The Khalifah's Mirror

by Andrew Killeen

  Constantinus, though, was not to enjoy his victory. For no sooner had he taken up residence in the imperial palace than a hideous rash appeared across his handsome face. Despite the best efforts of both physicians and priests, who sacrificed daily to the god Asclepius on his behalf, the rash worsened, spreading across his whole body, his skin flaking and rotting. In time he could no longer bear to be seen in public, and spent his days secluded in his chamber.

  His ministers offered an extravagant reward to anyone who could cure the emperor of his disease. There came an Arab to his court, a learned man, who examined Constantinus, then asked to speak to the ministers in private.

  “This is not a natural malady, and therefore it requires an unnatural cure. There is one recourse which we might try; but only if you are certain that every other possibility has been exhausted, for it is a terrible and cruel thing that you must do.”

  Despite the Arab’s ominous words, they insisted that he tell them his remedy. The Arab answered reluctantly.

  “Then you must fashion a vessel of pure silver, large enough to immerse a man completely. Fill it with the blood of children and babies, each no more than seven years of age. When the emperor bathes in the blood, his disease will be cured, and the blemishes fall from his skin.”

  The ministers were shocked at this suggestion, but decided that they needed to put it to Constantinus. The emperor looked up at them, his blotched face weary.

  “Is it truly the only way?”

  They talked late into the night. At first they all agreed that it could not be countenanced, that it would be an abomination. Then the conversation turned to the recent civil war, and the stability that Constantinus had brought to the empire. If he sickened and died, further upheaval was inevitable. How many would perish then? How many children would starve, or be orphaned, or otherwise suffer?

  In the end it came down to numbers. Three thousand children, they decided, was a price worth paying. They were to be drawn from every part of the empire, like tax, so that the grief would be spread thin. While the emperor’s smiths melted down silver to make the bath, messengers boarded ships with the decree written on a strip of leather, from which the grim instructions could only be read if wrapped around a cylinder of a precisely measured girth.

  The secret could not be kept for long, though. When shiploads of screaming children began to arrive at Ostia, understanding spread like a plague, the knowledge of the awful choice that faced the empire.

  There was no protest, no outrage or insurrection. The necessity for the sacrifice was understood. Throughout all ages youth is the coinage in which war extracts its price. The Romans sought to make a bargain with the gods, offering to pay a heavy price now in order to avoid a much greater one at a later time.

  No, there was no anger at the emperor’s decree. Instead the mothers gathered at the walls of the palace, near the cells where their children were held. They wept, and prayed, and called to the infants, cries of love and reassurance. It scarcely mattered whether it was their own issue with whom they communed; it mattered only that the little ones were comforted.

  All that night Constantinus listened to the shouts and sobs from outside in the darkness. He heard women’s voices catch as they offered consolation, made promises that they knew to be false.

  “Hush, my child. All will be well. All will be well…”

  In the morning the emperor summoned his ministers.

  “This has gone far enough. Who are we, to balance one life against another as though souls were merchandise that we can weigh and measure? Who is to say that my life is worth one of these children’s, let alone three thousand? It seems to me now that one cannot trade misery for misery. No act of cruelty prevents or ameliorates another; rather, each evil deed only augments the world’s store of evil.

  “Send the children home; I will place my life in the hands of the gods. He who would be master, must always be servant to pity.”

  It was as though the whole empire breathed out at once. The gates of the prison were opened, and the people rushed to embrace the infants. And that night, the Emperor Constantinus slept peacefully for the first time in months.

  He was awakened in the noiseless hour before dawn by a presence in his bedchamber. Two men stood there, pleasing to look upon but indistinct. One was bulky and bearded, a common artisan. The other had a scholar’s sparseness, and was dressed in priestly robes. Words rumbled through the emperor’s being.

  “Constantinus, because you have shown mercy, mercy will be shown to you. Twice you will be healed, first in your soul, then in your body. Do not be afraid, because your sickness will not worsen while your servants seek out Sylvester, leader of the Christian church in Rome, and bring him back to the city. You will need no other physician than him.”

  Constantinus tried to get up, but found that his limbs would not obey his commands. He tried to speak to the men, desperate to prevent or delay their leaving.

  “I thank you, my lords, but please, I need to know… when I send to Sylvester, who shall I say recommended me to him? What are your names, and what is your social class?”

  “We are Petrus and Paulus, who died here in Rome for our faith. Now we call on Sylvester to baptise you, so that the Empire of Rome might become the Kingdom of the Lord.”

  They disappeared, and Constantinus jerked awake. At that moment the first glimmers of dawnlight trickled into his chamber. He summoned his attendants, and by noon men were riding through the city in search of Bishop Sylvester.

  Sylvester was a gentle and pious man, who had held to his faith throughout the persecutions ordered by Diocletianus. When he saw the soldiers approaching he assumed that they were coming to arrest him. His companions urged him to hide or flee, but instead he calmly knelt and prayed. A centurion dismounted before him.

  “The Emperor needs you. Come with me.”

  In Rome, Sylvester was astounded to be escorted, not to a prison cell, but to the imperial palace and the chamber of Constantinus himself. The emperor told him of his disease, the dreadful remedy that had been prescribed, and of his vision. Sylvester grasped his hands in joy.

  “Praise the Lord God who has bestowed such blessings upon you!”

  Words bubbled out of Sylvester, inspired and irresistible. He talked about the Fall of Man in the Garden of Eden, how God had sent his only son to die for men’s sins, and of the resurrection and judgement that was to come. Constantinus listened with his head bowed, and when Sylvester had finished there were tears in his eyes.

  “Father — Pappas — I am ready to accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Saviour. Will you baptise me?”

  Sylvester ordered them to bring the silver vessel, that had been forged for the emperor’s bath of blood. They filled it with pure water, and Constantinus immersed himself therein. At once a dazzling light streamed down from the heavens. Scales fell from the emperor’s body like those of a fish, and his skin was left whole and flawless.

  The people rejoiced at their ruler’s recovery, but Constantinus’ mother, Empress Helena, was troubled by his conversion.

  “My son, I am glad that you have forsaken the worship of false idols. However, I do not understand why you have fallen in with this cult, and venerate a mere carpenter, an executed criminal. Surely the faith of the Jews is the true faith of the One God?”

  So Constantinus ordered the twelve wisest and most learned of the Jews of Rome to attend on him, and debate with Sylvester and his priests in the Forum. Two pagans were appointed to judge the disputation. The rabbis argued cunningly, but Sylvester answered every point, using reason and his knowledge of scripture to refute their case. The pagans announced that Christianity had triumphed, but the leader of the Jews, a man called Zambry, would not accept their judgement.

  “I marvel that you who are considered sagacious have been so easily swayed by mere words. Very well then, let us leave words and turn to deeds.”

  He clapped his hands, and at once a fierce bull appeared in the Forum. The people were astounded,
and the women screamed in fright. Zambry however walked coolly up to the bull and whispered in its ear. The beast dropped dead on the spot. Sylvester was unperturbed.

  “It is no great matter to kill a bull. Any butcher can do as much. Let him bring it back to life though, and I will believe that his power comes from God, not from evil sorcery.”

  Zambry scowled.

  “No man can restore life once it has departed the body. If you can resurrect this animal in the name of Jesus of Galileia, then I and all my followers will embrace Christianity.”

  Sylvester breathed a silent prayer, then knelt by the bull.

  “You devil that has killed this poor creature, I command you to depart; and you, bull, arise and leave this place.”

  The bull snorted, kicked and struggled to its feet, then walked from the Forum as meekly as a lamb. All those present were baptised that very day, including Zambry and the other rabbis. The Empress Helena, too, converted, and went on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, where she was miraculously to discover the True Cross.

  However Satan would not relinquish his grip on the empire willingly. He caused a dragon to appear in a cave near the city, which killed hundreds with its noxious breath. The priests of the pagan gods complained to the emperor.

  “Since you have embraced this upstart religion, it has brought only disaster on your people.”

  Constantinus begged Sylvester to deliver Rome from the dragon, so the bishop set out for the cave accompanied by two priests. It was not difficult to locate the monster’s lair, for the land before it was blasted by its foul vapours. No vegetation grew there, and the rotting corpses of animals lay scattered around.

  Undeterred by the appalling stench, Sylvester and the priests entered the cave bearing lanterns. One hundred and fifty steps they took into the bowels of the earth, and then the vile worm reared up before them, black eyes glittering in its crested head. Sylvester however was unafraid, as Saint Petrus had appeared to him in a dream and told him how to defeat the monster. He called out in a forceful voice.

  “Our Lord Jesus Christ, that was born of a Virgin, died on the cross and rose again, will come on the last day to judge the living and the dead. I bind you, demon, to remain in this place until that day.”

  And he sewed shut the mouth of the dragon with thread, and sealed it with the sign of the cross. Having subdued the worm, he returned to the surface, along the way discovering two of the pagan priests, who had followed him to see what he would do, and had passed out from inhaling the dragon’s breath. He brought them back to the city where they recovered and converted to Christianity, as did thousands of others, in gratitude for their liberation from the dragon.

  Constantinus too wanted to show his gratitude. He called Bishop Sylvester before him, in the presence of a great multitude.

  “Father, you have saved the city from two deaths: the death of the body, caused by the poisonous breath of the dragon, and the death of the soul, to which we were doomed by our idolatry and impiety. In the same way you have twice healed me, cleansing my spirit with the word of God, and purging me of the disease that disfigured my skin.

  “In all this, I am mindful that you have been guided by Saint Petrus, your predecessor in office as Bishop of Rome. You have taught me that Christ gave the fisherman Simon the name of Petrus, meaning ‘rock’, and said to him, ‘On this rock I will build my church.’ Further, the Lord told him, ‘I give to you the keys to the kingdom of heaven. What you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and what you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.’

  “I therefore decree that the office of Bishop of Rome shall be exalted and revered throughout Christendom, having authority over the other four Patriarchs and all other churches of God. Furthermore, I give to you and your successors in perpetuity dominion over the city of Rome itself, the towns and provinces of Italia, and all the lands of the west, from Britannia to Sicilia. In token of this I bestow upon you the Lateran Palace, finest of all my residences, and confer upon you the right to wear the tiara, the royal diadem.

  “I shall depart these shores and take myself to the east of the empire. There I will build a new capital for myself, on the site of the ancient city of Byzantium. I will make this New Rome my home and the seat of my power, so that none may deny your authority, both spiritual and secular.

  “This is my imperial decree, which I declare to be binding on the Senate, the people and all my successors until the end of time. If any should oppose my will, let him be cast from the church of God, and burn in hell with Satan and his minions for all eternity. May God bless you and preserve you for many years, holy father, Pappas et Pontifex.”

  XI

  “Is all that true?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “An emperor of Rome, ordering human sacrifice, the slaughter of children, on a massive scale? And his people tolerating it? Even Caligula never attempted such an atrocity. Frankly, I found the dragon more plausible.”

  “It is a pity, young lady, that destiny drove you apart from my friend Ismail. You and he share a grimly prosaic obsession with literal truth. On what grounds do you challenge my veracity?”

  “Well, for one thing, in your story Constantinus referred to the four Patriarchs. They are the bishops of Jerusalem, Antioch, Alexandria, and…?”

  “New Rome, of course.”

  “Which he then announces his intention of going to found. How can the city have had a bishop, when it didn’t exist yet?”

  Abu Nuwas frowned impatiently.

  “A mere detail. What is important is not whether it really happened or not, but whether people believe it did. And consider the implications for your masters. When the Emperor failed to protect Rome from Lombard aggression, the Pope turned to the King of the Franks for help. Your Karlo conquered the invaders and made himself their king. Since then he has been the Pope’s most important ally.

  “If the Bishop of Rome is the supreme authority in the western lands, then Karlo owes allegiance only to him, and not to the Emperor. The King of the Franks and the Lombards would no longer be a vassal of Irene, but her equal. Now, if we could produce an original document, sealed by Constantinus himself, proving that the Donation was a genuine imperial decree, what price might they put on such a thing?”

  Hervor cocked her head to one side, and studied him. Then she nodded.

  “So where is this precious document?”

  “I don’t know. But I have a friend who does.”

  An early dusk was settling as they approached the house of the scholar Vadomar. The poet’s friend, he explained as they strolled the arrow-straight streets of Old Rome, was an Allamanus from the icy Alpes mountains. Vadomar had come to the city in search of knowledge, and trained as a priest purely so that he could learn to read and write. Nominally he was still in holy orders, but the church had made it clear to him he could not look to them for employment, after the unfortunate incident with the son of the advocate.

  Now Vadomar lived like a mole, burrowing amid libraries and manuscripts, sniffing out juicy worms of erudition. There were not many who had need of his services, and fewer still who could afford them. However there were always matters of inheritance, of precedence and precedent, that required evidence from historical sources. And there were some very rich men with very specific interests, who provided the remainder of his income.

  Abu Nuwas had encountered him in Alexandria. The Great Library had long ago burned down, its contents scattered across the globe, but many of the scrolls had not travelled far. Rare codices still turned up, in marketplaces or in the hands of dealers and fences. He and Vadomar had competed for possession of one such document, but had found their mutual love of the abstruse and arcane outweighed their rivalry. They had maintained a correspondence as valued as it was sparse, lengthy letters which arrived every year or two, entrusted to merchants and ambassadors who made the dangerous journey across the Mediterranean Sea. When Vadomar found a clue to the whereabouts of the Donation of Constantinus, he thought first of hi
s friend in Baghdad.

  This, at least, was the story Abu Nuwas told Hervor on the way to the unfashionable Trans Tiberim district, where the scholar lived in modest quarters. Some of the old “islands”, the apartment blocks built in the days of Rome’s glory, still survived there, hulking edifices that towered three or even four storeys high. Vadomar dwelt in one such block on an upper floor, sacrificing comfort for anonymity and cheap rent.

  The shops on the ground floor were pulling down their shutters by the time they arrived at the island. Abu Nuwas led the way to a side door which opened onto a staircase. The wooden steps smelt of urine, and the walls were scratched and smeared with offensive messages and crude drawings of genitalia. On the second storey they passed a huddle of surly youths who were gambling with knucklebones. The youths ignored their polite requests to move aside and continued their game, as if daring the strangers to push past. Hervor stepped through them carefully, one hand holding her mantle so that it did not brush the youths, the other gripping the short sword concealed by her side.

  At last they came to Vadomar’s floor. Even from the head of the stairs Hervor could see that the door to his apartment was open. Abu Nuwas clapped her on the shoulder.

  “See, my friend is expecting us!”

  The concern on his face, though, was apparent, and he waited, listening, on the landing before stepping into the apartment.

  “Vadomar? It is I, Abu Ali. Are you here?”

  The room which they entered was full of manuscripts, both vellum and papyrus. Some were rolled into scrolls, others bound in books, or scattered as loose documents. They were stacked on shelves, spread over the broad table that dominated the room, even strewn across the floor. Of Vadomar, however, or any other human presence, there was no sign.