Zombies of Byzantium

by Sean Munger

  After a long time I finally settled down to sleep. It didn’t seem like I had slept very long when I was awakened by the sharp voice of a monk proceeding down the hallways, calling everyone to prayer in the chapel. There was no timepiece in my cell of course, but glancing out the window—just a narrow vertical slot in the stone wall—I could see that the waning moon hadn’t moved very much from when I went to bed. Instantly I knew something was wrong. I put on my cassock and proceeded out into the hallway, thronged with monks heading toward the chapel.

  “What is it?” I asked Gennadios, a young colleague who’d also been an iconographer before they set him to work on the wine press. He was probably the closest thing to a friend I had at St. Stoudios. “It’s not even matins yet—why are they getting us up so early?”

  “We are to pray urgently for Constantinople,” Gennadios replied.

  “Oh?”

  Gennadios’s mouth was a grim line as he told me, “The Saracen army appeared outside the walls just tonight. The siege has begun.”

  Chapter Four

  The Secret Icon

  The first days of the siege were very strange. The news that the Saracens had camped outside the Land Walls of Constantinople—and the sight of their army in all its vastness—was more terrifying than anything they did. From the windows and parapets of St. Stoudios we could see a long sea of white tents dotted with little campfires that twinkled at night, the whole scene crowned by many majestic banners, bearing the star and crescent, fluttering in the warm July breeze. But for several days the Saracens did nothing. The Emperor had ordered the gates of the city closed and locked, and the guards on the walls increased their patrols, but so far as I know there was no actual fighting. At the monastery we were at first very concerned that our foodstuffs wouldn’t hold out, but Rhetorios addressed us before supper one evening and explained that we needn’t fear. “The harbors of Constantinople are open and operating quite normally,” he told us. “Ships are moving in and out the same as they always have. The Emperor assured me personally that not a man, woman or child in the city will have a single mouthful less of bread than he or she had before.”

  Given what had happened, I wasn’t surprised to see Theophilus at our supper table, his usual silent self. After the meal he and I walked toward the chapel together, where the candles were just being lit for vespers. “So, looks like you’ll be staying at Stoudios for a while,” I said. “I’m sorry. I know you really wanted to get back to Chenolakkos.”

  “Perhaps it is for the best,” sighed Theophilus. “At least I can keep an eye on you.”

  “Have you heard from Michael? I guess with the city gates sealed up he wasn’t able to leave either, but I haven’t seen him around the monastery.”

  “Yes, he left the monastery, but he’s still in the city. The last I heard, his father called for him to join their military camp. Perhaps he’ll come visit us, or send word.” Theophilus crossed himself. “I pray for all our brave soldiers. They’ll need all the fortitude and luck God can bring them.”

  “Yeah, well, it doesn’t seem like the Saracens are so tough. They’ve just been sitting out there for four days and nights, doing nothing.”

  “I’m quite sure that won’t last. The battle will be joined soon enough.”

  Theophilus’s words were prophetic. That very night I was awakened in my cell by a commotion from somewhere beyond the monastery. It was not terribly loud, for it was far away, but it was unusual enough to wake me. I shrugged into my cassock and crept to the small window to have a look. What I’d heard sounded like the distant shouting of many voices. My window faced west, toward the Land Walls, not far from the Golden Gate. Through the narrow portal, across the moonlit tile rooftops of the buildings between the monastery and the walls, I saw many dark figures crawling like ants. I saw the twinkle of their torch fires—the normal patrols of the wall guards—but there were also small arcs of some burning material, catapult projectiles most likely, dancing up and over the walls. Some were fired from inside, some from without. It didn’t appear to be a large fracas but it was the first fighting I had seen. I watched for perhaps twenty minutes. The little fire arcs, two or three each minute, didn’t seem to be doing much damage. Maybe it was just a small attack intended to harass more than anything else. I whispered a little prayer for the victory of our forces and went back to bed.

  The onset of the siege greatly increased our workload at the tannery. As I learned within twenty-four hours of the Saracens’ arrival, we and many tanners at monasteries and private compounds all over Constantinople had been co-opted into the war effort by order of the Emperor. The large hides we were making were to be draped over the wooden breastworks atop the walls as a sort of shock absorber for the Saracens’ fireballs. The theory was that if they were kept stiff, they could serve as extra shields for our troops, and if they were kept wet, any fireballs that landed on them would fizzle out. Every moment of every day that we weren’t eating or in prayer, those of us who manned the tannery were scraping hides and pounding pigeon shit furiously, with all the disgusting side effects that resulted. I’d soon gotten inured to the stink of the place, but I was rudely reintroduced to the humiliation of it all when I slipped on a wet cow’s eyeball left on the floor and knocked over a vat of urine that subsequently splashed all over me. Brother Thomas, one of my compatriots, was kind enough to douse me with a bucket of water, not that it helped that much. “Things like that happen to the best of us,” he shrugged, and we kept on working.

  Because of the pace of our work, I was quite relieved—though understandably puzzled—when, on the seventh day of the siege, Rhetorios’s assistant Henoch appeared at the door of the tannery and said, “Brother Stephen of Chenolakkos, you have a visitor.”

  I looked up from the frame across which a hide, almost denuded of cow hair, had been stretched. “I do?” I said, pausing to wipe my bloodstained brow with my elbow.

  Henoch cupped a hand over his mouth to dampen the stench. “Aye. A sister of God. She says she must speak to you urgently. She’s waiting in the cloister.”

  For the life of me I couldn’t think of any nuns who would want to talk to me. “Did she give her name?” I asked.

  “She didn’t. She said she could speak only to you. Will you see her?”

  I glanced at Thomas, who shrugged. I tossed him my bone scraper. “Give me a quarter of an hour to get cleaned up,” I told Henoch.

  When you work with dead animals, piss, shit and lye for twelve hours a day, fifteen minutes isn’t enough to do more than wash the grossest layer off of you. I still stank heartily as Henoch led me into the cloister, but at least I had a clean cassock (borrowed from Gennadios) and I somewhat resembled a normal monk. Beyond the columns of the cloister I could see smoke rising from parts of the wall, indicating a skirmish in progress, but the situation didn’t look much changed from what it had been the past few days. A figure as black as midnight stood near one of the columns looking out at the battle. She was about as tall as me, totally robed in black, her head covered with a hood. “Sister?” I said, after stopping short of her. I still had no idea who this could be or what her business was. “You wanted to see me?”

  The nun turned. Her face was totally covered by a black kerchief, leaving only her eyes showing, in the manner of Mohammedan women. Her eyes looked vaguely familiar but I still couldn’t place her. She said something, but her words were totally lost by the muffling of her kerchief. “What?” I said. “I can’t understand you.”

  She spoke louder. “I said, you are Brother Stephen Diabetenos, the iconographer from Chenolakkos?”

  “Yes. Do I know you?”

  The nun’s eyes—they were a lovely shade of sea green—flicked over toward Henoch. “My business with Brother Stephen is private,” she said. “Would you mind leaving us?” Henoch bowed and took his leave. Finally the nun unfastened the veil across her face. The eyes were familiar, but I could scarcely believe it. I was alone in the cloister face-to-face with the wife of Emperor Leo
III.

  “Empress!” I gushed. I had no idea what protocol was expected in this situation, but I thought it prudent to bow.

  “No, no, please don’t bow,” she whispered loudly. “I disguised myself as a nun so I could get in here without attracting attention.” Her nose wrinkled. “Eww, what’s that smell?”

  “It’s me, I’m afraid. They have me working in the tannery.”

  “An iconographer, working in a tannery?” The Empress shook her head. “I suppose that’s my husband’s doing.”

  “More the Saracens’ doing. We’re making hides to hang over the tops of the walls to absorb their fire arrows.” I was intensely curious why she’d come to see me. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but—how do you even know who I am?”

  “I remembered you from last week,” she replied. “You, the elder monk and that soldier came to the palace to see my husband. Later I asked him who those people were. When he told me you were an iconographer, I remembered your name and later wrote it down.” Maria looked about nervously. “Walk with me, Brother. Nod and occasionally cross yourself as if we’re discussing religious matters.”

  I began to walk slowly and she kept pace. “How can I help you, Your Majesty?”

  “You must keep this very quiet. You’re not to tell anyone. I could be in very serious trouble if anyone knows I’ve come here to see you.” Softer, almost a whisper, she said, “I want to commission work from you.”

  “You want me to paint an icon?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was told the Emperor hates icons.”

  “He does. He won’t have one in the palace. He believes they’re sinful, an offense against God. That’s why this must be kept secret. Leo and I don’t agree on the subject of icons. It caused a great deal of strife between us when he ordered all the religious images banished from the palace. But we need an icon. I hate to go behind his back, but the preservation of Constantinople from those Saracen hordes out there may depend on it.”

  “Why is that?”

  She paused for a few moments. Still walking, she said, “Do you remember hearing of the great siege of Constantinople by the Avars and the Persians, ninety years ago?”

  “Yes. I’ve heard of it.”

  “I’m told it was every bit as fearsome as the present siege promises to be. In fact the city almost fell. But the blessed Virgin Mary saved it. The Patriarch toured the walls of the city every day carrying an icon of the Virgin. Later, at the height of the siege, soldiers saw a woman robed in purple, believed to be the Virgin herself, walking atop the walls. The sight of her caused panic in the hearts of the besiegers. They gave up and were soon defeated. That was how the Virgin Mary became the traditional protector of Constantinople.”

  “I think everybody in the Empire has heard that story at one time or another.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Brother Stephen. I’m not a superstitious woman. But if there is any truth in the story, I’m willing to enlist the aid of the Virgin Mary in defense of our city, even if my husband isn’t. Therefore, I want you to paint me an icon—the Virgin Mary, robed in purple, looking over Constantinople and keeping it safe. I’ll make sure you’re well paid. I know you must work in secret, and it’ll be a double burden for you because of your normal work in the tannery. But please keep it quiet. My husband can’t find out. Will you do that?”

  I was overwhelmed. Never in a million years would I have dreamed that the Empress of Byzantium herself would be commissioning an icon from me, and a secret one at that. “Why me?” I asked her. “I’m far from the best iconographer here. I only just got here, in fact. I’m a last-minute replacement for another artist who died. If you talk to Father Rhetorios, I’m sure he can find you a top-notch artist who—”

  “No,” Maria interrupted. “I don’t feel I can trust anyone in authority. Sooner or later they’d just go blabbing to the Emperor, or else word would get out some other way. Besides, I don’t know any iconographers. Since the day I got to the palace and knew that the Saracens were coming I’d hoped that I might come across one, if only by chance. You came to the palace last week, so you were in the right place at the right time. And, you also saw my husband in person. You know how strong-willed he can be.”

  Something told me instinctively that I didn’t want this assignment. “I don’t know,” I said skeptically. “Sneaking around behind the Emperor’s back is a dangerous business. If he’s so touchy on this subject of icons, who knows what he might do if he finds out? I doubt he’d do anything to you since you’re his wife, but he probably wouldn’t think twice about blinding me or throwing me in a dungeon or something.”

  “Don’t worry. If there is any trouble, you can get word to me and I’ll make sure it’s smoothed out. After all, I am the Empress.” She looked over at me with her sea-green eyes. “Will you do it?”

  “When do you want it, this icon?”

  “As soon as you can possibly manage it.”

  “Well, I can guarantee it’ll take awhile. I’m going to have to work secretly in my cell at night. I’ll have to sneak paints and materials out of the studio at odd hours. And with all the work they’re making me do at the tannery, I have to sleep now and again. So it could be some time before I finish it.”

  A smile broke her lovely face. “You’ll do it, then?”

  I’m going to regret this, I thought. But damn, she’s beautiful. And I had to admit the whole thing was kind of flattering. Someone of importance was finally asking me to do my job, and for a very crucial cause. “Against my better judgment,” I said.

  “Oh, wonderful! Thank you so much.” The Empress replaced the black scarf across the lower part of her face. “I’d better get out of here before someone recognizes me. Thank you, Brother Stephen. I promise I’ll get word to you very soon. Start the icon as soon as you can. Remember–Virgin Mary, clothed in purple—”

  “Yes, yes, clothed in purple and keeping watch over Constantinople. Just like in the siege ninety years ago.”

  Maria glanced over to either side. “Better cross me as though you’re giving me absolution,” she said.

  I did so. “Good afternoon, Your Majesty.”

  “Good afternoon.”

  I went back to the tannery, bewildered. I honestly had no idea what to think. It occurred to me that maybe I was being set up somehow. After all, I didn’t know the Empress, and the small dose I’d had of her at the palace wasn’t particularly positive; could I trust her that this thing wasn’t going to come back to haunt me somehow? But, it seemed like she’d taken some risks to come see me, sneaking out of the palace and all, and surely if the Emperor hated icons as much as she said he did Leo would be enraged to find out she’d commissioned one. Maybe I could give her the benefit of the doubt. As I returned to my scraping and dung pounding, I started sketching out the icon in my mind. I’d painted the Virgin Mary countless times of course, but always under some master’s direction. This would be the first time I’d do one according to my own plan with my own ideas. Immediately I decided I would give her piercing sea-green eyes. I wondered if the Empress would appreciate that.

  Within a few days the idea in my mind became a sketch on parchment, a ragged fragment that I kept folded up and hidden under the bed in my cell. Although the Empress hadn’t asked for a diptych, I decided that was what I would do. The central panel would be the Virgin Mary robed in purple with the city of Constantinople behind her. She would be holding out her right arm, and the second panel would open on the left, showing the Virgin’s hand holding down the Saracen hordes. The design certainly wouldn’t be subtle but I doubted the Empress was interested in subtlety.

  The hardest thing would be to get the wood on which to paint the icon. There were plenty of blank icons in all formats in the studio, but they were all carefully inventoried, and if one went missing, it would certainly be noticed. Thus I’d have to build one myself. It was this task I set myself to the next few evenings, when after working in the tannery I would find one reason or another to hang around outs
ide the carpentry shop, browsing through the scraps and remnants that wound up there.

  In the meantime, all of us at St. Stoudios watched the progress of the siege with apprehension. There was a hospital at the monastery, and, being the nearest one to the far corner of the walls where fighting with the Saracens had begun, eventually it began to fill with casualties from the skirmishes. They weren’t very bad at first, reflecting the halfhearted nature of the fighting—a few scrapes and some burns from flaming projectiles. I was told that the fighting was mainly a ruse to keep the troops busy while Emperor Leo tried to negotiate with the Saracen commander, Maslama, believed to be the Caliph’s own brother.

  Not long after, though, the fighting took an upturn in intensity. The shouting and fire arcs over the walls near the Golden Gate were both much more pronounced, and in the morning, columns of smoke rose not merely from that spot but from several other places along the Land Walls. Sure enough, I heard after chapel that nearly a hundred wounded wall guards had been brought to the infirmary during the night and in the early morning. We could also see with our own eyes that the Saracens’ siege towers had been moved much closer to the wall. Presumably this meant that negotiations had broken down. If there had ever been a chance that Emperor Leo could buy the Saracens into withdrawing, it seemed to be over now.

  Still, almost no one at the monastery ever directly mentioned the siege. A prayer for “the deliverance of Constantinople” was now standard at vespers, but aside from that the subject was taboo. I decided I’d rather not know how the battle was progressing. If the Saracens managed to breach the walls and storm the city, we’d know all about it in short order. In my own private prayers I dared to ask God to watch over Michael Camytzes and his father. “Dear Lord, they’re probably right in the middle of the fighting down by the Golden Gate. Give strength to their swords and protect them from the Saracens. We’re all depending on them.” Each night I peered through my little slot window at the fracas going on in that area of the wall, day after day—that was, until one Tuesday morning when it abruptly stopped. There was no telling for sure what had happened, but I guessed the Saracens must have moved their focus to another part of the walls, for the columns of smoke during the day and the distant twinkles of fires at night seemed to center thereafter around the Second Military Gate. Maybe Camytzes was out of danger.