. I was to identify them to myself during the evening by their speech, which did seem to fit the word pictures Philip drew of them for me later.

All three were already in Panaretos’ house when I arrived, and the wily Trapezuntine forbore from mentioning my blindness. I think he thought it a jest to see which of the Italians would guess it first, and which would be so discourteous as to mention it. No one did. But then I was adept at disguising my deficiency, which I hardly saw as one after so much time. I probably seemed to them just a sybaritic Englishman relying on his servant to cut up his food and present it to him.

The food, by the way, was excellent. The first course was a compote of hare, stuffed chicken and a loin of veal, all covered in a sauce with pomegranate seeds. This was followed with various pies stuffed full of goslings, capons and pigeons. The pastry case was not as the English served – quite hard and inedible, they are called ‘coffins’ – but soft and crumbly. It was a delight, therefore, to eat the case as well as the contents. The third course was a sturgeon cooked in parsley and vinegar, which was a joy after such a preponderance of meat. Though I and his other guests were flagging, Panaretos showed no signs of slowing down, and continued to stuff his fat face with all the food that was presented at the table. I could hear his jaws chomping on the delicacies. But, besides the conversation that accompanied the banquet, I was intrigued by the presence of another person flitting in and out of the room as the courses progressed.

Each time a new course arrived, the undoubtedly tempting aromas were accompanied by something more subtle and human. A scent of patchouli oil wafted into the room at the same time that I could hear the slippered feet of someone much lighter than our host drifting round the room. At the arrival of the sturgeon, this person, who had to be a woman – unless it was a young eunuch or made-up boy – passed quite close to me and I heard the rustle of silk. I could bear it no longer, knowing that I could not see what the others did naturally. I interrupted the Venetian, who was talking about the alum mines at Kerasous, and invited Panaretos to introduce the mysterious beauty. It was a calculated risk on my part, for it could have been a catamite, but I didn’t think so.

‘Are you not going to introduce us to your wife, Panaretos? She looks so beautiful and modest, serving us in silence.’

The fat Trapezuntine grunted in surprise, knowing as he did my affliction, but did as I requested.

‘This is Baia Bzhedug, and she is my Circassian beauty.’

The tone of his voice suggested to me that his wife was more a piece of property than a companion. I sensed that Baia was bowing to me as I heard the rustle of her silk robe, but I held my hand out anyway. After a moment’s hesitation, I felt the warmth of her delicate and slender hand in mine. I raised it to my lips. The Genoan, Finati, called out his approval of my gesture.

‘Bravo, Englishman. You are not such a cold fish as some of your compatriots. During all our trade negotiations, Panaretos never once gave away the fact he had a beauty for a wife.’

I felt the woman’s hand tense in mine, and allowed it to slip free. The scent of patchouli oil drifted from the room. Meanwhile, puffed up with pride, Panaretos began to expand on his wife’s family history. I could hear his fat lips drooling as he munched on the sturgeon and spoke at the same time. I could almost feel the spit spraying from his gluttonous mouth.

‘She is from Sochi, and claims to be a princess. Though in this house, she is my cook and housemaid. Many of the Circassians are no better than idolaters, and have no standing in Trebizond. Still, she is passing pretty, as you say.’

As if to emphasise his point, he chose to call out at that moment, ‘Wife, where are the subtleties, the jellies?’

In response, Baia announced her return with the slapping of her delicate, slippered feet on the marble floor, and her aroma of patchouli. With her, she brought jellies, and cream covered in fennel seeds and sugar. I could smell the overwhelming sweetness of the dishes, but refrained from sampling them as I was already full to bursting. Panaretos and the others – including Philip – had no such restraint, and Baia’s reward for all her efforts was the sound of the slurping lips of her husband and his other guests.

‘Which one do you favour for the death threat, Philip?’