Chapter 21
A Light Lunch in the Forum of Arcadius
Nestor the Storyteller yawned and scratched his ass as he surveyed the crowd in the Forum of Arcadius. It was a lovely morning with a fresh breeze blowing in from the sea. He hawked and spat on the cobblestones and wondered how he was going to get enough wine to get himself drunk this evening. Constantinople was no place to grow old and Nestor was most certainly old. He had celebrated the resurrection of Christ at seventy-one Easters he could recall and there may have even been a few more which he had forgotten about. For many of those years Nestor had worked as a stevedore, loading and unloading ships at the Theodosian Harbor. Back then he had been known as Nestor the Gregarious, for he kept up a constant stream of conversation as he hauled baskets of grain, bales of cotton, iron ingots, wooden planks, bolts of cloth and all the rest of the goods which flowed into the markets, warehouses, and workshops of the city. He loved to chat with the foreign crews, conducting his own trade in stories and gossip, with dark Moors from Spain or red haired men from the land of the Rus.
Eventually arthritis settled into his knees and wrists, and there was no employment for a withered porter who could no longer lift. His wife had died long ago and Nestor had managed to outlive all of his children. Destitute and alone he had been reduced to begging - competing for alms with the blind, the lame, the leprous, and the scrofulous. His mind was still sharp, however, and he could recall every wonderful story he had ever heard; tales of witches in the Allemagne forests, tales of love and shipwrecks, stories of strange beasts in far off lands, short quick jokes for those with little time to spare, longer legends of gods and heroes for those with time to linger. Nestor sold stories to keep himself alive. That and a little thievery. For not all of his stories had happy endings. From time to time, if for instance his audience was a single person, or even a particularly vulnerable couple, they would find themselves surrounded by street children. The grubby urchins would crowd close to listen to the old storyteller for free. At a secret signal from Nestor, the clubs and knives would come out and the listener would be robbed and beaten to within an inch of their lives by the swarming attack of a feral army of orphans.
Nestor crushed a louse from the hair at the back of his head between his finger and thumb and noticed two men at the Portia Auria end of the forum making their way past a long row of fishmongers who bartered the morning’s harvest from the Sea of Marmara to a crowd of monks purchasing for the pantries of their monasteries, stewards purchasing for the pantries of their mansions, and housewives purchasing for their families. These men wore red cloaks with white surcoats and Nestor could see one wore a cross emblazoned on the front of his. As they made their way through the scrum, the Mese - the grand avenue - opened up into a massive forum dominated by a column of green stone which towered fully fifty meters above the street. The mercenaries, for Nestor was sure that was what they were, spent a few coins on some meat pies and a couple of loaves of bread for their breakfast. He was certain they had money, probably quite a lot of it. There was something about the careful way each man carried the saddlebags which were slung over their shoulders. But whatever the pickings might be, it certainly looked like hard knocks to get at them. The older of the two, wore mail, and carried a sword and also had an axe tucked into his belt. The other, a brawny lunk with broad shoulders, trudged along with a pair of crossbows and a shield slung across his back, but he also wore a good sized dirk on his belt.
They stopped and sat on some low steps which ran around the red granite base of the column. The larger man craned his neck and gazed up at it. The column was the color of an angry sea and every inch of the exterior was covered with bas relief carvings depicting scenes from a war which had taken place long ago. A small wooden door opened into the base of the column, and a narrow set of spiral stairs inside led up to a platform at the top where a man with disheveled hair and a grubby brown homespun robe sat with his feet dangling over the edge. The mercenary appeared to be pondering if sitting at the base of the column was a good idea in case the man at the top fell or even jumped, but seeing neither was likely to happen, he sat down and began to eat. Nestor, clutching his begging bowl, hobbled over.
Pons tore his loaf in half and glared at him, “Bugger off.”
“Sir, you mistake my intentions. I do not seek alms. I am a storyteller. Tales and poems both historical and fantastical. Perhaps I could entertain you and your companion as you enjoy your meal, and only if you like what you have heard, then I would humbly ask you to consider a few coins for my bowl.”
“He said, ‘Beat it.’ Grandad,” Cyn chimed in, and was about to aim a boot at the storyteller’s ass, when Pons held up his hand.
“Tell me,” he asked, “Do any baths in this city still have hot water?”
“Yes Domine, marvelously refreshing after a journey.”
“And what about the Hippodrome? Is there a race today?”
“Yes. You are in luck. There is a full slate of races and some executions as well. For ten copper tetarteron I can show you the Hippodrome, the baths, the basilica, everything.”
“Cyn, what was the name of the boy?” Pons asked.
“What boy?”
“The son who was the chariot racer. Remember back before Theselonika. You fancied the daughter. Said their boy raced for the Blues.”
“Alexander the Great.”
“Si, like the great general of old.”
The storyteller was still droning on. “Please Sirah, the city can be a dangerous place even to those such as yourselves - and by that I only mean capable men - who can take care of themselves. Eight copper tetarteron is not much to show two holy pilgrims the sights. Ask anyone.”
“Piss off. I’m not some farmer with pig shit behind his ears. I’ve been here before. I know my way around. Do you know if he is racing today? That would be fortuitous, no?” Cyn nodded his assent.
“If who is racing?” Nestor asked, confused.
Pons sighed and began again. “I’m gonna ask you a question and if I like your answer I will give you a silver byzant.” He held up a coin. “Is there a man racing for the Blues called Alexander the Great?”
A look of bliss crossed Nestor’s old face, “Yes, Domine. He is in the last triple entry race of the afternoon.” Nestor, like everyone else in Constantinople, followed the races keenly.
“Ah ha. You hear that Cyn? It is fortuna. It is good luck. Let’s wager on him.”
“But Domine, That may not be wise. This one who calls himself Alexander the Great, in truth he is not that great. Inexperienced and riding in third string. Wager on Atlas of the Blues or Faustinus of the Greens, either of them is sure to win, but a novice third string - never.” Nestor paused, “Well… it could happen, but you may as well wager on a bird shitting on someone’s head. That also happens, but it is unlikely. Do not waste your money.”
“Birds shit on my head all the time.” A stentorian voice interrupted from on high. “A bird shit on me only this morning. Sometimes it is the sea gulls, but not this morning. This morning it was a white dove. Like the one who brought the branch back to Father Noah. Perhaps the boy’s time has come.”
Pons and Cyn craned their necks upwards once again to look at the disheveled figure at the top of the column. He did not return their gaze, but rather looked out across the rooftops of the city to the clouds on the horizon.
Cyn jerked his thumb upwards, “Tell me Storyteller, what is his story?”
“Him? Oh he is Daniel. Holy Brother Daniel. The Stylite.”
“Stylite?” Neither Cyn nor Pons recognized the word.
“He is a monk, but instead of entering a monastery, he has chosen to be closer to God, so he lives on top of the column. Like a hermit in a cave, but here in the forum of the city, not in the countryside.”
“He lives up there? All of the time?” Pons asked.
“Yes Domine, all of the time. In weather both temperate and tempestuous.”
“All day? All night?”
“Yes Domine.”
“What does he do all day?”
“I am not sure. He prays. He says he talks to God. Sometimes he yells at sinners passing by and tells them to seek confession and repent.”
Pons regarded the holy man for a moment. “Brother Daniel,” he called up, “What of this driver? This ‘Alexander the Great’ What do you think his chances are?”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“Maybe he is due.” the monk said, fixing his gaze briefly on Pons before returning to stare out over the rooftops again.
“Maybe he is due?” Nestor scoffed. “I tell you, Domine, this driver is merely competent. Brother Daniel cannot even see into the Hippodrome from where he stands and he has not left this column in at least two years. How would he know? He does not know the races.”
“Dove shit on him.” Pons stated matter-of-factly as if that settled the question. He handed one of his remaining meat pies to Cyn and motioned for him to take it to the monk.
Cyn got to his feet and regarded the cramped twisting stairwell which ran up the inside drum of the column. He gave Pons a reproachful look, and contemplated whistling to get the monk’s attention and tossing the pie up to him, but decided the old fool would probably only drop it. He sighed and dutifully wound his way up, struggling to get his broad shoulders through the tight confines. At the top of the column Brother Daniel sat in a small doorway which opened out to a tiny balcony fenced in with a low metal railing. Cyn handed the pie to the monk who thanked him, but he did not eat it. The monk said something else but his voice was rough and he mumbled so Cyn was not able to follow his Greek. He guessed the holy man was fasting and would save the pie for later. He was about to squeeze back down the spiral staircase when the monk jumped to his feet and looked over the railing.
“Fornacatrix!” he screamed and pointed an accusing finger down at a matron crossing the forum. “Adulteress! Sinner!” Spittle flew from his mouth. The woman hid her face in her hands and ran from the righteous anger of holy brother Daniel. Hoots of scorn and derision erupted from the other people in the forum. Laughter followed her exit.
“You see,” said Pons after Cyn had made his way back down and resumed his seat, “This monk knows things. The way that woman ran - she was clearly guilty. We must put money down on this charioteer.”
They slung their saddlebags over their shoulders and made their way to the edge of the forum. Nestor still followed them insisting that if they were going shopping, he could direct them to the most honest merchants with the best prices and the largest selections. Had the distinguished visitors found lodgings? Nestor could help find a clean inn with excellent food for a reasonable price. Brothels with comely whores? Sites of historical interest?
Cyn paused when he heard the word “brothel.” It had been one of the first words he had learned in Greek. He was about to inquire further about the brothels, but Pons first asked, “What do you mean ‘sites of historical interest?’”
“Almost every building and street corner in this great city has a story and I know them all. For instance, it was on this exact spot the Lord God of All struck down the heretic Bishop Arius of Alexandria causing his asshole to fall out.”
Cyn was not sure he had understood the old man’s Greek correctly. He had to pursue this. “His asshole fell out?”
“Yes Serrah. His asshole fell out - along with his bowels, intestines, heart, lungs, liver, all a man contains. Right out onto the paving stones where you now stand.”
“Is it true?” Cyn asked. He was almost grinning with delight at the gruesome little tale. “He shit out his vitals? Right here in the forum? Can such a thing happen?”
“Less talk, more marching,” Pons said. “We have a lot to do today and I don’t need to hear your stories old man, so now you can bugger off.”
“I would have liked to have seen that.” Cyn continued.
“Sir, you are a busy man, you can avail yourself of my services. I know this city like the back of my hand. I can take you to where you are going. I can carry messages.”
Finally Pons held up a silver coin again and silenced the old storyteller. “Look to me, I will give you this coin if you do something for me.”
“Sirrah, you still owe me a coin.”
“How do I owe you a coin?”
“You asked if Alexander the Great was racing today, and I told you he was. You said you would pay me a coin.”
“Yes, but anyone on the street could have told me that. No. Look to me. I will give you this coin if you do something for me.”
“Yes, Domine.”
“I want you to go to the Hippodrome this afternoon and save my companion and I two seats. Good ones. Somewhere near the finish line. Not too high up though. We have some business to attend to in the meantime, but we will meet you there later.” He handed the coin to the old beggar. “If you do this for me, I will give you one more coin.”
Nestor beamed, “Of course. Of course. I will save the best seats for you Ser. You will see. If anyone tries to take your seat I shall strike them with my crutch. You will not be disappointed.” He took the offered coin and limped off as fast as he was able.
Thankful to be alone again, the two mercenaries continued to make their way eastward along the grand avenue of the Mese, past stalls selling harnesses and housewares, and crossed the Forum of the Ox. As the foot traffic around them increased, Cyn began to feel apprehensive about cutpurses and pickpockets. On their journey the wealth they carried was wrapped up in bedrolls and blankets and distributed among the horses. Now, with all of it in the saddlebags slung over their shoulders, they almost clinked as they walked. On the road they had relied on their rough appearance to discourage would-be thieves - that and the horses - if waylaid they could always have attempted to flee. Here in this city, inside the walls, with the press of people on all sides, Cyn felt uneasy. He bristled at every person who came too close. A couple of beggars who had reached up to him imploringly had already received cuffs.
“Are we to carry the money with us at all times? Or are we to stash it? Where can we hide it where someone will not find it? There are people everywhere.” Cyn spoke the Occitan language with a strong Piedmont accent, should anyone overhear their conversation, they would not understand.
“We will give most of it to another for safekeeping.”
“If you do that will we ever see it again? These Greeks cannot be trusted.”
“True. However, the man to whom I would entrust it has no need for our little bag of silver. Heavens no. He has plenty of his own. Oh, he will get a taste of ours to be sure, and that is all right and proper. Wine money.”
“So this rich man will hold our silver safe for us? Who is he?”
“There are some people we need to talk to.” Pons explained. “They may be able to give us some information. The Margrave met a lot of people when we were here for the wedding a couple of years ago. Some were kind and friendly. But they were kind and friendly when Lord Guilhem’s son was marrying the Emperor’s daughter. Now - maybe not so friendly. This rich man, his name is John Ducas. A powerful nobleman from a great house. He and Lord William became friends around the time of the wedding. We will find him, or someone who knows where to find him, at the Imperial Palace. Hopefully, he will remember my liege kindly and he will hold some of the silver for us. The rest is finally to be put to work.” Pons explained.
“Again you mean bribes.”
“Si. Nobody does nothing for nothing.” He glanced around them. Peddlers had set up their stalls under the massive brick archways which supported the Church of the Holy Myrrh Oil. Pons paused at one which sold coin purses of various sizes. He carefully selected several, including two which were distinctly feminine lady’s purses.
They were at a busy crossroads, but nearby were the ruins of a pagan temple. They ascended the marble steps. Magnificent porphyry column which bore statues depicting brothers embracing still supported the temple’s porch. They passed through the entrance and quietly, behind the inner sanctum, in an out of the way apse at the temple’s back wall, Pons began to divide the silver. Cyn stood nearby and kept watch.
“Where are we going now? The Imperial Palace?”
“No, first we are going to an inn. Let us drop off our equipment and get a bite of early lunch. Then to the Church of Holy Wisdom to thank God for delivering us safely. One of the people we should talk to is certainly the Patriarch. Our Marius said he supported Lord Renier and his wife Maria Porphyrogenita when they came into conflict with the Empress Regent and the First Chamberlain. He may still be sympathetic or he may have information.” Satisfied he had divided the coins into the purses and sacks correctly, Pons carefully tied each closed and placed them all back in his saddlebag, which he tightly strapped. He slung the saddlebag with the silver resting close to his heart. They stepped out of the shadows of the ancient temple back into the light of the street.
An enormous church complex, larger even than the basilica Cyn had seen in Thessalonica, dominated the city’s third hill to their left. They crossed the expanse of the Forum of the Bull. A tall column also dominated this space, but this one lacked a ragged stylite living at the top. The avenue opposite was even more congested than the one they had just shouldered their way through. The congestion was partly due to the presence of a female camel whose owner had made the unfortunate decision to bring her into the city while she was in season. A male camel with a fully aroused member was trying to mount the female. Cyn nudged Pons, pointed at the camel’s cock, and sniggered. The camel drover was whipping the male in the face and a crowd of people pushed, either to get away from its hooves, or to get in closer to witness the rutting. Up ahead, next to a teeming crossroads, stood the Church of the Forty Martyrs. Here, traffic from the Grand Portico, which ran from the Golden Horn in the north and cut across the city between the second and third hills to the harbors of the Propontis in the south, met the Mese. Instead of an open forum to allow traffic to pass - as common sense would dictate - the intersection was instead dominated by a marble four sided arch with a steep pyramid for a roof. On the top of the pyramid was a weather vane in the shape of an angel. Foot traffic squeezed around this obstruction while wagon traffic labored through the muck and jostled for their turns passing under the arches. Once they were able to get past the tetrapylon the traffic on the Mese evened out again towards the Forum of Constantine.
The tavern was called the Golden Eel, and true to its name, on a charcoal brazier out front two silvery eels were turning a lovely golden-brown. The smell was delicious. It was located on a side street near the Forum of Constantine. Pons took a long sniff.
“Do you smell that?” he asked.
Cyn breathed in deeply through his nose. “Shit, piss, grilled eel, and… bread?”
“Si. Up this street is the bakers guild. No matter where you go. If you get lost you can smell your way back here.”
“What if my nose is stuffed up?”
“Just ask. Everybody knows this place. The artopoleia. You say it.”
“Art-o-po-lei-a.” Cyn enunciated dutifully.
“I liked this place last time I was here. I hope the same old couple runs the place. The old biddy was sweet. And cook. A treat. Oh, here she is now.”
He switched to his atrocious Greek. “Hello. Hello, Grandmother, remember me? Perhaps? It has been a long time. I have returned to Constantine’s city for your cooking.” The woman remembered him and gave Pons a hug. Her husband ambled over to welcome them, entreating them to sit and be served.
“Not yet, oh maybe a cup of wine and a quick bite. However, we shall require a room. You have a loft at the back.”
“Oh Domine, that space is taken.”
Pons handed the tavern keeper a silver byzant. “See it becomes free. We will be back after the races, and we will be having a big meal. Bread, fish, oysters, much wine. A cask of wine at least. And garlic and onions. We may be staying for some time.”