The Byzantine Wager

Chapter 45 - Grave Diggin'

Chapter 45

Grave Diggin'

Pons had put off the unsavory task for as long as possible, both by dawdling on the journey to Constantinople, and by dragging his feet once he had gotten to the city.

On the morning after the race he woke up hungover, muscles stiff, laying on a pallet in an alcove at the top of a ladder at the back of the Eel. Cyn snored beside him, having stumbled in after dawn. All of their kit was piled about them. A sufficient sleeping arrangement for one night, but this would need fixing.

Down the ladder and in the common room Pons found the owner cleaning grills and his wife gutting the catch of the day which had already been fetched in. Nestor waited on a bench with two loaves from the nearby bakery and a happy-to-see-you smile on his face.

"Good morning," Pons greeted everyone. "Momma, last night's meal - the best ever I ate." He clapped his hand on the proprietor's shoulder, "Poppa, I enjoyed the wine very much, perhaps too much. This sleeping cubicle at the back will not suffice for the long term, however."

With Nestor's help translating when needed, he then gave instructions to have a large room added to the top of the building - a loft suite of sorts - for Cyn and himself. Two beds and a seating area. And get rid of the ladder - stairs instead. Also two windows - one in front and one in back for air. Open mouthed, the proprietor took a handful of coins.

"Today would be better than tomorrow." Then over his shoulder, "Cyn get up, builders are coming. We will get to the baths and you will feel better. Perhaps we will stop and get some new clothing first, no point in bathing if we are going to climb into the same stinky garments again afterwards. Nestor will run our old things back here to Mother for washing, while we go back to that monastery and sell the horses. No need to stable them since we are staying."

Cyn descended the ladder and entered the common room - his head hung low. "Is bathing going to become a habit now?"

* * *

The following morning was given over to meeting with the Patriarch of the Hagia Sophia. Not the whole morning. Barely three minutes of it.

Cyn was afforded his first view of young Emperor Alexios the Second at the basilica. Heavily robed in multiple layers of cloth, the adolescent sweated and picked his nose during the long, long, long mass. Later the boy broke down in the most undignified tears after the Patriarch informed him of his mother's death the previous day. Cyn and Pons were far back in the line to speak with the head of the Eastern Church, but Cyn found the boy's weeping was loud and unmanly. Awkwardly the line shuffled along as the sobbing Emperor was led back to the palace. What would it take, the mercenary wondered, to take this entire city? Seize it - from the gilding on the highest church spire to the treasure in the oldest tomb in the lowest crypt.

Pons handed over the lady's purse he had purchased, saying Dame Judith wished that her son be interred with the correct rites. In truth there was no need to seek the permission of anyone to provide a proper Christian burial for a body found on a beach, however there could be no harm in keeping the Alamarici family of Montferatto in the prayers of the Patriarch. Perhaps higher in his prayers than the new co-emperor. Palace and church were not in accord.

The morning after that an excursion to the north side of the Golden Horn was undertaken. In order to get there Pons and Cyn had to cross through the ruins of the former Latin Quarter. Of actual smoldering which John Ducas had spoken of, they could see none, although there was plenty of ash and burnt timbers. Soot and cinders crunched under their boots. No attempt to rebuild or even clear rubble seemed to be underway. Nestor explained that some souls, ashamed at what their fellow citizens had done, had arranged for a clean up of the (looted) bodies.

The old storyteller met them every morning having attached himself in a tour guide cum translator capacity - taking on additional duties as a construction foreman providing input to the builders on the upstairs loft. Pons was happy to have someone new to natter with. Nestor's sluggish pace irritated Cyn, but he had no idea how to get anywhere on his own, and barely enough Greek to ask for directions (if anyone would speak to a Latin), so he needed the fellow.

A hired boat took them the short distance across the water to Galatia and a quick walk brought them to St. Paul's by the Tower. The Catholic church had been spared from the horrors which had happened to the south. In the months since the massacre the clergy had tried to assist the surviving refugees escape to the land of the Bulgars to the north west. Burials for the dead had been in mass graves on hastily consecrated ground. Now with their entire congregation fled or dead the priests were as poor as the mice in their own church. Grateful for the chance to conduct a funeral with pomp and get paid for it they offered a place for interment.

* * *

The morning after visiting the church in Galatia dawned clear and breezy. No more putting it off.

With Nestor's help, and following the directions provided by Marius, they found the fisherman already in from the sea mending his nets. Cyn pulled a cart with a coffin and some spades which were transferred to the cramped fishing boat. Nestor trundled the cart back to the city. The coffin, Pons, Cyn, and the fisherman's son, a boy of about twelve, put out and sailed south. Gulls circled overhead and the saltwater spray from the azure water of the Bosphorus was refreshing. Not far - had there been no cliffs or vegetation they could have easily walked - to the small deserted stretch of beach. The rolling surf brought the skiff in gently. Walking sluggishly they stepped over browning seaweed - sand dragging at their feet - to where a cross stuck in the sand formed by two sticks tied together. A few 'shunks' of the shovels later, under about a meter of sand they came to the ribcage of their master's son.

"Sad end for poor Renier. Did you know him well?" Pons asked.

"Not really. He was a few years younger than me. Of course, I would see him about. He was always polite to me, but no, I can not say that I really knew him. You?"

"He was Dame Judith's baby. Long after the rest. Her favorite. In truth I do not think she wanted him to come to this foreign court."

"Lord Conrad was concerned as well."

"Foreboding? It is easy to say so now - after the worst has happened."

"He does not smell as bad as I thought he would."

"No. I think the crabs got to him. We certainly did not need a full coffin. Look how small he is. I will take it back and get an ossuary instead."

"You will take a loss."

"A nice ossuary then."

The bones were more yellow than ivory with red blonde hair - like his brothers - on what remained of the skin on the skull and jaw bone. As they lifted the skeleton from the grave, Cyn thought that with the viscera nibbled away it resembled a puppet he had seen once at a fair dancing on strings. Gristle, sinew, and tendon kept the body intact, but with some folding - maybe pulling the thighs free from the hip - Renier would fit in an ossuary. He weighed far less than his simple coffin. All back on board, Pons instructed the fisherman's son to take them north to the Galatia docks.