the instrument but stemming as much from the realization that the last time he had heard a flute, it had been at Senator Aurelius’ banquet and violent death had soon followed.
A man leaving the forum stopped to speak as he drew level with them.
“Good people, it is truly a wonder to find oneself in a city of such holiness that even unwashed urchins in the streets praise heaven with hymns written by the emperor.”
After he had departed, Pulcheria observed it was a pity he had not acknowledged such an amazing event by tossing the boy a coin before he went on his way.
This reminded the woman that certain beggars took advantage of pilgrims’ generosity. For example, there was the man called the Captain, an ancient with only one leg who spent his days perched in a wall niche next to the entrance of the workshop of a seller of leather goods. His cozy alcove had doubtless once held a mute marble likeness of some notable or other but its newest occupant declaimed long-winded accounts of his military service in the Arabian desert to any passersby he could persuade to listen. His concluding remarks always stressed that it was out there in the barbaric wilderness that he had lost his leg, thus leading to his current struggle to support a large family on a small pension. His audience was inevitably generous in their contributions towards defraying the ex-soldier’s expenses.
John was about to comment on the man’s sacrifice for the empire when Pulcheria revealed that in fact the Captain had never set foot in Arabia but rather had lost his leg as the result of a knife wound that mortified.
“He was lucky he didn’t lose his life,” she sniffed, “and luckier still he didn’t discover from bitter experience that if he’d had the girl he was fighting over she would have given him a very nasty gift he wouldn’t want to take home with him. He’s the happiest of her suitors, the one who lost the argument. Of course, he will never admit that. It’s a gripping tale he spins, though. He does well enough for sitting around all day doing nothing.”
John said he admired the Captain’s ingenuity.
“That’s right, excellency, you do have to have a good story,” Pulcheria replied.
Pulling a piece of the tattered material swathing her body over the unburned side of her face, she turned the milky orb of her injured eye toward John and continued his instruction.
“But it has to be something different,” she said. “Every other beggar these days claims to be a widow or an orphan or some worker crippled in a terrible accident and thrown out on the street with his wife about to produce a child, to boot.” She paused, coughed throatily and then gave a piteous moan before saying in a wheedling tone, “Oh, master, spare a copper for a poor blind lady who never did nobody no harm.”
John admitted she certainly gave a convincing performance.
“It would be easy living, don’t you think?” she said, rearranging her tatters. “But I prefer to give something in return for payment.”
“Beggars do provide pilgrims a chance to demonstrate their charity, do they not?” John observed thoughtfully.
“Are you considering taking up begging, then? Or will you follow a lower occupation?”
John, puzzled, asked her what she had in mind.
“Thieving,” Pulcheria informed him matter of factly, but only after some prompting would she elaborate. Of those thieves with whom she admitted personal acquaintance most stole from merchants who were thought well able to afford it, while one or two concentrated on pilgrims. “At least thieving does require skill,” she conceded. “But a fine man like yourself, you can do better.”
“You say there are those who prey on pilgrims?”
Pulcheria had been keeping her good side toward John but now she turned her full face toward him. Her sightless eye stared without expression as her good one narrowed suspiciously. “Even thieves have a right to make a living. You aren’t here to bring harm to us, are you?”
“No,” John reassured her. “On that you have my word.”
“I believe you, even though I know you’re lying about something. Still, since you ask, yes, there are some. Remember, many of these travel-begrimed folk are wealthy men despite the humble guise they adopt for their journeys. And wisely so, I would say. Now, mind, I’ve never actually seen anyone robbed at knifepoint hereabouts, although I’m sure it happens in less pleasant parts of the city. But even so, since pilgrims aren’t likely to stay in Constantinople very long, the Prefect tends not to take much interest in catching those that rob them. Not but what there’s a few innkeepers we could mention that do the same-but they do it with a smile and a flourish and an overcooked meal they sell at twice what it’s worth. After all, what do travelers know of a strange city?”
“If thieves aren’t caught, they’d probably do quite well, wouldn’t they?” John remarked.
The woman cackled hoarsely, apparently amused at the idea of this lean stranger as an apprentice thief. “Some might. You’re a bit too conspicuous, though. You don’t blend in with the crowd, excellency. But then, I must say, I do like a tall man.” She put her hand on his arm, her multicolored wrappings brushing the sleeve of his torn tunic.
John ignored the familiarity. “Do you have any more advice for me, Pulcheria? For I fear I must leave soon.”
The pretty half of her mouth formed a pout. The effect was quite horrible. “Well, if you’d been here a few days ago you could have asked the Basket Man. He knew how to steal when people were distracted, he could whip the pouch right off your belt while you were listening to Joseph, so he could. You need a lot of people around you if you’re up to no good, that’s what he’d tell you. He was always quite honest about thieving.”
John asked how the man had received such a curious nickname.
“The Basket Man? He was one of them that used to steal from the offerings always being sent up to the Crow.”
“The Crow?”
Pulcheria gestured up at the stylite’s column. “That squawking bird of ill omen perched up there. But he didn’t actually steal from Joseph. He stole from those leeches who call themselves acolytes. Keep your eye open, like I do, and you’ll soon see that most of the offerings the faithful put in the basket for Joseph never reach him. To be fair, the Crow couldn’t keep the smallest portion of all the gifts he gets. It would take a miracle to find room for them all up there and miracles, as you’ve doubtless already gathered, are not in common supply around here.”
“You said this Basket Man used to steal. He’s stopped?”
“Oh, yes. Forever.”
Pulcheria’s expression was grim. John realized she must have been very fond of the rogue.
“He died, excellency,” she continued. “Died in a horrible way. He never liked cold. It got into his bones, he’d say. He got hold of this lamp, and we won’t inquire too closely how he did. Not that a little lamp flame is going to keep you warm in a windy alley on a freezing night, it was more the idea of warmth, you know? Something to warm his hands at or to see what he was eating if he’d managed to get a scrap of food from somewhere. Well, he dozed off, knocked the lamp over or something like that. Who knows? Anyhow, he set fire to himself.” She wiped her tear- filled eyes quickly with the back of her hand.
John was thinking of the body Philo had discovered. Could it have been the man of whom Pulcheria was speaking? It was worth asking. “He died near here?”
Pulcheria nodded. “Only a few days ago. Such a shame, it was. He’d just got a nice warm tunic as well. Why, he thought that heaven had smiled on him at last.”
“A tunic stolen from Joseph’s basket?”
The woman rushed to the dead man’s defense. “The Crow doesn’t need any more. He gets enough given to him in a week to wear a different tunic every day and three on feast days. Hang around here long enough and you’ll realize that quick enough.”
Apparently Joseph was one of those rare stylites who did not wear clothing until it rotted and fell off him, John thought. “Your friend, did he die on the night those stylites burned to death?”
Pulcheria scowled. “Those stylites were struck down by the hand of God, everybody knows that. You aren’t saying that he died just for stealing, are you? He was just trying to survive as best he could, like all of us.”
Glancing sideways at her, John saw the opaque orb of her blind eye welling with fresh tears that flowed down the reddened, melted flesh that had once been a rounded cheek, matching the shiny tracks meandering from the lowered eyelid of her good eye.
It was already after dark as Hypatia, carrying a heavy basket, made her way through the excited crowds lining the high sea wall along Constantinople’s northern shore. According to the wild rumor swirling in the streets,
