Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “The Great King turned to his Champion and said, ‘Why do you tarry, friend? You see how it is. Roll aside that stone and let my son go free!’ Michael, striking like lightning to the earth, put his hand to the accursed rock and, with a flick of his finger, hurled the great millstone aside.

  “Up you arose! Christ Victorious! You threw aside the sack and stood. Death, that weak, contemptible thing, lay shattered at your feet. You kicked the shards aside and strode from the tomb, brave soldiers falling on their faces, slain by the sight of such undiluted glory!”

  Abbot Fraoch spread his hands wide. “A thousand welcomes, O Blessed King! A thousand welcomes, Eternal Youth! Hail and welcome, Lord of Grace, who suffered all that death could do—for Adam’s willful race, you suffered, yes, and gladly died. Firstborn of Life, it was ourselves you carried from the tomb, each and every one clinging to your broad back.

  “So look upon the cross and rejoice, friends. Think of it, and praise Him who has the power to raise the dead to life. Amen!”

  And everyone gazed at the high cross in the fiery sunset, and cried, “Amen, Lord!”

  Brothers with harps, awaiting this moment, began to play. We sang: hymns, of course, but other songs as well—ancient songs, older than any of the tribes or clans that claimed them, older than the wooded hills themselves. As night enfolded us, we sang, and heard again the age-honoured stories of our race.

  We went to our rest that night satisfied in body and soul, and rose the next day to continue our celebration. Through the three days of the Easter feast, I tried to prepare myself for leaving. I saw Dugal but rarely; if I had not known him better, I would have imagined he was avoiding me.

  It was late the third day by the time all the visitors had gone. At vespers, I joined my brothers for prayer for the last time. The sun had set and it was dusky within the abbey walls, but the sky was still pale blue overhead. Two bright stars gleamed low in the east. They say the sky in Byzantium is gold, Dugal had said. And the very stars are strange.

  My heart writhed within me for I longed to speak a word to him. Tomorrow I would leave, and once beyond the abbey ringwall, I would never see my good friend again. The thought upset me so I determined to take the night vigil in order to set my heart at rest.

  Accordingly, I went to Ruadh to request the duty. He seemed surprised at my petition. “I would think it better for both body and soul to rest,” Ruadh suggested. “Therefore, I counsel a night’s sound sleep.”

  “I thank you for the thought,” I replied. “And I am certain you advise the wisest course. But it is also my last opportunity to hold vigil before the abbey altar. Therefore, I respectfully ask your permission.”

  “And I give it gladly,” Ruadh allowed. “It is Diarmot’s duty tonight, however. You must find him and inform him of the change.”

  “Of course,” I agreed, and made to leave the secnab’s lodge. “Thank you, Confessor.”

  “I will miss you, Aidan,” Ruadh said, following me to the door. “But I will pray for you every day at matins. Wherever you are, you will know that the day began with your name before the High King’s throne. And each day at vespers I will beseech the Lord’s mercy on your behalf. That way, wherever you are in God’s wide world, you will know that the day ended with entreaty for your safe return.”

  These words moved me so that I could not speak—all the more, since I knew that he would uphold his vow through all things. He put his arms around my shoulders and hugged me to his chest. “Go with God, my son,” Ruadh said. I nodded, swallowing hard, and left him.

  I searched for Dugal, but did not find him—one of the brothers told me Dugal was helping with the lambing away in the next valley—and so I returned unhappily to my cell and threw myself upon my pallet. Ignoring the call to supper, I dozed awhile and awoke when the bell rang compline, but could not bring myself to join the brothers for prayer. I lay in my cell, listening to the sounds of the abbey settling in for the night. And when at last I judged everyone had gone to their rest, I snuffed the candle and hurried out into the darkness once more.

  The moon had risen as a hard, bright ball of ice glowing in the sky. The wind which had blown all day slept now, and I could hear dogs barking in the settlement beyond the river. Moving silently across the empty yard, my shadow sharp beneath my feet, I saw no one else about.

  The chapel is a plain, unadorned square of stone with thick walls and high, steeply-pitched stone roof—a place of peace and the quiet strength that comes of long devotion. The fierce moonlight had transformed the dark stone into hammered metal—bronze or, perhaps, silver. Stepping to the entrance, I lifted the latch, pushed open the heavy door, ducked my head and stepped into the spare room with its squat stone altar below a high narrow windhole; a massive wooden bookholder stood in one corner, empty now; no book is required for the night vigil. Candles sizzled silently in the tall candletrees, filling the chapel with their warm, slightly rancid scent.

  Pulling the door shut behind me, I replaced the latch and started towards the altar. Only then did I notice Diarmot. “It will be my pleasure to hold vigil with you,” he offered with stiff formality. My heart fell.

  “Brother, there is no need,” I told him. “I have taken up this duty, and will bear it gladly. Forgive me, I meant to tell you earlier, but you are free to go.”

  “Be that as it may,” Diarmot replied with smug satisfaction. “It will be good for me to stand with you this night.”

  I did not relish his company, but could think of no further objection, so let him have his way. “It is not for me to deny you,” I told him, and took my place at the altar opposite him.

  Night vigil is a simple service of prayer. No rites attend it, save those each celebrant brings with him. Many say the Psalms, genuflecting after each one; some pray the night away, either prostrate or cross-wise; others simply wait upon the Lord in silence, meditating on the divine name, or an aspect of the Godhead.

  Most often, I chose to pray, letting my mind roam where it would, placing this contemplation before the High King of Heaven as an offering. Sometimes, however, when my soul was troubled, I simply knelt and gave myself to the Kyrie eleison. This is what I did now. “Lord have mercy,” I prayed, repeating the plea with every breath as I knelt beside the altar.

  It seemed that Diarmot, however, had decided on reciting the One Hundred-Fifty. He intoned the Psalms in a murmuring voice, bowing low as he began each one, and going down on both knees as he finished. Diarmot, like many of the brothers, was earnest and sincere—far more so than myself, I freely confess. Even so, I found it difficult to suffer him, for I had noticed that many of these monks, despite their diligence, always seemed more concerned with the appearance of a thing than its actual meaning. Sure, one heartfelt genuflection must be worth more than a hundred performed to punctuate a recitation. Most likely I am deluded in this, as in so much else.

  Resigning myself to Diarmot’s noisy presence, I knelt with bowed head, breathing my simple prayer, “Lord have mercy!…Christ, have mercy!” As I prayed, I fixed my eyes upon the gently wavering circle of light on the floor before me; light and shadow seemed to be tussling for the supremacy of the stone flagging beneath the candletree. I willed the light to triumph, but there was so much darkness round about.

  Diarmot’s Psalms became less a devotion than a babble as his voice droned on and on, not words at all, a sound only, a meaningless gurgle like that of a burn in full spate. The sound filled my head even as the gently wavering circle of light filled my eyes.

  I entered a waking dream. It was then I saw Byzantium, and my death.

  6

  The circle of candlelight on the floor before me became a hole through which I could see a dim, formless expanse stretching in every direction to the horizon, without feature, without colour, cloud above and mist-wrack below. Alone in this empty firmament soared a great bird—an eagle—wings outstretched, keen eyes searching for a place to rest. But there was neither tree nor hill nor rock to be seen.

  On
and on, the eagle flew, searching and searching, but never finding; over wilderness and wasteland the bird soared. I could hear the wind’s dull whine through the wide-spread feathertips as they swept the empty sky, and feel the bone-aching weariness dragging on those broad wings. Still that wonderful bird flew on, vistas of emptiness on every side, never a resting place to be found.

  Then, even as those good wings began to falter, I glimpsed, far away to the east, the faint ruddy glow of the sun rising above the world-cloaking mist. Higher and higher rose the sun, growing gradually brighter, shining like red-gold in the fireglow of the craftsman’s forge.

  Dazzled by the radiance, I could not bear the sight and had to look away. When my sight returned, wonder of wonders! It was no longer the sun I saw, but an enormous, gleaming city, arrayed on seven hills, each summit aglow with splendour and richness beyond my most fevered imaginings. Radiant with the light of its own beauty, illumined by the fire of wealth and magnificence, this golden city sparkled like a jewelled ornament of unreckoned magnitude.

  The weary eagle saw this city rising before it, and took heart, lifting its wings with strength renewed. At last, I thought, the worthy bird is saved; surely somewhere in such a city the eagle will find a place of rest. Closer and closer, the eagle flew, each wingbeat bringing it swiftly nearer, every stroke revealing a brilliance of wonders: towers, domes, basilicas, bridges, triumphal arches, churches, and palaces—all of glittering glass and gold.

  Hastening eagerly towards the haven of the golden city, the proud bird, its heart quickening at the sight of such extravagant reward for long perseverance, descended, spreading wide its wings to land upon the highest tower. But as the eagle swooped lower, the city changed. Suddenly, it was a city no longer, but an immense, ravening beast possessing the hindquarters of a lion and the forequarters of a dragon, with a skin of scaly gold and claws of glass, and a vast, gaping maw of a mouth lined with swords for teeth.

  The eagle twisted in the air and keened in alarm, beating its wings in retreat. But it was already too late, for the golden beast stretched out its long, snake-like neck and snatched the exhausted bird from the sky. The jaws shut and the eagle vanished.

  The sharp echo of the great golden beast’s snapping jaws brought me shaking from the vision. The room was dim; the scent of candle fat was strong in my nostrils. The candletree before me lay on the floor where it had fallen, the tapers either extinguished or guttering in pools of wax. Diarmot was prostrate on the floor beside the altar, arms flung out to either side, snoring softly, asleep at his prayers.

  I rose slowly, stepped to the toppled candletree, and raised it once more. The sound of its fall had roused me from my dream, but how had it become upset?

  The door bumped in the wind. No doubt I had forgotten to secure the latch and a gust of wind had toppled the candletree. I moved to the door and pulled it shut with the leather thong, making certain that the wooden latch dropped into its groove. I returned to my place and renewed my posture, then began the Kyrie once more. But the dream remained fresh before me, assaulting my mind with its dire warning, and I could not pray. I soon gave up and simply sat thinking about what I had seen. My dreams are never wrong, but they sometimes require considerable thought to derive the proper meaning. So, I turned my mind to the purpose, but the interpretation eluded me.

  When daylight’s first dull shimmer gleamed in the high windhole, I rose, stretched myself, and then paused to consider whether to rouse Diarmot. Even as I stooped over him, the bell tolled matin, and he came awake with a start. I moved to the door and stepped outside where I was hailed by several brothers as they mounted the hill to the chapel, their cloaks whipping around their legs in a stiff northern wind. I returned their greeting with good will and drew the cold air deep into my lungs: once, twice, three times.

  As I turned back into the chapel for maiden prayers, the sun lifted above the misty valley away to the east. My heart seized in my chest at the sight, for in the same instant the meaning of my dream broke upon me. The knowledge turned my blood to water: the eagle was myself, and the city was Byzantium. The beast, then, was death.

  I slumped against the chapel wall, feeling the rough stone against my back and shoulders. Lord, have mercy! Christ, have mercy! Lord, have mercy!

  What I had seen would be. Certainty, bright and full as the sunrise even now bathing my face with light, removed even the smallest shadow of doubt. All my visions came trailing deep assurance of truth: what I had seen would happen. Time would prove it true. My death loomed before me as surely as the rising sun; I would go to Byzantium, and there I would die.

  I endured prayers in a welter of dread and disbelief. I kept thinking: Why? Why now? Why me? But it was no good; I knew from long experience that I would get no answer. I never did.

  Joining the others in the refectory after prayers, I broke fast on barley bread and boiled beef—a hearty meal to begin our journey. “Ah, Aidan, your last meal before you join the vagabundi, eh?” said Brother Enerch, the chief herdsman.

  “Prudence, brother,” advised Adamnan, sitting beside him. “When next we sit together, one of us will have supped with the emperor. Think on that.”

  “Think you the emperor dines with every ragged wanderer that presents himself at the Golden Gate?” wondered Brother Rhodri next to me.

  Oh, they meant it for jest, but their words filled me with apprehension. Though they tried to engage me in pleasant conversation, I could not rise to their banter and quit the board after only a few bites, claiming that I must gather my belongings.

  Leaving the refectory, I walked quickly across the yard to the scriptorium. The sky above had grown dismal grey; a cold, crabbed light leaked from an obscure heaven, and a fitful wind gusted over the stone walls to the west. A desolate day to match my own bleak mood, I thought.

  Several of the abbey’s piebald geese waddled across my path and, as if to emphasize my distress, I lashed out at the nearest of them with my foot. The geese scattered, raising an unholy squawk as they fled. I glanced around guiltily, and repented of my hastiness as the gooseboy came running with his stick, hissing and whistling to call them back into his flock. He threw me a darkly disapproving look as he darted past.

  “Look you! Keep them out from under foot, Lonny,” I shouted after him.

  Alone in my cell, I sank to my knees in despair. “Christ, have mercy,” I moaned aloud. “Lord, if it please you, remove this curse from me. Restore my happiness, O God. Save your servant, Lord.”

  I poured out my anguish, pounding my fists against my knees. After a time, I heard voices in the yard outside and, rising, gazed a last time around my room. Who would have this cell after me? I wondered. Taken by the notion, I prayed for the man who would inhabit my small, bare room. Whoever it might be, I asked God to bless him richly and bring him every good thing.

  Then, taking up my bulga, I put the strap over my shoulder, left my cell, and joined the travelling party in the yard.

  The whole abbey had gathered to bid us farewell and see us on our way. The abbot and Master Cellach, who would go with us as far as the coast, stood talking to Ruadh and Taum. The bishop and visiting monks were assembled and ready to depart. I saw Brocmal and Libir, standing nearby, so took my place with them. Brocmal regarded me with a sour expression as I came to stand beside him, then turned to Libir and said, “One would think that any monk fortunate enough to be chosen for such a journey—against all proper expectation, mind—that monk would at least see to it that he did not keep others waiting.”

  This obscure rebuke was, I suppose, meant to shame me. But, as I had learned to expect no good word from those two self-satisfied scribes, the remark passed without offence. Ignoring their scorn, I searched the crowd for that one face I longed most to see. But Dugal was not there. Sick dread came over me as I realized that now, in the moment of leaving, I would go without bidding my dearest friend farewell; and once gone, I would never see him again. The finality of this realization filled me with inexpressible sadness.
I could have wept, if not for all those looking on.

  “Thus the journey begins!” Fraoch called, and, raising his staff high, turned and led the way to the gate. The brothers cried farewell and lifted their voices in song. They followed us to the gate, singing.

  I passed through the portal and beyond the wall, and out…out, my feet on the path now, leaving the abbey behind. I walked on, telling myself that I would not look back. After no more than a dozen paces, however, I could not bear leaving without a last look at Cenannus na Ríg. I glanced over my shoulder, and saw the curved bank of the ringwall and, rising above it, the tall belltower; the roof of the refectory hall, chapel, and abbot’s lodge showed above the wall. Monks crowded the gateway, waving their arms in farewell.

  I raised my hand in reply, and saw, just passing through the gate, the ox and wagon bearing the supplies for our journey. And who should be leading that ox, but Dugal himself. The sight brought me up short.

  “Oh, do move along, Aidan,” Libir said irritably, prodding me from behind. “We shall never reach Constantinople with you stopping every second step.”

  “Perhaps he is already tired and wanting a rest,” quipped Brocmal. “You stay here and rest, Aidan. I daresay we shall find the way without you.”

  I let them pass me by, and waited for the wagon to draw near. God bless him, Dugal had wangled himself a place in the escort party so I might walk with him. In fact, we would have another two days at least—the time it took to walk to the coast—before parting forever. This single thought gave wings to my soul.

  Dugal saw me. Smiling a sly, self-satisfied smile, he welcomed me as I fell into step beside him. “You never thought I would let you leave without saying farewell, brother?”

  “The thought never crossed my mind, Dugal,” I lied. “Why did you not tell me?”

  “I thought it was better this way,” he replied, the sly smile reappearing. “Cellach was more than happy to let me come along. Someone must bring the wagon back after all.”