Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Your pilgrimage has not been in vain, brother priest. You are well placed to be of service to us. It may be that the chore we have in mind is the very task to which God himself has called you. Hear us, Brother Aidan; your work has only begun.”

  “Sovereign lord,” I replied, my thoughts roiling in confusion, “command me how you will, I am your servant.”

  Basil smiled a lipless smile of thin satisfaction. “Good. We are pleased, brother monk.” Beckoning me closer, he said, “Listen carefully, this is what we would have you do.”

  I attended with utmost care while the emperor explained that the whole of the imperial attention was concentrated upon the embassy to Trebizond. It was, he said, a matter of utmost delicacy. “Naturally, the empire has enemies of many kinds—enemies whose aims are not always easy to discern. Therefore, we must avail ourselves of every protection for the good of the empire.” He looked at me with disarming candour and said, “Secrecy has its uses, brother priest. If you know how to keep a secret, we would welcome your presence in Trebizond. More, we would reward it.”

  I replied that discretion was a virtue, and one which had served me well in the abbey. The emperor then shared his secret concern and asked me to be his eyes and ears in Trebizond, to observe all that took place and report to him upon my return to Byzantium. When he finished, he asked if I understood. Upon receiving my assurance, he stood abruptly. The Farghanese all moved back one pace. Making a gesture of dismissal, the emperor said, “Come to us when your journey is completed.”

  “As you will, basileus.” I bowed my head and stepped backwards as I had seen the others do.

  The emperor summoned the magister to usher me from the palace. “The gateman,” Basil said, “is he still with us?”

  “He awaits your pleasure in the anteroom, basileus,” replied the white-robed courtier.

  “Tell him that he is to return this man to his ship,” the emperor commanded, adding as he thought of it, “but there is no hurry, we believe, so tell the guard that he is to show our servant whatever he wishes to see and experience of our city.” Glancing at me, he said, “And by all means, he is to feed the man. Give him a solidus for this purpose, magister.”

  “As you will, sovereign lord,” replied the courtier.

  Once again, I was dismissed and led from the hall. Basil allowed me to reach the door before calling, “God grant you a safe voyage, brother priest, and a swift return. Until then, let us both anticipate the pleasure of discussing what you will do with your freedom.”

  Upon emerging from my audience, I found Justin waiting alone in the anteroom; all the others had gone. The magister beckoned him to us and placed a gold coin in his hand, charging him with the emperor’s orders. The magister then turned and disappeared into the vestibule, and we were left to make our way out of the palace.

  “So!” exclaimed Justin as we stepped outside at last. “This is one day I will not soon forget.”

  I agreed heartily that I had never experienced anything like it before.

  “You are a remarkable fellow, my friend.” He regarded me with genuine admiration. “The quaestor sent to the mines, and the barbarian hired as a mercenary—my scholarii will never believe me.” He stopped and looked at the coin the magister had given him. “A whole solidus,” he said, drawing a deep breath, “and there is still daylight! Now then, what pleasures will you command this evening? By the emperor’s command, I am at your service.”

  “It has been a very long time since I set foot inside a chapel. If it is not too difficult, I would like to go to church and pray.”

  “The only difficulty will be to choose which church to favour with our presence—there are hundreds in Constantinople. We could go to Saint Stephen’s,” he indicated the nearest cross rising beyond the wall, “where the emperor and his family pray on certain days. Or, I could take you to the Hagia Sophia—every visitor to the city wants to go there.”

  “Please, if it is not too much trouble, I would like to go where you pray.”

  “Where I pray?” wondered Justin. “It is only a small church near my home. There is nothing at all remarkable about it. You have all of Constantinople to choose from, my friend.” Though he protested, I could see that he was pleased with my choice. “Let me take you to Saint Sophia’s.”

  “I would rather see your church. Will you take me there?”

  “If that is what you want, of course.” Together we left the Great Palace, and made our way down from the walled precinct, slipping through one of the small gates close to the Hippodrome. We followed a narrow, twisted, high-walled pathway behind that enormous edifice and emerged onto a wide, tree-lined street. “This is the Mese,” Justin told me. “It is the longest street in the world, and it begins there at the Milion.” He pointed to a tall, free-standing column set in a square a short distance away.

  “Where does it end?”

  “At the Forum in Rome,” he said grandly. “This way; my church is not far.”

  Turning west, we walked along the wide street which was, he told me, the city’s chief ceremonial route. “All the emperors and armies march along the Mese and go out through the Golden Gate when they leave on campaigns. And, whether in triumph or defeat, they return the same way.”

  The Mese swarmed with people in the cool evening—as if, having finished work for the day, the entire population of the city was now making its way home—most of them carrying the items for a simple supper: a loaf of bread, a few eggs, an onion or two, and oily packets of spiced olives. The more fortunate, however, might pause and enjoy a meal at one of the innumerable eating and drinking places lining the Mese—tabernas, Justin called them. These could be recognized by the bright-coloured standards with names painted on them—names like House of Bacchus, The Green Charioteer, or Leaping Lark. Statues of Greek and Roman gods stood outside most of these tabernas, along with smouldering braziers on tripods.

  If the sight of glowing charcoal on a chilly night was not enough to draw hungry people in, the owners of the eating places stood beside their braziers, cooking meat on spits and imploring passersby to stop and avail themselves of the hospitality offered. “Come in, come in,” they would call. “My friend, it is warm inside. The wine is good here. Tonight we have roast pork and figs. You will love this food. Come in now; there is room just for you.”

  The aroma from the braziers and that of the unseen kitchens combined to form waves of scent, lush and dense, which ebbed and flowed about us as we made our way down the longest street in all the world. After passing a number of these tabernas, my mouth began to water and my stomach to growl.

  Justin, however, seemed impervious to both the aroma of the food and the pleas of the taberna men. Ignoring all but the path before us, he pushed on. We passed a magnificent church—the Church of the Sacred Martyrs, Justin informed me—and all at once, the bells began. First just one, probably from Saint Sophia’s, which was followed quickly by another from a church further off, and then another, and still others, near and far, until the whole of Constantinople rang with the sound. Even to one long accustomed to the tolling of the daily round, I could but marvel at this multitude of chimes: bells of every tone from high, clear-voiced celestials, to deep-toned earthshakers. From every corner of the city came the blessed sound—a boon of peace at the close of day.

  We turned onto a narrow street and joined a throng making its way to the church at the end of the packed-earth path. The doors of the church were open and candlelight spilled out onto the street and onto the heads of those crowding through the doorway. “This is the Church of Saint Euthymi and Saint Nicholas, where I worship. There are many more beautiful churches, but few more crowded.”

  We waded into the press at the door and squeezed in to find places next to one of the pillars. Candles blazed in every corner, and lamps hung from elaborate iron grids suspended above the heads of the crowd. Indeed, there were so many people packed together so tightly, that I could hear but little of what the priests said. Even so, I know there were
numerous prayers and I recognized the reading as coming from the Gospel of Saint Luke.

  In this, it was very like one of the services performed at the abbey, but the similarity ended when the worshippers began to sing. Their song was unlike any I have ever heard. I do not know how this music was achieved, but it seemed to fill the entire church with a buoyant, uplifting sound of many parts which somehow blended and united to form a single voice of admirable strength. I was considerably moved and impressed, and felt a longing in my heart for the monks of Cenannus na Ríg. DeDanaan’s children rejoice in the best voices of any in the world, and I would have given much indeed to hear them attempt this new way of singing.

  Aside from the music, the worship was, as I say, much the same as I had known before—except for the fact that, instead of kneeling or prostrating themselves for prayer, the people stood upright; and instead of clasping their hands, they lifted them up. Also, the priests used far more incense than we would have allowed at the abbey. Indeed, they seemed intent on filling the church with clouds of fragrant smoke.

  In the end, this became too much for me. It may be that the import of the day, together with the lights and sounds and smoke and the press of the crowd, combined to overwhelm me. One moment I was standing beside Justin, listening to the priest speak out the benediction, and the next moment I was slumped against the pillar and Justin crouched beside me with a worried expression on his face.

  “I felt a little light-headed,” I told him as soon as we were outside once more. It was dark now, and a chill wind blew off the sea. “But I feel better now. The air has revived me.”

  “I do not wonder you fainted,” he replied. “You have walked over half the city today, and on an empty stomach.” He frowned reprovingly. “It is time to eat.”

  Reaching the Mese, we continued west a short way, arriving at a crossroads. Justin turned onto the right hand street, which was steep and dark and quiet, and led me a few dozen paces to a small house with a low door and a high step. As we approached, I heard laughter from within. On the doorframe hung a wooden placard painted with the image of a roast fowl and an amphora of wine.

  He thumped on the door with the flat of his hand. “I am from Cyprus,” Justin told me, pausing in his assault on the door. “The man who owns this house is from Cyprus, too. All the best food comes from there. It is true. Ask anyone.”

  At that instant the door opened to reveal a man with a black beard and gold ring in his ear. “Justin!” he cried at once. “So! You have not forgotten us! You wish a meal, yes? You shall have one.” Justin then showed the bearded man the coin given him by the prefect. The man grinned widely. “What am I saying? A meal? You shall have a feast! A feast I shall give you.” Turning to me, the man said, “Welcome to my house. I do not know you, my friend, but already I can see that you are twice blessed.”

  “How so?” I wondered, as charmed by his effusive greeting as by the exquisite aromas washing over us from the warm rooms inside.

  “It is simple. You have chosen to visit the finest taberna in all Constantinople, and this in the company of the most excellent soldier in all the empire. Oh, the night is cold. Come in, my friends!” he cried, almost pulling us over the threshold.

  Closing the door quickly behind us, he said to me, “I am Theodorou Zakis, and I am honoured to have you in my house. The worries of the day cannot reach you here. Please, follow me.”

  He led us up a narrow way of stairs to a large room with a handsome bronze brazier glowing in the centre, like a hearth, around which were scattered a number of low couches. Several of these were occupied by men reclining in groups of two or three over large platters filled with various dishes. There were also a few small tables set into alcoves formed by wooden screens. One table was placed in that part of the room which overhung the street below and it was to this table Theo brought us.

  “You see, Justin, I have saved this for you. I know you prefer it.” Turning to me, he added, as if in secret: “Soldiers always prefer tables. I do not know why.” He pulled out the table then, and positioned the two low, three-legged stools. “Sit! Sit you down. I will bring the wine.”

  “And bread, Theo. Lots of bread,” Justin said. “We have had nothing to eat all day.”

  Our arrival occasioned but little interest in our fellow diners. They carried on with their meal as if we did not exist. I thought this most unusual until Justin explained that it was customary and no one thought it rude. “Have you no tabernas in Ierne?” he inquired.

  “No. It is a new thing to me—but then, everything in this city is new to me.”

  “When I first came to Constantinople four years ago, I had no friends so I came here often, even though I could not afford it so easily. I was only a legionary then.”

  “Do you have family?”

  “A mother and sister only,” he replied. “They live in Cyprus still. I have not seen them for seven years. But I know they are well. We write to one another often. It is one of the blessings of life in the emperor’s army—a soldier can send letters anywhere in the world and be certain they will arrive.”

  Theo returned with a double-handled jar shaped like a small amphora, but with a flat bottom. “For you, my friends, I have saved the best. From Chios!” he announced, producing two wooden cups which he placed on the table beside the jar. “Drink this, and forget you ever tasted wine before.”

  “If we drink all this,” laughed Justin, “we will forget everything.”

  “Would that be so terrible?” Laughing, Theo retreated—only to return a moment later with four loaves of bread in a woven basket. The bread was still warm.

  “Tell me, Aidan,” Justin said, pouring wine into the two wooden cups, “what did you think of the emperor?”

  “He is a very great man,” I answered, taking up one of the loaves and handing it to Justin.

  “Indeed, indeed,” he agreed good-naturedly, breaking the loaf in half. “That goes without saying. He has done much to benefit the city and the empire.”

  In the manner of Constantinopolitans, Justin said a prayer over the meal. It was not unlike one which might have been heard over a meal at the monastery. The prayer finished, I took up another loaf and broke it in half, releasing a yeasty gush that brought the water to my mouth. We ate and drank for a time, savouring the bread, warming to the wine.

  After a while, Justin observed, “This may be a Roman city, but it has a Byzantine heart, and a Byzantine heart is, above all, suspicious.”

  “Why suspicious?”

  “Need you ask?” Justin said, his smile becoming secretive and sly. “Nothing is simple, my friend. Every bargain masks betrayal, and every kindness is cunning in disguise. Every virtue is calculated to the smallest grain, and bartered to its best advantage. Beware! Nothing is as it seems in Byzantium.”

  This seemed to me unlikely, and I told him so. But Justin grew insistent.

  “Look around you, priest. Where great wealth and power reside, there suspicion runs rampant. Even Rome in its greatest glory could not surpass the wealth and power Constantinople possesses now. Suspicion is a necessity in this city: it is the knife in your sleeve and the shield at your back.”

  “But we are Christians,” I pointed out. “We have dispensed with such worldly conceits.”

  “You are right, of course,” Justin conceded, emptying his cup for the second or third time. “No doubt I have lived too long in this city. Still, even Christians hear the rumours.” Leaning forward over the table he lowered his voice. “It is said that our former emperor, Basileus Michael, died from a fall. But does a man lose both hands at the wrist by slipping in the bath? Even the emperor’s friends say Basil the Macedonian’s ascension owes less to divine appointment, than to the skillful application of the blade.” Justin silently drew a line across his throat with his forefinger.

  The King of Kings, Elect of Christ, God’s Vice-Regent on Earth entangled in murder? How could anyone say such a thing aloud, let alone think it? Was this how the citizens of Constantinop
le spent their days—in vicious speculations and wicked calumny? Ah, but he had already drunk a fair amount of strong wine, so I forgave him his slander and paid no heed to what he said.

  The taberna owner returned and placed before us two clay bowls of milky broth and two wooden spoons. He left again without a word, drifting to another party of three reclining on couches. In a moment all four were laughing out loud. I raised my bowl to my lips to drink, but Justin stirred his soup with a spoon and I was reminded how I had slipped into the ways of the barbarians.

  “Any sorrow at Michael’s passing was buried along with his blood-sodden corpse, I should think,” Justin said lightly, raising his spoon to his lips and blowing on the hot broth. “He was a profligate and a drunkard, bringing the city to ruin with his extravagance and dissipation. It was well known he seduced and bedded Basil’s wife—and not once only, but many times, and that Basil knew. Indeed, some claim that one of our emperor’s sons is not his own, and that only because the cuckold’s wife had produced a royal bastard was the hapless Basil allowed to take the purple and become co-ruler.”

  Glancing around quickly to see if anyone had heard him, I saw to my relief that the other diners appeared oblivious to our talk. “How can you say such things?” I demanded, my voice a hoarse, offended whisper.

  Justin shrugged and swallowed down the broth. “I do not say Basileus Michael was an evil man, only that he was a weak one.”

  “Weak!” I gasped.

  My companion raised the corner of his mouth in a grim smile. “We have had Popes and Patriarchs that would make poor dim-witted Michael seem a saint by comparison. It is said that Phocus kept two Abyssinian boys as lovers, and tortured heretics for the amusement of his dinner guests. Theophilus, they say, killed two brothers and a son to get the throne. Basil has his son Leo locked in prison this very moment.”