Free Jester Leaps In: A Medieval Mystery by Alan Gordon Page A

He gets to open the Great Gates of Blachernae Palace every morning.”
    “And then you’re done for the day?” I exclaimed. “That’s it. I’ve been working too hard. I’m going to join the Hetairia. You’re up at the Anemas garrison?”
    “Correct, Fool,” replied Stanislaus, a dark-haired man with a weathered face. Also a foreigner, with an accent similar to Simon’s. “Unfortunately, our commander permits no entertainment at the garrison, otherwise I’d invite you to perform there.”
    “We could use some jesting,” said Henry. “It’s been bloody dull around here. Come down to our garrison one of these days.”
    “It would be my pleasure. Which one are you at?”
    “Hodegon, near the Arsenal, Do you know it?”
    “I can find it. What would be a good time?”
    He thought, then snapped his fingers. “Saturday afternoon, when my brigade takes its bath. We usually have music there, but if you don’t mind performing for several hundred naked men, we could make it a profitable day for you.”
    “Done. I’ve never seen a Varangian unshelled before.”
    “It’s an ugly sight, but seeing it en masse should dampen theblow. I’ll show you the rest of my scars. Well, Simon, time for the real soldiers to depart. We’re up at dawn guarding the Emperor’s ravines. But we’ll be back now that we know you have some real entertainment.”
    “My conversation was not good enough for you before?” protested the tapster in mock indignation. “My apologies, my lords and masters, for the ignorant level of discourse to which you have been subjected. I only thought to instruct you with the tales of my life.”
    “Yes, tell us again how you fought Saladin blade to blade,” laughed Henry.
    “He did?” exclaimed Cnut, and the older soldiers cuffed him affectionately until he managed to get his helmet back on. They exited, all save Stanislaus who sat staring morosely at the pitcher.
    “I cannot believe they left some undrunk,” he said. “I’ll need your help finishing it.”
    I live for invitations like that. Claudius and I joined him at the table and commenced pouring.
    “Long live the Emperor,” I said, raising my cup.
    “Long live both of them,” he replied, raising his a little unsteadily. “To the most unholy pair of brothers since . . . since . . ..” He drank. “I can’t think of a good example. No family like the Angeli for treachery, even in this part of the world. God, I wish I was home again.”
    “Where’s home?”
    He sighed. “A small town near Mainz. Took the Cross and followed Frederick Barbarossa on the last Crusade. You were on that one, weren’t you, Simon?”
    “Sure. I have many memories. I remember . . ..”
    “We’re not discussing your memories,” interrupted Stanislaus. “We’re discussing mine. We’ve heard your memories more timesthan I can remember. What a long walk that was! Men dropping right and left. Even Frederick didn’t make it all the way.”
    “But you did,” I said. “And then you ended up here?”
    “Like I said, it was a long walk, and I didn’t feel like walking all the way back.”
    “And there was this girl . . ..” prompted Simon.
    “Shut up. Yes, there was a girl, thank Christ. But then she left me. So, now I’m here, marching around, opening gates, propping up the Emperor when he’s too drunk to stand, clearing crowds, quelling the occasional riot when it gets too close to Blachernae Palace, and watching the throne change hands suddenly. It’s all very entertaining. It’s not a bad life, being a mercenary. The pay is good, and I have a nice farm picked out for when I retire. And none of that silly fighting-for-honor stuff anymore. That’s a farce. Look at my Varangian friends.”
    “What about them?”
    “Do you realize that the last three emperors have come to the throne by violence against their predecessors, and the Varangians have not lifted a finger to prevent it? God knows that Isaakios was no paragon, but he was all right.