The mosaic of shadows

‘“The dutiful daughter greets her father with the food of her hands,”’ I quoted, smiling.

‘The dutiful wife,’ corrected Helena sharply. ‘The daughter might well be in bed when her father chooses to appear.’

I settled into my chair, and took a spoonful of the stew she had prepared. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said humbly. ‘The stew is delicious.’ It was — she had her mother’s gift with food. ‘But my paymasters at the palace keep me working hard, and they pay me enough that one day I will not have to work so hard. Then we can have supper on time.’

‘Is the palace beautiful, Papa?’ asked Zoe, slurping her food like a soldier. ‘Is it filled with fountains and light?’

‘It is. Fountains and light and gold and laughter,’ I said, and described as best I could the few corners I had seen. It needed little embellishment to make Zoe’s eyes go wide with wonder.

‘I thought the kingdom of God was for the poor.’ Helena had been staring down at her plate while I spoke, saying nothing, but now she lifted her head contemptuously. ‘I thought the Lord God would pull down the mighty from their thrones, and scatter the proud in the evil of their hearts. How can you work for such a tyrant, who glories in the trappings of sin?’

‘I can work for him because his life is as valuable as any other man’s.’ We had argued this the previous night. ‘And because in my lifetime he is the only ruler who has not brought us to the brink of ruin. He may feast in golden halls and drink from scented cups, but he keeps the borders secure and his armies far from the city. To my mind, that is enough.’

Though I believed what I said, I could understand the contempt in Helena’s eyes, for I could hear my words sounding as hollow to her as they would have to me at that age. I remembered the monks who raised me preaching poverty and humility as they grew fat on the orchards I tended, and the way I burned at the injustice of it. Was I now grown into just another apologist for the orthodox?

Clearly Helena thought so; she rose from the table with a crashing of plates and chairs, and marched stiffly out of the room.

Zoe watched her go. ‘She wants a husband,’ she said, with the blithe indifference of a twelve-year-old. ‘That’s why she’s angry.’

‘I know,’ I said wearily. ‘And I will do something soon.’ I speared a piece of vegetable onto my knife. ‘But she should guard her tongue concerning the Emperor. He has many ears, many spies.’

And I, I thought as I lay in bed that night, was one of them.

5

It was close to midday by the time I found Vassos’ house again; I had spent the morning making some arrangements, then discovered that his neighbours were less obliging with their directions when the supplicant came accompanied by four monstrously armed soldiers. With that in mind, I approached the sturdy door alone.

This time there was no need to knock. The lone gypsy who had been outside before was now augmented by a triad of youths with bruised, insolent faces; they loitered below the windows and stared at me through lazy eyes.

‘I’m here to see Vassos,’ I said, as pleasantly as I could.

‘Vassos busy.’ It was the boy nearest me who spoke. He must have been in a dozen knife-fights at least, judging by the scars, but it was the pimples which truly disfigured him. He wore a green tunic clasped with a leather belt, and as he spoke one hand drifted ominously behind his back.

‘Vassos is not too busy to see me.’ A gold nomisma appeared between my fingers, almost as if by accident, but when the youth leaned forward to stare closer it vanished. I opened my empty palm to him with a disingenuous shrug.

‘Vassos will see me,’ I repeated.

‘Vassos see you.’

The boy stretched out an arm and banged three times on the door; it swung inwards silently. With a mock bow and a sneer, he signalled me to enter.

As I came into the dim room I saw that the boy had not been making idle excuses for Vassos: he had indeed been busy, and seemed only just to have concluded the business, for he was wrapping a cloth about his bloated waist and wiping sweat from his black-haired chest. Next to him a woman was pulling a dress up over her breasts, showing not the least concern for modesty. On the couch behind them a second girl lay stretched out on her belly, shamelessly naked and glowing with a sheen of perspiration. For a moment I allowed myself to admire her openly, thinking to persuade Vassos of my complicity; besides, it was years since I had felt that pleasure, and I had the God-given desires of any man. Then I noticed the red lines scratched down the curve of her back, the slender width of her hips and the smooth skin on the flesh below her shoulder: she could not be much older — if at all — than Helena, I realised. Sickened, I looked away.

‘Not to your taste, eh?’ Vassos misread my look. ‘Don’t worry, I have more. What do you prefer? Peasant girls from the provinces who fuck like mules? Dusky Arabians from the court of the Sultan, versed in the seven hundred ways of pleasuring a man. Golden-haired virgins from Macedonia? If you’re feeling patriotic, I even have a Norman wench, on whom you can revenge the treachery of their race. Though it will cost you extra if I cannot use her again.’

I stared at this ogre standing half-naked before me. Long, thick hair fell over his brutish shoulders, framing a face whose flattened nose and heavy cheekbones seemed more suited to a bull than a man. He wore a thick, golden chain around his neck, and rolled it between fat fingers as he spoke. It was with great restraint that I did not hit him immediately.

‘I’m not after girls,’ I said shortly. ‘I seek. .’

‘Boys?’ Vassos’ fat lips contorted into a leer. ‘I can do boys for you, my friend, if you enjoy Corinthian pleasures. Sometimes indeed I savour it myself — I must understand the tastes of my clients, you know. But it will take a little time — the boys are kept elsewhere.’

The girl who had been dressing herself when I entered had left the room, but now returned carrying a cup heavily crusted with coloured stones. She gave it to Vassos who drained its contents in a single gulp, leaving only a small trail dribbling down his cloven chin. He dropped it heedlessly on the floor, impervious to the clatter, and in the pause, I spoke again.

‘Not boys. I seek men — and not for carnal pleasures. For dangerous tasks. I understood you could provide them.’ It now seemed a faint hope: a lesson for trusting so much to the words of a charlatan and his dog.

But Vassos had gone very still. ‘Men for dangerous tasks,’ he mused. ‘More dangerous than turning their arses over to you?’

‘Men’s work, not whores.”

‘I can sell you men for any task.’ Vassos delivered each word with slow consideration. ‘Any task which pleases me. But I do not know that I like your task.’

‘Others may have paid you for similar,’ I suggested.

‘The business I do with others is my own affair. The business I do with you. .’ He thought on this. ‘I choose not to do with you. You know the watchwords and you speak of danger, but I think you are the danger, my friend. Please leave my house.’

‘I need to know if a man hired some men of you, perhaps in the last week or month. I will pay handsomely for the knowledge.’ Again I allowed the gold coin to appear and disappear in my hand.

Vassos simply laughed, an ugly laugh that stirred the girl on the bed to look up, wide-eyed. ‘You can buy my whores, and treat them as you pay for them, but you cannot buy me with your magician’s gold. My reputation,’ he explained solemnly, ‘is everything. Now go.’

‘Tell me who you’ve hired mercenaries to,’ I persisted. ‘Tell me and. .’

My plea was interrupted by a piercing whistle, as Vassos stuck two fingers between his yellow teeth and blew hard through them. ‘You will leave my house,’ he said, smirking. ‘Vassos’ hospitality is legendary, but it is not to be abused. I will have my boys see you out.’

Still I did not move. I heard the sound of running footsteps, then shouts of alarm and the noises of a scuffle.