by Scott Bury
“Bayan’s actions that concern me are well beyond the Danuvius—“
“Then they are well beyond the concern of Rome.”
“Need I remind you that events beyond its borders destroyed the Empire in the West? There is some design behind the Avars’ movements. Look here, Austinus,” he pointed at one of the parchments on the table. “Look, where are they moving to? Strategically, it makes no sense to go westward, into the mountains! What could they hope to accomplish? Obviously, there is another plan. The Khagan Bayan is being directed by another leader or force …”
“Don’t go on about your fairy tales again, Spiridon!” cried bald Philip, giving up on flattening a parchment, which obligingly rolled up and fell on the floor. Philip put his hands on the small of his back, stretching and grimacing as he stepped closer to Austinus, the man in the chair. “We have wasted so much time gathering intelligence in the North, with nothing to show for it! There is nothing there but barbarians scratching out an existence on the mountainsides and in the forests.”
“How many stories of dragons have come back from the North, Philip?” Spiridon demanded. “How many, when the dragon was at one time found only in the far East?”
“Fairy stories! Half-mad dirt farmers claiming that every forest fire started by a careless shepherd was in fact the work of an evil …”
Dragons! That’s a sign. Javor squared his shoulders and strode out into the hall. The men around the table froze, mouths open and eyes wide. The guard at the corridor jumped back and dropped his shield. He lowered his spear and tried to look threatening. The other guards yelled and ran forward, spears ready. Javor ignored them. He stopped a few paces from the table, and the spearmen stopped just short of driving their points into his flesh.
Everyone else started to talk at once: “Who is this! What do you think you’re doing? Domestikos, should I kill him now? Just give the word and I’ll run him through!” But the man in charge said nothing, until
“Well? What do you want?”
That wasn’t what Javor had imagined the leader of Photius’ order would ask, but he went ahead with the answer he had prepared. “I am Javor of the Sklavenes, from the North, and I am a dragon-slayer!” He immediately felt foolish, especially when the thin, small man laughed loudly.
“That’s quite a claim, young man,” Austinus said quietly. “But you haven’t answered my question. Why did you come here?”
“Yes,” shouted the thin man. “Why aren’t you out killing more dragons? And throw in a monster or two while you’re at it! Hah!”
“I did kill a monster, before I killed the dragon,” Javor said to the thin man. “Actually, several monsters. Not to mention I don’t know how many Avars.”
“Impressive,” Austinus replied. “But I hate to repeat myself. Please tell me what you want here.”
This is not going the way I wanted it to, Javor thought. “I came here for … for answers. I want to know where the dragon came from, where the monster came from that killed my parents, and why they keep following me.”
“If something is following you, then it only stands to reason that it is nearby now, doesn’t it?” the thin man sneered. “What is it, another dragon?”
“Umm, well, yes, actually …”
Another laugh. “Really? Well, it must be an awfully small dragon. I can’t see it! What about you, Nicolas—do you see a dragon?” he said to one of the guards. “Or maybe it was a kitten that he ran from! Where is it? Here, puss, puss!”
“Why did you come here?” Austinus repeated.
“I am looking for the order of mystical knowledge that sent Photius to my home.”
“Photius? And who is Photius?” Austinus asked.
“Isn’t he one of you? He told me to seek you, to find his order at St. Mary Chalkoprataeia!”
“Photius is a fairly common name in Constaninople,” said the woman in white.
Javor reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out the ring that Photius had given him. Then, it had seemed plain, just a dull gold metal circle; but now, he saw markings on its face. He handed the ring to Austinus, who seemed to recognize it. “He also mentioned the name ‘Geser.’”
The thin man laughed again, like a barking dog. “That old fool! The nerve, using the name ‘Geser.’”
“So you did know him! This is the right place!” Javor felt he could breathe again.
“Quiet, Malleus,” said the woman in white, in a soft voice. She glared at the thin man. “Very well, we know Photius. What do you know of him?”
“He showed up in my village four months ago, telling stories that I didn’t believe … until they came true. The next day, a monster came to the village and killed my parents, and many others, too.”
Malleus laughed again, but a glance from Austinus silenced him. “That sounds fantastic, boy. What happened to the monster?”
Javor hesitated. “I killed it.” He carefully drew his great-grandfather’s dagger. “With this. It used to belong to my great-grandfather, who was a Legionnaire at one time. Photius said this knife was magical.”
Austinus stood up, eyes fixed on the blade. He nodded at the guards, who lowered their spears and stepped back.
“Oh, come now, Austinus. You cannot possibly believe this story!” said Malleus.
“I will not tell you again, Malleus: be quiet. Well, Javor, you have explained how you found us. Now, what happened to Photius?”
Javor put the dagger back in its sheath. “He called the monster that killed my parents Ghastog, and led me to a cave where it lived. When we found Ghastog, I was able to kill it with this dagger. We were leaving the cave when a dragon attacked us, but Photius scared it off. My people didn’t want me to stay with them anymore because they were afraid that I would attract more monsters. So Photius took me to Constantinople.”
“I can see that you are here. But where is Photius?”
Javor took a deep breath. “On the way, we found a fort north of the Danuvius. We met a Roman centurion named Valgus who was beset by a dragon. A different dragon, bigger than the one I saw. We helped him kill it—I used this same dagger. It cuts through dragon hide, even though the best Roman spears and swords can’t! But Photius died from the dragon’s spit.”
Austinus nodded. “I feared as much. And what of the first dragon, the one that is following you?”
“I saw it three times as we followed old roads south, but I haven’t seen it since I crossed the frontier.”
“And then you came here.”
“Yes. It took me a long time to find you. I had a hard time to find the church—” Malleus barked another laugh at that— “but I did find you, now.”
“And what do you want?”
“I want to join you. I want to find out what in this world is real and what are stories to frighten children. I didn’t believe the old stories that my mother told me, about dragons and monsters and fairies, but now I see that some of them, at least, are true.
“And I want to know why Ghastog killed my parents. And what is so special about my great-grandfather’s knife. Why can it kill monsters and dragons, and why did it come to me?”
Austinus said nothing then, just looked Javor in the eyes. But Philip, the bald man, back to fussing over the parchments that Javor could now see were maps, protested. “We do not allow untutored barbarians to come in and join us at will. We are an ancient and, most important, secret order.”
“He already knows about us,” the woman in white pointed out.
“Then I’ll kill him,” said Malleus, stepping forward.
Javor’s dagger was in his hands before he thought of it. He shifted his weight to feel the amulet brush comfortingly against his chest.
Malleus held a thin sword in one hand and moved lightly around Javor. “Don’t embarrass yourself, boy,” he said, smirking. “Put your blade down and lift your chin, and I’ll make this quick. And just a little painful.” In a blur, he danced one way and then another, feinted twice and then struck toward Javor’s arm.
The thin sword rang sweetly as it glanced off Javor’s dagger, and then Malleus sprang back, out of reach.
“Ho ho! Well, he doesn’t want to take the easy way, does he?” said Malleus.
Malleus swung again and his sword hit Javor’s blade. Faster than Javor could see, he lunged, but faster than he himself could think, Javor dodged and the blade passed between his arm and his side.
Malleus’ sword moved faster every time he lunged or thrust, and somehow Javor moved faster in response to meet Malleus’s blade with his own. The thin man danced forward and tried a killing blow, but Javor somehow parried.
Javor realized that Malleus was showing off. He jumped, waved his arms, smiled a gruesome smile at Javor or at the domestikos, spun on one foot and made flourishes with his sword. Javor couldn’t hope to strike back: the man was just too fast, too tricky, too subtle. It was all he could do to block and parry.
It was as if his opponent could read his mind—every time Javor moved, Malleus was right in front of him.
Javor jumped up and slashed, but Malleus dodged easily, and the dagger hit the polished marble floor, leaving a deep gouge.
Javor panted, sweat blurred his vision, his knees started to shake, he lunged wildly. He knew he was getting sloppy, cursed himself for being a fool every time Malleus evaded a lunge.
But at the same time, Malleus was also getting visibly tired. No longer did he dance back and forth; the flourishes disappeared from his attacks. But he was still unbelievably fast, his sword thrusts and slashes blurs, his eyes penetrating.
They crossed the floor back and forth, their breathing ragged, both pushing to their limits, neither able to hit the other. Malleus was too fast, too experienced, too good; and Javor was just barely good enough, barely fast enough, to dodge.
The thin man jumped up on the map table, leaped over Javor’s head and slashed. Javor dropped and kicked the table, sending papers scattering over the floor, but Malleus was already coming from behind. Javor heaved the table at him, but the man was in mid-air, slashing again.
Javor jumped forward, knocking one of the scholars sprawling. A candelabrum tipped over and papers caught fire. Men scrambled to put it out as Javor aimed his dagger at Malleus’s throat. Malleus squirmed away, kicking Javor in the thigh. Javor spun—
“Stop!” echoed over and over off the stone walls. Javor and Malleus froze in mid-stroke. Scholars stamped out flames and looked mournfully at burned paper. “We have seen enough,” said the woman in white. “Malleus, there is clearly something special about this boy. Put your sword away.”
Without taking his eyes off Javor, Malleus sheathed his sword and then took up an alert position beside Austinus.
“Javor, please lower your blade,” Austinus asked gently. “I would dearly like to see it more closely. Its style, the markings on the handle and the blade—they are very curious. Please.”
He came close to Javor, holding out his hand. “May I see it, Javor?” Javor hesitated. He held out the dagger toward Austinus, carefully, but held onto it.
Austinus ran his fingertips over the inscriptions that curved along the blade. “Where did your great-grandfather get this dagger, my son?” Austinus asked quietly, but Javor heard a tremor deep in his voice, something the older man was trying to hide.
“My mother said he brought it back with him from the Persian wars. She said he killed a giant in the Caucasus Mountains and came back with this knife.” He didn’t know why, but he decided not to tell them about the amulet.
“This blade is very ancient. The writing on it is strange, but bears traces of similarity to ancient writing from the far East. These marks, here—”
“Runes?” asked one of the young men in tunics.
“No, not runes. They are ideograms, like those in far Cathay, but different. It will take much study.” He looked at Javor again with his piercing dark eyes. “Where did you learn to fight, Javor?
“Photius taught me some …” Austinus nodded.
“Yes, you have learned some of our basic techniques. You will have to learn more.”
“Magister Domestikos!” Philip sputtered. “You cannot mean to initiate him! Tell me, boy, can you read?”
Javor nodded. “A little. Photius showed me letters and taught me to speak Greek.”
“Badly,” Malleus sneered.
“In four months, you learned this much Greek from one man?” Austinus asked. “Very well. Nikos,” he said to one of the young men. “Take our guest to some quarters with the novices. And give him something to eat. It must be close to lunch-time. Philip, you will see to it that Javor is enrolled in basic education: reading, writing, better Greek, and of course, religion. And Malleus, you are to take an especial interest in his safety.” The thin man stiffened and his mouth opened to protest. “I mean it, Malleus: I will hold you responsible if he suffers any injury to body or spirit.”
The young man in the blue tunic held out his arm, indicating the dark corridor that Javor had entered by. He took a torch and led Javor, accompanied by one of the guards. As he walked toward a meal and finer quarters than the Inn of the Four Winds, Javor heard Austinus say “Find out who was guarding the back door, and have him flogged!”
Chapter 21: The Abbey
Nikos led Javor to the kitchen, where he had his first good meal since arriving in Constantinople: fresh vegetables, cheese and wine that actually tasted good. Then, Nikos took Javor to the novices’ quarters: long rows of cells, each equipped with a sleeping mat on the floor. There was also a little table and a curious sloped shelf. “You will put your Bible there, so you can read prayers while kneeling,” Nikos explained.
He gave Javor a jug and cup for water, new trousers and a long, grey robe. “Get rid of your rough-spun tunic, Javor. You will dress as a member of the Order of St. Mary Chalkoprateaia.”
Indoctrination began before the next dawn. Second-year novices, thin young men with shaved heads, shouted the new monks awake. Javor followed the others to wash at long troughs, careful to hide his amulet. They trooped out to a courtyard for chores: collecting eggs, sweeping out the stable, milking cows, feeding pigs, weeding the garden. Then they filed into a large hall for a meagre bowl of thin porridge, as bad as the Inn of the Four Winds’.
Then the monks went to the chapel for a prayer service. Javor, however, needed basic instruction before taking of oaths of fidelity to the Christian Church, obedience to the Abbot Austinus and the Emperor Maurice, celibacy and poverty. That duty fell to a short, rotund priest with a snub nose. “I’m Father Peter,” he said. He thought his sarcastic smile made him seem friendlier to the young men of the abbey.
“You want me to call you ‘father’?”
“That is the proper form of address, yes.”
It was still hard for Javor to say: “My father … is dead.”
The priest put has hand on Javor’s shoulder. “I am sorry for your loss, my boy. You can take comfort in the family of the Church.”
“But you are not my father!”
“I am your spiritual father.”
Javor surrendered that argument. So much was new, alien to him. “Why do you promise poverty?”
“‘It would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven,’” the priest quoted.
“What’s a camel?” wondered Javor. “And what is ‘celibacy’?”
“Thou must not touch a woman,” said Father Peter, with a distinct look of distaste.
“Why not?”
“Because thou must remain pure!” the priest answered with a mixture of shock and disgust.
“Girls are impure?”
“If you touch them, yes!”
Making love with Danisa was a sin? What about with Elli—we did that to the priestess’s command. Was I sinning when I thought I was doing good?
“And being rich is a sin?”
“Just swear to poverty and celibacy and stop asking so many questions!”
I’ll swear, but I’m not t
elling them about the gold coins I have. Javor repeated after Father Peter, with his hand on another thing he had never seen before: a book. “It is the Word of the Lord,” said Father Peter. “Tomorrow, we will begin your instruction, and soon you will be baptized and receive Communion.”
Between chores and prayers, Javor met some of the novices. Most were two or three years older than Javor, but some were 15 like him, mostly thin and small. Javor thought they looked strange with their hair cropped so short—just fuzz over their skulls.
He forgot most names as quickly as he heard them: Agapetos, Ioannes, Didius, Iulius, Laelius, Vibius. One name stayed with him: Flaccus, a sickly-looking boy with a bulbous nose and oversized ears. Their home cities sounded exotic: Sirmium, Paphlagonia, Lemnos, Thessalonika, Tarsus. Almost none of them had come from Constantinople itself.
The second morning, an older monk arrived with more novelties: a pair of scissors and a razor. “Time to cut those long, blonde locks of yours, boy,” he said. Javor shook his head. The monk came closer; Javor stood as tall as he could and glared down at the monk, whose eyes were at the level of Javor’s throat.
“No.”
The monk gulped. “It’s the Rule.”
“Maybe later.” The monk backed away. Javor didn’t see him again for a long time.
That evening, Nikos beckoned Javor without a word and led him down a corridor without looking back.
Javor followed, annoyed at the young man’s presumption that he would follow. Why do I keep thinking of him as the “young man”? He’s older than I am!
Nikos led him up a spiral staircase, and went up and up, showing no fatigue or worry on his smooth, perfect face. Javor was soon out of breath. When they at last reached the top, Javor stepped onto a balcony high above the abbey. Standing near the railing was Austinus in a dark cloak, his silver chain glittering around his neck. Behind him, the setting sun lit the city on fire. Constantinople was impossibly huge, with rows of buildings fading into the twilight.
“Good evening, my son,” the older man said. “I hope you are settling into our humble abbey?”