by Scott Bury
“Thank you, sir. It does seem like a lot of work,” Javor answered.
Austinus chuckled. “I hope you are not too tired!”
“Oh, no sir,” Javor said quickly. “It’s less work than I had in my village.”
“Good, good.” Austinus gazed out over the city, to the darker horizon in the east. “Javor, I hope that you realize that the method of the Abbey of St. Mary is designed to set young souls like yours on the true path to God. We do not simply work our young initiates for our own sake.”
“I appreciate the education, sir.” Javor was surprised at his own courtesy, and painfully aware of the inadequacy of his Greek, compared with Austinus’.
Austinus put on hand on Javor’s shoulder and looked out over the city to the west. The last rays of the sun licked the city walls and the walls of the great cathedrals and palaces. “It’s important that you learn as much as possible, as quickly as you can, about the Word of God, about the Gospel as defined by the Church. But—and I do not say this to many—as soon as you are capable, I intend to initiate you into a deeper knowledge.
“The Gospels approved by the Council of Nicea (don’t worry, you’ll learn all about that in due course) are fine for the masses. But there is a deeper truth beneath that, a truth that few people are ready to accept, a truth that our very civilization needs to be kept secret, known only to a select few—an elite, if you will.”
Another lecture. What is it with these Greeks?
“Learn the Gospel. And remember that it is true. But we need you to know another, deeper truth.”
“Why do you need me to know this?”
“You bear a large piece of that deep truth, Javor: your great-grandfather’s ancient dagger. And you have faced dragons, beasts that many people believe never existed.”
“Then you do believe me!”
“Of course.” Austinus had a habit of closing his eyes when he said something he felt especially important. “Javor, these are very dangerous times. Civilization and the human race are in grave peril, in peril of dying out forever.
“Look about you: you see the City of Constantinople, the glory of Rome, the Eternal Empire. We are beset by a rising tide that could drown us at any moment. A century and a half ago, half of the Empire of Rome was destroyed, smashed, drowned in a wave of barbarity. In the western Empire, civilization has crumbled, learning has been replaced by darkness. Fields lie fallow, food is not harvested, the human population wanes.
“The East is scarcely better. Barbarians raid across the borders to steal food and to test our defences so that one day they may destroy us. Persia, too, struggles against internal enemies, as does far-off Cathay. The Avars, whose raids I understand your people have suffered,” Javor nodded, “were themselves pushed out of the eastern lands they once ruled by a force even more fierce than themselves.
“There is more than barbarian ferocity behind this. New plagues sweep across the world, pestilences history has never seen. When the Black Death struck the capital, it killed over two hundred thousand people, including the Emperor Justinian! Earthquakes bring down cities. You can see signs of the damage here in Constantinople. Droughts erase entire rivers. The seas are rising. Whole villages on the Euxine Sea have drowned.”
Austinus walked along the balcony, and Javor realized that it circled a narrow tower. As he followed Austinus, he got a tour of the whole city: broad avenues stretching to the west; mighty walls; the Golden Horn crowded with ships, glistening in the last light of the sun, guarded by a huge chain that stretched from shore to shore; then the broad Sea of Marmara. By the time they had made their way completely around the tower, the sunset had vanished, leaving a velvety black sky dusted with stars—but not as many stars as Javor remembered seeing in the night sky of his home.
“One year, the sun did not shine,” Austinus said. “There was no spring, no summer. The sun rose, but weak and dim. Its beams did not nourish the grain or other crops. Famine spread across the Empire, and in the other civilizations, even as far away as—according to our sources—Britannia, in the ultimate west. I believe the whole world was affected. Our wisest men ranged far abroad to gather intelligence. They told us that Hell opened a new portal in the far east of the world. From that gate pours all manner of evil: rivers of flame and new species of demons and monsters, spirits that spread across the world and take up residence where they can threaten human civilization. They corrupt petty kings and barbarian chieftains and incite them against their fellow men. There are new and evil dragons…”
“Wait. Aren’t all dragons evil?”
Austinus smiled indulgently. “Dragons are the oldest, wisest and most powerful beings on earth. You need more education before you can grasp all this, and it’s getting late. Go to bed. We will talk more in the future, I promise.” At that, the door to the stairway opened, and Nikos beckoned Javor to follow.
“Thank you, domestikos,” he said, head swimming with new information. He followed Nikos back to the novices’ quarters and lay down on the thin mat in his cell. But he didn’t sleep for a long time: he kept picturing Austinus against the dying fires of the sun, hearing his voice talking about Hell trying to wipe out the human race.
Why does Hell care?
Javor settled into a new pattern: waking before dawn, doing chores, eating an awful breakfast. Then it was time for prayers. Javor had no idea how to pray, but tried to imitate the other novices. He was curious to see the inside of a chapel for the first time, curious about the long rows of wooden benches (“They’re called ‘pews,’” said another novice), and about the large crucifix at the front. His Greek wasn’t yet good enough to understand the priest’s words, but he managed to pick up some of the ideas. They worship a man who died, then rose from the dead. Strange. His punishment erased our sins? Stranger. But, somehow, comforting.
Back to work after that: menial labour all morning, grooming horses and feeding animals and sweeping and cleaning, interrupted by several calls to prayer either on the spot or requiring trooping back into the chapel. Midday meal—a measly snack of stale bread—was followed by more prayers and time for “contemplation.” All that Javor could think about was getting outside again, about the fascinating city beyond the abbey’s walls, about the green fields and the mysterious roads he had wandered, about blue skies, and about the monsters that pursued him.
The second half of the afternoon was devoted to instruction. The teachers, middle-aged monks whose tonsures fascinated and revolted Javor, were surprised, if not pleased, by the speed with which he learned his letters and numbers. In the first few weeks, Javor learned how to read fluently, how to write Greek letters, how to do basic arithmetic. He learned about the life of Jesus and began to believe.
But he wondered why the teachers resented his questions. After his third query about the nature of God—“So, Moist Mother Earth is actually Mary, Mother of God?”—Father Albertus smacked Javor on the head. “No, St. Mary was the Blessed Virgin, not your savage pagan earth goddess. All those gods you worshipped in your ignorance are false! Only God, Yahweh, is true. Now stop asking questions and learn your Gospel!”
Through some reasoning process that Javor could not understand, the monks decided that Javor could serve best in the kitchen. The chief cook was an obese, angry man named Verros. His robe was stained and his sleeves were always dipping into the soup. He screamed at everyone in the kitchen, humiliated the younger monks and hit the novices with a ladle every chance he got. He threw a knife at Javor on his first day in the kitchen; luckily, it missed him and sank with a terrifying thunk into a cutting board.
Javor literally kept his head down, sweeping the floor and washing pots.
He learned the life of Jesus and of Constantine, the Emperor who had converted the Empire to Christianity when God had led him with the sign of the Cross to victory over rivals for the imperial throne. He learned of the works of Justinian and the churches, walls and monuments he had built.
And in side comments, he learned about the enemies
that beset the Roman Empire on all sides: barbarians who had swept from the east to crush the Western Empire, plunging a region called Europe into a dark age—a region that he soon realized included his home.
The king of the novices was Salonius, called Lepidus by the other novices: tall for a Roman, but not as tall as Javor; handsome, with thick curly hair and large eyes that girls found captivating; wide shoulders and muscular arms that he liked to show off by stripping down to just his trousers at any excuse. He showed off his straight, white teeth by smiling often and laughing at the slightest jokes. At the end of the evening meals, when the rules were relaxed enough to allow the novices and monks to talk, his table was always the liveliest, with the most cheerful conversation in the dining hall.
All the novices vied to join his entourage, and Lepidus always made a great show of befriending newcomers. When he first met Javor in the dining hall, Lepidus shook his hand with both of his and practically shouted “Hey, Javor! Settling in okay?” as if he could do something about it.
“Yes, fine,” Javor said, bemused by the attention. Other novices stared enviously, waiting to see how Lepidus would decide to treat him.
Lepidus gave Javor the benefit of the doubt at first. He beckoned Javor to sit at his table. “So, most of the new novices start in the spring. What brings you here?”
Javor had thought about what to say. “An old friend of mine was a member and told me I should join the Order.”
“Oh, really? Who was that? Someone we know?”
“Photius. He … he passed away a few weeks ago.”
“Photius? Never heard of him. Sorry to hear that he died, though. Was he a close friend?” Lepidus asked, his face a perfect facsimile of concern.
“Yes.” Javor felt his throat choking. He face felt hot. “We travelled together for a time.” He blinked rapidly. Don’t cry, Javor!
Lepidus brought out his white, perfect smile again. “So, Javor, where are you from?”
“From the north. Beyond Dacia.”
Lepidus and the other novices gaped at Javor. “You crossed Dacia?” Lepidus asked. “Alone?”
“No, Photius was with me, until, well, almost at the Danuvius River.”
There was silence almost through the entire dining hall, until someone said quietly, “Man, Dacia is haunted.”
Javor looked from one incredulous face to the next. “Haunted? Well, yes, I guess it was. We met some pretty strange things …”
“Like what?” someone asked.
“Well, one night we were attacked by blood-suckers that Photius called strigoi, who had sucked the life out of a whole village. The people, they were mindless, barely alive, existing only as sources of blood for three horrible, naked women.” As he described the encounter with the vampires, he was surprised at his ability to tell a story. He warmed to the task, adding emphasis and embellishment, now speaking loudly, then shrinking almost to a whisper.
“I thrust my sword into the closest one, but it had no effect. She laughed as I pulled the blade out, leaving a horrible wound in her chest, but no blood came out!”
He told his audience about their narrow escape in the freezing river. “We also saw a gryphon.”
“Oh, come on!” said a thin, dark boy. “No one believes in monsters like that anymore!”
“Once, I didn’t believe in them, either,” Javor retorted, glaring at the novice who had interrupted him. “But I’ve seen them with my own eyes.”
“What did the gryphon look like?” someone else asked.
“Well, it was as big as a large dog,” Javor said, and the image of the beast leapt into his mind, vivid as if it were standing right in front of him. “It had big, feathery wings and a feathery head like an eagle, with a sharp beak, but it had four legs like a big cat, and claws like a chicken, only bigger.”
“Did it attack you?” someone else asked.
Javor hesitated, recalling the attack on Bilavod. “No, strangely enough, it helped me.” His audience may not have believed him, but they were all waiting for his next word. “We—Photius and I—were staying in a village that was being raided by Avars. Or at least, we thought they were Avars. I’m not sure. Anyway, we were inside the holody—that’s like a stockade—and they were coming over the walls, setting fire to the place, killing villagers. Well, I thought we were done for. But then the gryphon swooped down and scattered the raiders left and right. It landed right in front of me and looked at me. It reached out one claw toward me and screeched, then flew away.
“Well, you should have seen the raiders run away after that!” he crowed, slapping the table in front of him. His face felt hot.
The novices stared at him, many with open mouths, for several silent heartbeats. Then Lepidus started to laugh, softly at first, and the other novices joined him.
“A gryphon! Vampires! That’s a good one, Javor,” Lepidus laughed. “You’re a great story-teller! I would never have thought a country boy like you could tell tall tales!”
“But—”
“Go on, country boy, that’s enough for one day!” said Father Peter, sliding up from behind, his sarcastic smile glued to his face as usual. “Go on back to your cell, before you stray from entertaining the boys into the sin of false witness. Good story, though.”
The other novices walked away, laughing. “A gryphon!” one laughed. “Vampires! Probably just a girl that wouldn’t let him kiss her?” “What girl would want to kiss a barbarian like him!”
Javor couldn’t believe what had just happened. His ears burned, his face felt hot, but at the same time indignation threatened to bubble up like a pot overboiling.
“Hey, lazybones!” Verros screamed. “Get over here and start washing up!”
Time continued in the abbey like it had no beginning and no end: prayers, chores, more prayers, instructions. Father Peter spent time with Javor every day, instructing him in the basics of Christianity. Such a strange religion: they talk about forgiveness, but everyone is so unforgiving.
He liked parts of the Sunday Mass, especially the singing. He discovered that he had a pleasing voice. Father Peter made a point of praising it.
Some details mystified Javor. “There is a city called Rome that is not the capital of the Roman Empire?”
“It was the capital, but Constantinople is the New Rome,” Father Peter answered.
“Why isn’t Rome the capital of the Roman Empire?”
“Because the Emperor Constantine moved his capital to the city of Byzantium, here on the Bosporus, and called it Nova Roma—New Rome. Old Rome was the capital of the Western Empire. Constantinople, as it is now called, is the capital of the Eastern Empire, and truly the pre-eminent capital.”
“But Rome is in a different country?”
“It is in Italy, and is presently a part of the exarchate of Ravenna, and thus a province of the Empire.”
“But it used to be the capital? Where Rome began?”
“Yes.”
“Why isn’t it the capital anymore?”
“I told you, Javor: the Emperor Constantine, the first Emperor to see the True Light of Salvation, decided to make a new capital city for a new kind of Empire! Then, Rome was sacked and burned by barbarians from the east.”
“Barbarians. People like me.”
Father Peter hesitated. “Well, no, not exactly. It was the Goths, and later the Vandals. You are a Slav.”
“But I’m a barbarian, because I don’t speak Greek like you do.”
“Well, yes.”
“Are the Romans—the ones in Italy—are they barbarians, too, because they don’t speak Greek?”
“Heavens, no!”
Father Peter liked to use his hands when talking. During lessons, he was always touching Javor, taking Javor’s hands in his own, slapping Javor on the shoulder or the knee, chucking his shoulder, slapping his face gently. As the physical contact increased, Javor tried to stay farther from Father Peter.
Within a few weeks, Javor could not keep one thought from recurring every
time he went to the chapel or heard a prayer: This makes no sense.
Chapter 22: Novice
Stupid rules.
No talking during prayers. Nor during meditation. And a minimum of talking allowed during chores, like cleaning the kitchen or sweeping the stables. Anything more than “I’ve finished sweeping, sir. What duty next?” or “Where is the bucket?” would earn a shushing from the hoplitarches, in charge of the household.
No eating between meals. No going outside the abbey without permission. No loitering in corners. No napping during the day, especially when there were chores to do—getting caught napping resulted in a sharp snap of a switch across the butt or, worse, the backs of the hands.
Javor consciously broke one rule every day: he kept his amulet under his novice’s robe, and his dagger, too, strapped right next to his skin. It’s a good thing this robe is loose.
Father Peter followed through on his promise. One morning, a Saturday, two monks woke Javor in his cell especially early and gave him a long white robe to wear. They led him to the front entrance of the great Church of St. Mary, where Father Peter, dressed in white robes, Father Albertus and some monks that Javor didn’t know waited—and to his surprise, the Comes and domestikos, Austinus.
“Welcome, Javor. It is time for you to join the community of the Church, the Body of Christ,” said Father Peter.
Javor had no idea what he meant. “You will receive three of the holy sacraments that will bring you into the Christian community: baptism, first communion and Chrismation.” He lifted his hands until his arms were fully extended to the sides. “For Our Lord said, ‘He who is baptized will be saved, but he who does not believe will be condemned. Unless one is born of Water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the Kingdom of God.’”
He turned to the other men beside him. “Who stands for this person who wishes to enter the Body of Christ?”
Austinus stepped forward. “I will stand for him.”