Byzantium

36

The guards at the Great Palace turned us away. None of them had ever heard of Justin, but they knew he was not of the gate contingent, for there had been no new appointments for more than a year. One of them suggested, however, that he might be part of the inner-palace scholae. "You could look for him there," the guard told me.

"If you will kindly tell me where to go, I will do as you advise," I replied, and was promptly told that it was impossible unless I had official business beyond the gate.

"But my business is with the Scholarae himself," I explained.

"No one is allowed into the inner-palace precinct without a formal summons," the gateman insisted. I thanked him for his help and resigned myself to leaving the city without seeing Justin again.

"Now we will go to The Church of Divine Wisdom," said Didimus, leading us back through the swarms of beggars who made their homes along the palace walls. "We will light a candle for your friend. We will perhaps light many candles."

Gunnar seemed well disposed to seeing the sights of the city one last time before sailing, and Tolar had seen nothing of Constantinople at all, so was happy to follow wherever we went. "I do not care where we go," Gunnar said, 'so long as I am there to collect my winnings from Hnefi."

"It is no distance at all," Didimus said. "I will return you to your ship in plenty of time, never fear. You are talking to the best guide in all Byzantium. Come with me, my friends, and I will show you the Hippodrome and the Forum of Augustus on the way."

The Hippodrome was impressive. The forum was a hollow square surrounded by two hundred columns, mostly taken from Greek temples, Didimus told us, because no one remembered how to make them like that anymore. I did not believe this, but the columns were definitely much older than the forum, so perhaps there was a small grain of truth in what he said. As imposing as these structures were, however, they shrank to insignificance beside the awesome achievement of the Hagia Sophia.

Heaven bless me, the Church of Holy Wisdom is a holy revelation made visible-a testament of faith in stone and mortar, a prayer in glass and tile and precious metals. The wonder of the world, it puts antiquity's much-vaunted architectural spectacles to shame. Sure, God himself inspired this church, and guided each and every labourer-those who put hand to trowel and beam, no less than he who conceived and drew the plans.

Just outside the forum, we four fell into step with the crowd entering the church, and passed directly into the first of two separate halls. Like many others, we paused before a chandler's stall for Didimus to purchase candles and incense, then walked quickly into the second, larger hall which was lined with huge slabs of red and green marble. The vaulted ceiling overhead was decorated with myriad stars and crosses picked out in gold. Above the towering bronze doors before us was a mosaic of the Virgin and Child; the divine infant held a small cross in his hand as if to bless all those who passed beneath his beneficent gaze.

Pushed along by the throng, we were swept under the mosaic, through the gate called Beautiful, and into the nave of the church. If from the outside Hagia Sophia's imposing red bulk appears heavy-a veritable mountain of brick and stone whose ponderous slopes rise above the surrounding trees, an enormous domed and mounded eminence girded about with massive masonry walls and giant supporting buttresses-on the inside, it is all light and air.

To step through the great bronze doors is to enter one of Heaven's own halls. Golden light streams from a thousand windholes, striking glints and gleams from every surface, falling from a dome as wide and open as the very sky. Miracle of miracles, there are no roof-trees of any kind at all under Sophia's dome-nothing obscures the glance or obstructs the eye as it soars up and up and up toward the exalted heights. The majestic dome hangs high above the marbled floor as if suspended from heaven by angelic hands.

The floor, as expansive as a plain, is all fine, polished marble; the double-tiered galleries high above the floor are marble also, deep-coloured and striking to the eye. There are screens and panels of marble, painstakingly carved with every manner of design: intricate geometrics, crosses, suns, moons, stars, birds, flowers, plants, animals, fish-everything, in fact, that exists in heaven and earth. The galleries are lined with enormous porphyry columns, the capitals of which have been carved into the shapes of plants; so cunningly have the sculptors practised their craft, it is as if the columns support masses of vines, luxuriant with leaves.

The galleries and corridors seemed endless; the high-pillared arches rose in tiers one above another. Above these were tall arched windholes, hundred upon hundred, admitting heaven's light. Though there must have been a thousand thousand people within the body of the church, such was its size that it could comfortably accommodate two or three times more again.

Almost every ceiling and pediment was covered with mosaics of the most elaborate design. The monks of the scriptorium are divinely adept at the intricacies of highly complex and sophisticated patterns; but even our good master at Kells could have learned much to his advantage from a close study of Sophia's panels and ceilings. Sure, the majesty of the church stole the breath from our mouths. Incapable of speech, Gunnar, Tolar, and I could but gape and stare, staggering from one marvel to the next, minds numb with wonder. And still we stared, drinking in each incredible sight as if it would be the last thing we would ever see.

Gunnar grew increasingly subdued, but not from boredom or lack of appreciation. Far from it! He gazed with amazement upon all he saw, and from time to time pointed out details of workmanship that I had missed. But his comments grew increasingly few and far between, and though he still appeared eager to capture every sight before him, his enjoyment took on the quality of rapture. Once, turning to see if he was still with me, I saw him standing before one of the gigantic carved screens, staring as if in a trance. He had his hand raised to the figure of a cross which had been carved into the panel as part of the design; and he was tracing the shape with his finger, repeating the motion again and again.

Gunnar seemed especially fascinated with the cross. Passing beneath the centre of the dome, I felt a touch at my shoulder and looked round to see the stout barbarian staring straight up at a golden mosaic of the largest cross I have ever seen. "His sign," Gunnar whispered, in a voice made small with awe. "It is everywhere."

"Yes," I answered, and explained that the cross was revered even as far away as Eire, the furthest limit of the empire. "Although the cross of the Byzantines is slightly different from the cross of the Celts, and that of the Romans is different again, yet they all honour the self-same sacrifice made by the Lord Christ for all men."

"So much gold," remarked Gunnar. Tolar nodded sagely.

Didimus led us to the left side of the nave where a free-standing panel had been erected to hold a number of large images painted on flat wooden boards. These icons bore the images of Christ, and various apostles and saints, which the people of Byzantium especially venerated. Before the panel, which Didimus called the iconostasis, rose a series of boards in stepped ranks which held the candles placed there by the worshippers. Taking his candles, Didimus lit one from those already burning, and placed it in one of the few empty holes in the plank. He stood for a moment rocking slightly back and forth, before taking a bit of the incense and sprinkling it over the flame. The incense struck the flame with a puff of fragrant smoke.

"There," he said, turning to us, "I have sent a prayer through Elijah that Holy Jesu will give me your shrewdness, and I have sent one through Barnabas that God will give me your barbarian friend's strength."

I conveyed these words to Gunnar, who appeared much impressed with this procedure. He held out his hand to Didimus for one of the candles. While Tolar and I watched in amazement, Gunnar lit the candle and performed the little rocking motion in imitation of the boatman. I wondered what had moved him to pray-and what he said-but thought it uncouth to ask.

Both Gunnar and Tolar were dazed by the grandeur of the church-especially the extravagant use of gold and silver throughout, which continually amazed them. It is no exaggeration to say that the gleam and glitter of these rare metals everywhere meet the eye, especially as one approaches the sanctuary-to which Didimus led us next. Rising from the floor is a circular platform, the ambo, reached by two flights of wide, low stairs to the right and left. The ambo is surrounded by a series of pillars with gilded capitals which support a shelf bearing a multitude of lamps and crosses-some silver, some gold, and many adorned with pearls and gems.

"We can go no further," Didimus explained once we had pushed our way to the edge of the platform. "No one but churchmen and high officials are allowed beyond the ambo."

"In Eire," I said, "anyone can come to the altar. It is God's table and all are welcome."

The little boatman looked at me curiously, as if he had never heard of anything so peculiar. "The choir stands there," he continued. "On high days there is always a choir." Pointing beyond the ambo he indicated a sort of raised walkway. "That is the solea," he told me, "it is used by the priests and emperor when approaching the altar. The chancel screen is solid silver-so they say."

The chancel was enclosed on three sides by an open lattice-work screen of gleaming white, radiant in the light of all the lamps and candles. The chancel screen had a series of columns which supported a low parapet on which stood a number of priests and court officials, all dressed in the colours of their kind: priests in white robes, courtiers in red and black. The columns and parapet were faced in silver, and the light of candles and lamps hanging down allowed the eye to feast on the rich metalwork: images of the Christ, and the Virgin, prophets, saints, angels, seraphim, and imperial monograms.

The chancel with its screen and parapet formed an inner sanctuary for the altar standing just beyond. The worshippers were not allowed beyond the ambo and solea, but the parapet was fairly low, and the altar was raised, making it easy for the gathered congregation to view the ceremony taking place at the altar.

The altar was of rose-pink marble, surrounded by a sort of tent of gold. "That is the ciborium," Didimus said when I asked him. "The stone comes from Damascus," he said, paused, and added, "or Athens."

The fabric of the tent-like shelter was wefted with threads of gold, and sewn with jewels-ruby, emerald, topaz, and sapphire-arranged in patterns. The light of all the lamps and candles, and the sunlight streaming down from the windholes above, struck the ciborium and suffused the altar with a heavenly glow. The entire sanctuary seemed to radiate pure, golden light, bathing and engulfing not only the altar, but those attending it, too.

For, sitting in a golden throne to one side of the altar, was the basileus. He was holding a lighted candle in his hands, looking bored and perturbed. Flanking him on either side were two young men in long purple robes; beside them stood two more men in priestly white. Gunnar pointed out the emperor to Tolar, who seemed somewhat disappointed in the look of the jarl's new master. But he kept his observations to himself.

A priest wearing a long stole embroidered with crosses stood at the altar holding a censer which he swung back and forth on a chain. This task completed, he backed away, bowing before the altar. Then another priest-an older man with a small, flat hat upon his white head-approached the altar, bowed three times, raised his hands, and began speaking very quickly and very low. Still speaking, he began performing some service there. Everyone seemed most intent on the actions of this priest, but I could not make out what he was doing.

After a time, this priest also retreated and there came the peal of a bell. "We should go now," Didimus said abruptly, "otherwise we will be caught in the crowd and we will not reach the ship in time."

Taking one last lingering glance at the magnificent altar, I could see that the service was ended and those around the altar had commenced their procession along the solea. People around us were already streaming back through the nave. We hurried as best we could, but there were so many people that we were soon halted by the crush at the doors.

"There is another way," said Didimus. "Hurry!"

He led us across the nave to one of the great galleries, where we turned and began running down the long corridor, arriving at a long, switchback ramp. We joined the people making their way down this ramp and eventually tumbled out into a narrow street behind the church. A high wall lined with trees rose directly before us, and a double row of soldiers had formed a rank across the street which stretched away to the right and left; holding their bronze-topped rods lengthwise across their chests, they blocked the right-hand side of the street, to prevent the crowd from following the emperor and his courtiers who were walking in procession back to the Great Palace.

Most of the people strained for a look at the emperor; many called out to him, seeking impromptu audience. But it was not the emperor who caught my eye as the crowd surged forward. I took one look at the rank of soldiers and turned to Gunnar and Tolar. "Stay here, both of you. Wait for me." To Didimus, I said, "I have found my friend. Wait here."

Pushing through the crush, I elbowed my way to the forefront of the throng, enduring many knocks and curses along the way. Tight-pressed as I was, I managed to get one arm up and began waving and shouting: "Justin! Here I am!"

Turning, he caught sight of me and beckoned me to him, pushing people out of the way with the butt of his spear. "I have been looking for you," I said upon reaching him.

Taking my arm he pulled me aside. "We cannot talk now. Come to me tomorrow-the east gate. I will watch for you."

"But I am leaving at dawn tomorrow," I told him. "I was afraid I would not see you again."

He nodded and glanced around, as if he feared someone might be watching him. "Pretend you are resisting me," he whispered.

"What?" I did not understand. "Why should I-"

"Act like you are trying to get by me," he urged, raising his rod, and holding it with both hands across his body. "Stand aside, you!" he shouted, pushing me backwards with the rod. "Stand aside."

I fell back a step or two, and Justin pursued me, pushing me back further. When he had shoved me five or six paces back, he said, "Aidan, listen to me: I have word of your friends."

My heart clenched in my chest. "What? Tell me. What have you heard?"

"Keep quiet. We should not be seen together." He glanced around quickly and said, "They were here-"

"Here! In Constantinople!"

"Shh!" he hissed. "Be quiet and listen. They were here-they were seen."

"When?"

"Just after First Fruits, I think. They-"

"How many?"

"Eight or ten, perhaps-I cannot say for certain. They were led by a bishop, and were taken to the monastery of Christ Pantocrator upon arrival. They stayed with the monks there."

"But what happened to them?"

"They left again."

"Without seeing the emperor? I do not believe it."

Justin shrugged. "They were seen to depart."

"Who saw them? How do you know this?" I could feel myself growing frantic.

"Quiet!" he said, pushing me back with the rod. "I have certain friends."

One of the scholarii took an interest in the exchange between Justin and me, and started towards us. "Trouble there?" he called.

"It is nothing!" Justin replied over his shoulder. "This fellow is drunk. I am dealing with him." Pushing me again, he said, "Hear me, Aidan: the komes knows about this."

"The komes…Nikos?"

"The one who helped trap the quaestor, yes," Justin answered. "My friend said Nikos met with them twice-the last time was on the day they left. That is all I could discover." He looked around quickly. "I must go. I will try to learn more if I can."

The chief guard called again. The other soldiers were already moving off. "Trust no one, Aidan," said Justin, stepping quickly away from me. "Beware Nikos-he has very powerful friends. He is dangerous. Stay far away from him."

I made to thank him and bid him farewell, but he was already running along the narrow street to join the other soldiers. I turned and made my way back to where Didimus and the Danes were waiting. I pushed through the crowd, thinking: They are alive! My friends are alive! At least most of them are alive, and they reached Constantinople after all.

"That was the warrior from the gate," Gunnar said as I joined them. "The one you were looking for?"

"Yes, that was the one."

"And he told you what you wanted to know?"

"Yes," I said tersely. I did not care to discuss it further-certainly not with Sea Wolves who were the cause of the ruined pilgrimage, and all the other troubles in my life. Instead, I turned and strode along the street. "Come," I said, "we must hurry if we want to be at the quay when the bread arrives."

"Heya!" agreed Gunnar. "The sooner we collect the winnings, the happier I will be."

"Didimus," I called, "lead us back to the ships. Quickly, now! We do not wish to miss Constantius."

"Most fortunate of men are you," cried the little boatman cheerfully, "for you are in the company of one who anticipates your every whim. I have already thought of this, and I have devised a special route to take you. No boat this time, yet, never fear, we will reach the harbour before the sun sets."

True to his word, Didimus brought us to the harbour just as the sun sank below the western hills. "You see!" he said. "There is your ship, here are you, and the sun is only setting. And now I must go home to my supper. I bid you fare well, my friends. I will be leaving you now. If I have been of service to you, I am happy. I need nothing more." Smiling in anticipation of his reward, he added, "Naturally, if people wish to show their appreciation…"

"You have done us good service, Didimus," I told him. "For that we are grateful."

Turning to Gunnar, I explained that we must pay the boatman for his help, reminding him that without Didimus, we would not have been able to win the wager.

"Say no more," replied Gunnar expansively, "I am feeling generous." Opening his leather bag, he produced a handful of nomismi and began counting them out.

Didimus's face fell when he saw the coins. Nudging Gunnar, I said, "Truly, he has been a very great help."

From among the coins Gunnar selected a silver denarius, and held it out to Didimus. The boatman's smile instantly returned. "May God Himself bless you richly, my friends!" he gasped, snatching the coin and tucking it quickly out of sight. Seizing my hand, he raised it to his lips and kissed it. Then he kissed Gunnar's hand as well, and departed, saying, "Next time you need a guide, call on Didimus, and you will have the best guide in all Byzantium, never fear!"

"Farewell," I called. Didimus quickly disappeared among the workers and boatmen making their way to the city, and we hurried to the place where the longship was still moored to the quayside.

We had just reached the ship and were about to go aboard when we heard Hnefi call out, "Ho! It is no use hiding. We have seen you."

"Heya," replied Gunnar affably. "And I see you have found your way back to the ship. That is a triumph for you, Hnefi. You must be very pleased."

"If I am pleased," said Hnefi, strolling up as if he owned the harbour, "it is because I see you standing there empty-handed. You should have stayed with us." Some of the other Sea Wolves arrived, staggering slightly, and looking dazzled by the day's experience.

"I see that you have found a drinking hall," Gunnar observed. "No doubt the ol has helped ease the sting of your defeat."

"Wine!" cried Hnefi. "We have been drinking wine-and that in celebration of our victory! I will take my silver now."

Some of the Danes aboard ship gathered at the rail to observe this exchange. They called to their shipmates below and were told of the wager between Gunnar and Hnefi over the bread.

"I wonder at you, Hnefi," Gunnar replied, shaking his head sadly. "It must be that you have forgotten the most important part of the wager. I am looking, but I do not see the bread."

"Are you blind, man?" replied Hnefi. "Open your eyes."

So saying, he turned and called a signal to the remaining five Sea Wolves of his party just then straggling up. I saw that they were bearing large cloth bags on their backs. At their leader's signal, they came to where we were standing, and slung their bags to the quay. "Behold!" cried Hnefi, opening the nearest bag. Thrusting his hand inside, he produced a small brown loaf. "I give you bread."

Gunnar stepped to the sack and peered inside; it was indeed full of small brown loaves. "It is bread," confirmed Gunnar. "But I am wondering how you obtained it."

The Sea Wolves on the quay and those aboard ship began clamouring for the wager to be settled. As I suspected, numerous additional wagers had been struck, and now the winners wanted their take.

"I do not understand," Gunnar said, shaking his head. "How did they do it?"

We were not to wonder long, however, for at that moment, there came a shout from the quay. I turned to see Constantius the baker, pushing a cart loaded high with fresh bread in big, round fragrant loaves. Behind him a young man pushed a second cart filled equally high. "Here!" he shouted. "Here you are! I have found you."

He forced the cart through the midst of the barbarians, hollering at them to make way. "Just as I promised," he declared in a loud voice, "I have brought the politikoi. 'Do not worry,' I said, 'I am a man of my word.' And now you see, eh? I was telling the truth. I am an honest man. Here is your bread."

I thanked him, and said, "These Danes do not understand your speech. If you will allow me, I will tell them what you are saying."

"By all means, you must do that. Let understanding increase."

To Hnefi and the others, I said, "As you see, Constantius here has brought the bread allowance-and not half only, but the whole of it."

"Heya," he agreed confidently, "it is a shame for you that he arrived too late."

"How so?" challenged Gunnar. "You see the bread before you."

"We brought bread also, and we arrived with it before you," Hnefi replied. "Therefore I have won the wager."

"That is by no means certain," said Gunnar. "I do not know what it is that you have brought in those bags of yours, but it is not the bread we were sent to fetch."

"You know it is bread!" charged Hnefi. "You have seen it with your own eyes."

King Harald arrived at the rail and demanded to know why so many men were standing idle when there were provisions waiting to be brought aboard ship. Hnefi quickly explained about the wager, adding, "As it happens, I have won. But this worthless Dane refuses to admit his defeat and pay me my winnings."

"Is this so?" asked the king.

"I do refuse, Jarl Harald," answered a defiant Gunnar, "for it is not my custom to pay when I win a wager. I pay only when I lose. Hnefi insists on having it the other way, I think."

This response delighted the onlooking Sea Wolves, many of whom laughed, and began cheering for him.

"What is all this commotion?" wondered a bemused Constantius, finding himself surrounded by barbarians in full cry.

While I explained the dispute, the king made his way to the quay to settle the argument himself. "Clearly, you cannot both have won this wager," opined Harald judiciously. "One of you has won, and the other has lost. That is the way of things." Seeing that he had achieved general agreement on this fundamental point, he pressed on. "Now then, it appears that Hnefi has returned first with the bread."

"Hnefi has indeed returned first," allowed Gunnar. "But he has not brought the bread he was sent to fetch."

"And yet I see before me sacks of bread," Harald pointed out equably.

"No, Jarl Harald, this is not so. While there may be loaves in those sacks, it is not the bread given by the emperor. I only have returned with the proper loaves, as this baker will certainly attest. Therefore, I have won and it is for Hnefi to pay me."

"Proper loaves?" howled Hnefi, colour rising to his already florid face. "Bread is bread. I returned first: I win."

"Anyone may stuff stale loaves into a bag and hope to claim the prize," maintained Gunnar with cool disdain. "It means nothing."

Harald hesitated. He looked thoughtfully at the cart full of loaves, and at the sacks lying on the quay. The matter, apparently so straight-forward only a moment before, had taken an unexpected twist, and he was no longer certain what should be done.

Mistaking the king's hesitation for unwillingness to accept the bread, Constantius, standing next to me, whispered a suggestion. Listening to him, an idea came to me how the dilemma might be solved.

"If I may speak, Jarl Harald," I said, putting myself forward. "I believe there may be a simple way to discover who has won the wager."

"Speak then," he said without enthusiasm.

"Taste the bread," I advised. "As we will all be eating this bread for many days, it seems right to me to have only the best brought aboard. There is only one way to prove which is best-taste it and see."

Gunnar acclaimed the suggestion. "That is excellent counsel." Retrieving a loaf from the pyramid on the cart, he offered it to the king. "If you please, Jarl Harald; we will abide by your decision."

While Harald pulled off a portion of the bread, I explained the trial to Constantius. "That is not what I meant," the baker said. "But it makes no difference to me. I bake an honest loaf, as anyone can see."

Pulling a loaf from Hnefi's bag, the king broke it and, with some little difficulty, pulled off a piece. He chewed it for a moment and swallowed-again with difficulty, for the bread was tough, owing to its staleness.

"Well?" demanded Hnefi impatiently. "Which is it to be?"

"As I am king," said Harald, holding up the brown loaf from Hnefi's bag, "this bread is good enough for men at sea. Indeed, I have tasted far worse many times."

"Heya!" agreed Hnefi, swelling up his chest. "It is what I am telling you-"

"But," continued Harald, cutting him short, "this bread is far superior in every way." He broke another piece of the white bread, put it in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. "Yes, this is food for kings and noblemen. So, I ask myself, which would I rather be eating?"

Turning to Hnefi, he said, "The loaves you have brought are fit only for fish." With that, he tossed the remains of the brown loaf into the water. To Gunnar, he said, "Bring your loaves onto the ship. This is the bread we shall have on the voyage."

The new-made loaves were quickly taken from the carts, passed to those at the rail, and stowed away. Others gathered around to watch Gunnar and Hnefi settle their wager. "Cheer up," said Gunnar, "you did well. I am surprised you found any bread at all. Fate was against you."

"Fate!" muttered Hnefi, producing his leather bag. He began counting silver denarii into Gunnar's outstretched palm. "Next time, I will keep the Shaven One with me," he said grudgingly, "and then we will see how well you fare." This was the first time Hnefi had shown me any respect or consideration, and it pleased me greatly.

"It is not Aeddan who helped me," replied Gunnar, dropping the coins one-by-one into his bag. "It was this god of his. I lit a candle to this Lord Jesu and prayed him to help me win. Now, you see for yourself what has happened."

"You were lucky, that is all," said Hnefi. He and those with him stumped off to console themselves as best they could.

"Even if I do not get another piece of silver," Gunnar remarked, "this has been a most rewarding voyage. My Karin and Ulf can live for three or four years on what I have now."

"With so much silver in your bag," observed Tolar, "we will be calling you Gunnar Silversack from now on."

Once the carts were unloaded, Constantius was eager to be away as it was growing dark. I bade him farewell and thanked him for his help. Gunnar, feeling all the more generous since he had won the wager, gave the baker ten nomismi.

"Tell your friend to keep his money," Constantius said. "I am well paid by the emperor for my labours."

When I told this to Gunnar, he shook his head and pressed the money into the man's hand. "For the cart, and for the boy," Gunnar said, and I conveyed his words to the baker. "A drink or two, after your labours. Or, light a candle to your Jesu and remember me."

"My friend," replied Constantius gallantly, "tell him I will surely do both." He bade us farewell and retreated quickly, he and the boy, pulling the empty carts behind them.

Overcome by his good fortune, Gunnar pressed a silver denarius into my hand also. "If not for you, Aeddan," he said, "I never would have won the wager."

"If not for me," I corrected him, tucking the total of my earthly wealth into the hem of my cloak, "you would never have made the wager."

"Heya," he laughed. "That is true also."

I climbed aboard the ship and watched the sun set in a dull glow of red and gold as violet shadows slowly stole the seven hills from sight. Only then did it occur to me that I had stood in the greatest church in all the world, and I had not breathed a single prayer, or offered up even the most fleeting thought of worship. That never would have happened at the abbey. What was wrong with me? The thought kept me awake most of the night.

At dawn the next morning, as the oars were unshipped and the longships rowed silently from the harbour, I stood at the rail and, living still, looked my last upon the city of my demise.