Beyond Compare

by Candace Camp

  Dr. Jennings reached over and took the box she offered, his eyes lighting with interest. “Oh, yes, this is a lovely example of Byzantine craftsmanship. Yes, indeed.”

  His touch was light and delicate as his hands smoothed over the box. He reached up and fumbled for his glasses, finally locating them, pulled them down to study the details of the box. “Mmm-hmm. Biblical scenes. Of course, it’s hard to be exact without knowing its origins. Where did you get this?”

  “Someone brought it to us. We have no idea where it came from.”

  The man shook his head, tsk-tsking over the lack of knowledge. “Much better to know where it was found. But I think I can safely say that Broughton’s right. It’s from the period after, oh, say A.D. 600, probably no later than 1000.”

  “Can you tell us any more about it?” Rafe asked. “With a diamond that big, I would think it was probably a pretty rare piece back then, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Diamond?” Jennings glanced at him, startled, and turned the box around in his hands to look at the jewel on the front again. “Is that what it is? I thought it was an ordinary stone.”

  He peered at it more closely. “No, no, of course, I see the translucence.” Jennings blinked rapidly, then set the reliquary down quickly on the desk in front of him. He turned back to them, an odd look on his face.

  “What is it?” Rafe moved forward a little in his chair, intrigued by the scholar’s expression. “Did you recognize the box?”

  “No…I…ah, well, it couldn’t be.” He paused, his face troubled. “It simply couldn’t be…”

  CHAPTER 7

  “What couldn’t it be?” Kyria asked, excitement stirring in her. She glanced at Rafe and saw that he, too, looked hopeful. “Do you know something about this box?”

  “It’s only a legend,” Jennings said quickly, but there was doubt in his face as he looked back at the reliquary on the desk.

  “What is only a legend?” Rafe asked. “Please tell us what you’re thinking.”

  Instead of answering, the scholar picked up the box again and turned it around carefully in his hands, his fingers moving searchingly over it. “Do you know how it opens?”

  “No. We haven’t been able to find any way to open it,” Kyria answered. “Do you know how?”

  “No. It wouldn’t be easy. The Byzantines were clever craftsmen.”

  “Have you ever encountered one before?” Rafe asked, watching the scholar’s face carefully.

  “No, not personally.”

  “But you have heard something, haven’t you?” Rafe prodded shrewdly.

  “Yes,” the older man admitted. “I have heard of a box such as this. I have heard…but it is only a legend, a myth. I know of no one who has ever actually seen…”

  Jennings took a last, lingering look at the box and sighed. “There is a legend that Byzantine priests made a special reliquary for a very important relic. It is said that this box was carved from ivory and was made so that it could not be opened except by those entrusted with the box. This reliquary was set with an enormous black stone with unknowable depths. The stone, the entire reliquary, was revered as an object of great mystical power, suitable to hold the relic inside.”

  “What was the relic?”

  “A piece of the labarum.” He looked at the other two’s blank faces and said, “What do you know of Constantine?”

  “The emperor?” Kyria asked. “I…didn’t he…Well, he really established the Byzantine Empire, didn’t he?”

  “They changed the name of Byzantium to Constantinople,” Rafe offered.

  “Yes. Well, first I must explain a little history,” Jennings said, and began on what was obviously a favorite subject of his. “Constantine came to power in the fourth century. At this time, you have to understand, the Roman Empire was ruled as a tetrarchy.” He paused and looked at his audience questioningly.

  “Four rulers?” Rafe suggested.

  Jennings nodded in satisfaction. “Exactly. It was a four-headed Empire. There was a struggle for power among the four rulers. One of the rulers, Maxentius, claimed to be sole emperor. There was a great deal of turmoil, and eventually Constantine had to face Maxentius on the field of battle. Constantine’s troops were greatly outnumbered, approximately twenty thousand men to Maxentius’s one hundred thousand men.”

  Rafe and Kyria nodded their understanding, and Dr. Jennings went on, “Now you have to understand, during this time, Christians were persecuted by the Romans. They were outlawed, and tortured and killed because of their religion. But Constantine, who was not Christian, had a vision before he went into battle. In this vision, he said, he learned that he would conquer under the sign of Christ. Because of this vision, he had a new battle standard made, and his soldiers carried it into the battle with Maxentius. This battle standard, which was known as the labarum, consisted of a long spear overlaid with gold, with a bar across it so that it formed the shape of a cross. On the top of this spear was a wreath made of gold and jewels and inside the wreath were the initials of Christ, the Greek letters Chi and Rho laid over one another. To us they look like a P and an X, with the X intersecting the P in the center.”

  “I’ve seen the symbol,” Kyria said, nodding.

  “It is called Chi-Rho or, sometimes, the monogram of Christ. It was a popular symbol of Christianity. Hanging down from the cross bar was a purple banner, interlaced with gold and embroidered with gold thread and jewels, and on this banner was written in Greek ‘Touto Nika,’ which is usually translated into the Latin ‘In hoc signo vinces,’ which means ‘In this sign you shall conquer.’

  “And I’m guessing,” Rafe put in when Jennings paused and looked at them, “that under this banner Constantine’s much smaller army defeated the other fellow’s huge army.”

  “Exactly.” Jennings nodded with satisfaction. “In gratitude for his victory, Constantine then passed the Edict of Milan in 313, which stated that thereafter Christianity was to be tolerated throughout the Roman Empire and the persecution of Christians was to cease.”

  Jennings leaned back in his chair, linking his hands across his stomach, and continued in his professorial mode. “Eventually, there were just two Roman rulers, Constantine in Rome, ruling the western part of the empire, and Licinius in Byzantium, ruling the eastern part. To make a long story short…”

  Kyria thought that he was well past that opportunity, but she refrained from saying so, merely nodding and listening.

  “Constantine later had to fight Licinius, who had a larger army than Constantine and a much larger fleet of ships. Now, Constantine had to lay siege to Byzantium, but the way was blocked by his enemy’s fleet. This much larger fleet pursued Constantine’s ships, but they were waylaid by a storm, which destroyed 130 of his enemy’s ships and killed five thousand of his men. After that, Constantine was able to defeat Licinius and become the sole ruler of the Roman Empire. So you can see that he had two miraculous victories under this sacred labarum, and that battle standard came to be regarded as a religious relic.”

  Jennings paused somewhat dramatically, then said, “It is a scrap of this sacred labarum that is said to be inside an ivory reliquary of great beauty and decorated with a jewel as dark as midnight. The Reliquary of the Holy Standard.”

  “Our reliquary?” Kyria asked, looking in amazement at the ivory box.

  Jennings shrugged. “As I said, it is only a legend. And even if it did exist, it was doubtless lost or destroyed during the sack of Constantinople.”

  The look he turned toward the reliquary, however, was a great deal less than certain. “All of that business about the monks protecting it is merely a story, that’s all. No one has ever had any proof of it.”

  “What monks?” Kyria asked. “What story?”

  “It is part of the legend,” Jennings replied. “It is a strange, sad truth that during the Fourth Crusade, the knights who had supposedly sailed to preserve Christianity in Egypt wound up sacking Constantinople, the premier Christian city of the eastern empire. The
Byzantine church was enormously wealthy and possessed of great works of art—reliquaries such as this, chalices, altars, statues, icons. A great deal of it was stolen and carried back to European cities, especially Venice.”

  “You’re joking!” Rafe exclaimed.

  Jennings shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m not. It was a disgraceful episode in the history of Christianity.” He gave them a wry look, adding, “By remarkable coincidence, Constantinople was Venice’s chief rival as the gateway to the trade route to the Orient.” He shrugged. “Anyway, the legend is that seeing what was about to happen, some church officials were determined to save the Reliquary of the Holy Standard, and they entrusted it to a group of monks, who secretly left the city and took it to a remote area where they have cared for it and kept it safe ever since.”

  “Where?” Rafe asked pragmatically.

  The scholar shrugged. “Who knows? Somewhere in the wilds of Turkey? There is no evidence of it. It is merely legend, gossip given import simply by the passage of time.”

  “And yet here is this reliquary that matches the description,” Kyria said.

  Dr. Jennings looked back at the box. “Yes,” he agreed. “Here it is.”

  For a moment, they sat in silence. Finally, Rafe stirred and said, “Dr. Jennings, is there some way we could find out more about this reliquary? Anyone who could tell us anything more?”

  Dr. Jennings squirmed a little in his seat and finally blurted, “Well, there is Nelson Ashcombe.”

  “Who is that?”

  “He’s a preeminent archaeologist,” Jennings replied, then sighed. “At least, he was. The last few years…”

  “I have heard of him,” Kyria said. “My father has spoken of him.”

  Jennings nodded. “He was quite well-known, one of the best in the field. His digs were funded by Lord Walford.”

  “Lord Walford was one of my father’s friends,” Kyria said. “He died a couple of years ago.”

  “Yes,” Jennings concurred. “Since then, I believe the younger Lord Walford has continued as Ashcombe’s patron. But Ashcombe’s reputation has declined. He has spent the last few years looking for that da—er, dashed reliquary.”

  “What?” Rafe glanced at Kyria, then back at the other man. “You mean he believes in it?”

  Again, Jennings nodded, looking pained. “He has destroyed his credibility—or close to it.”

  “I reckon it would cause something of a stir, then, if it turned out he was right,” Rafe suggested. “If that box really is the reliquary he’s been looking for.”

  “It cannot be,” Jennings said stubbornly. “Just because it is made out of ivory and cannot be opened does not mean that it contains a scrap of the labarum. It is far more likely that it is simply a reliquary box from the Byzantine period—or even a replica of the Reliquary of the Holy Standard. A fake.” He sighed. “I am sure you are going to take it to Ashcombe, but I wish you would not. He will be so ecstatic at the thought of justifying his mad theory that he will be certain it is his reliquary. I don’t think the man has any objectivity left. If he goes around trying to foist this box off as the Reliquary of the Holy Standard, he will ruin himself in the historical community. Frankly I am surprised the present Lord Walford hasn’t let him go already.”

  “Perhaps he has some loyalty to the man,” Kyria suggested.

  “And you think I do not,” Jennings responded. “The truth is, I admire Ashcombe. He is a brilliant excavator. But I am first and foremost an historian, and history is based on facts, not myths and legends.”

  “I guess someone should have told Herr Schliemann that, then, when he went looking for Troy, based on Homer’s stories,” Kyria shot back.

  Dr. Jennings had the grace to look abashed. “Yes, yes, I know. But at least there was some written evidence there, not just wild stories passed down through the ages. And you have no proof that this is the reliquary.” He looked at them challengingly. “Where has it been all these years? Why has it surfaced now?”

  * * *

  “All very good questions,” Rafe commented a few minutes later as they left the professor’s house and started toward the inn where they had stabled their horses. “I certainly wish we knew some of the answers.”

  The day, which had started out so clear, had turned gray while they were in Jennings’s cottage. They walked quickly, keeping an eye on the lowering clouds.

  “I do, too,” Kyria agreed, wincing as she felt a drop of water hit her hand. “Was that rain?”

  “Yes,” Rafe replied an instant later when the skies opened up.

  Kyria let out a small shriek and, picking up the long skirts of her riding habit, began to run. They raced down the main street to the inn, but they could not escape a soaking. They rushed inside, where they were met by the innkeeper, who exclaimed over their state and the weather and offered them the comfort of a private dining room with a roaring fire.

  They accepted with alacrity, and he bustled them into the cozy room, followed a moment later by his friendly wife, carrying several towels.

  “There, now, miss,” the woman said, giving Kyria a towel and quickly unbuttoning her wet jacket and pulling it from her shoulders. “I’ll just hang this on the chair here by the fire, and it’ll dry well enough. You sit down right here, and that fire’ll soon take the chill off you, as well.”

  She directed Kyria onto a stool, then turned to manage the maid who had brought in a tea tray. She finally left, promising to return with a warm repast.

  Kyria shivered and nudged the stool closer to the fire, spreading her skirts out to aid in their drying. The shirtwaist beneath her jacket was only slightly damp and would dry soon enough, but her hair was thoroughly wet and straggling down from its moorings. She took the pins from her hair and set them aside, letting her hair fall down, and began to dry it with a towel.

  Rafe, who had shrugged out of his jacket, stopped, caught by the sight of her. He watched her squeeze the water from her long, thick hair and blot it with the towel, then run her fingers through it, straightening out the tangles and spreading it to dry. Something clenched in his gut, and he thought of the rooms upstairs in the inn. His mouth was dry as he watched the firelight play over Kyria’s white skin, touching it with gold, and warm her flame-red hair.

  He cleared his throat and turned away, searching for something to say. “Well, ah…perhaps I should hire a carriage to return to Broughton Park. The weather seems to have betrayed us.”

  “Perhaps it will stop by the time we have eaten,” Kyria replied, and he was pleased to see that she seemed not to have noticed his gawking at her like a schoolboy a moment before. “Here, come sit by the fire with me. It will warm you.”

  Rafe hesitated for a moment, then crossed to the other chair. He busied himself with arranging his jacket across the arm of the chair to dry, then sat down. Kyria, occupied with fanning out her hair in front of the fire, did not look at him.

  He relaxed into the chair, watching her work her fingers through her hair, and his fingers itched to reach out and replace her hands with his. His eyes drifted over her figure, the crisp, white shirtwaist dampened and clinging to her breasts. What he wanted to do more than anything else, he knew, was pull her into his lap and kiss her until they were both blazing with heat. But realizing that he had probably already been much too bold the other day in the grove, he forced himself to think of something else.

  “Do you plan to seek out this Ashcombe fellow?” he asked.

  “Who? Oh. I don’t know.” Kyria sighed and turned to him. “What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure.” Rafe reached down and picked up the drawstring bag, which Kyria had set on the floor beside her stool, and pulled the ivory box from it. He held it in his hands, leaning closer to the fire. The firelight played over the white box, picking up the depths of the dark gem. Rafe rubbed his thumb caressingly over it.

  “Perhaps it’s only a legend, as Jennings said. Still…I cannot help but feel that this is a very special object, indeed. Wh
at if Ashcombe is right?”

  “I know.” Kyria reached out and traced the stone with her forefinger. Her finger brushed his thumb, and the touch echoed through her. She pulled back her hand hastily, her nerves jumping. She realized that what she really wanted to do was smooth her fingers over his, tracing the bones of his hand, and the thought unnerved her.

  There was a knock on the door, and the innkeeper’s wife entered, behind her two maids carrying trays. They laid out a sumptuous meal on the table, then left Rafe and Kyria to enjoy it.

  Rafe found he had little appetite. All he could think about was Kyria and how he would like to stroke her bare white skin…lose himself in her luscious mouth.

  He shifted restlessly in his seat, trying to force his attention to the food. The last thing he should be thinking about was Kyria. It was far too tempting, given their situation here, alone in an inn, away from everyone who knew them.

  He had thought that he could safely flirt with her, that it would be an amusing diversion with a sophisticated woman who could play the game as readily as he could. But the other day when they went out riding, he had learned how very wrong he was. He had been unprepared for the kind of raw hunger that had swept through him, the fierce urge to crush her to him and devour her. He had wanted to fall to the ground with her and take her right there, heedless of everything.

  That, of course, was unthinkable. It would be the act of a cad to make love to Kyria, even if she were as willing and passionate as she had seemed when he kissed her the other day. She was a well-brought-up young lady, and even though she was past the age when most women married, he felt sure she was still a virgin. He knew well how sheltered young women were in the society where he had grown up; he was certain that here in the more rigid society of England, they were probably even more watched and protected. Moreover, her response when he had kissed her the other day had been enough to tell him that she was untouched. She had been passionate, but untutored, clearly surprised at the sensations that had swept through her.