Two for Joy

Chapter Four

As he entered the imperial reception hall with

Senator Aurelius the next morning, John’s quick eye noted that Justinian was wearing the scarlet boots that were his imperial prerogative. The boots formed an incongruous splash of color in the hall’s cavernous marble space, one that always made John think of an enormous sarcophagus.

Whether Justinian’s gaudy footwear had been chosen to reflect the importance of their audience or was simply an unfortunate result of inattention to dress, John could not say. Aside from the boots, Justinian was dressed in his usual careless manner which on this occasion meant a purple, gem-studded cloak thrown over a creased tunic that even from a distance looked as if it had been slept in.

“Leave us,” Justinian ordered the two excubitors who escorted his visitors into the enormous hall. “These men are known to me. They present no danger.”

He waved the guards away with the rolled parchment in his soft, heavily beringed hand. The excubitors withdrew but only as far the reception hall’s great bronze doors. No man, however trustworthy he might have seemed a day or even an hour before, was to be left alone with the man who was supreme head of the Roman Empire and God’s representative on earth.

The hall was chilly. Its green marble walls, graced by ivory panels webbed with delicate gold leaf traceries, soared up into the shadowed vault of the roof. The only other decorations were one or two statues of celebrated military figures. John had thought more than once that those fortunate enough to be permitted to approach the emperor’s throne were in no need of such reminders of Justinian’s absolute power over every living thing in the empire. Having observed countless such visitors approach and depart, John felt that most of them counted themselves fortunate to leave with their heads still on their shoulders. He, however, like all those serving at court, was continually camped very close to danger whether he was actually in Justinian’s presence or not.

“Caesar,” began John, but before he could approach the throne, a simple affair of inlaid wood looking as out of place as a shopkeeper’s stool amidst the soaring magnificence of its setting, the emperor leapt up from it. The jeweled fibula fastening his purple cloak slipped, allowing the precious fabric to drag on the floor as he advanced to greet them.

“Lord Chamberlain, I regret I must ask you to put aside preparations for the formal opening of the Great Church for yet another day since I have another task for you. However, no doubt you will be relieved to hear that it will not require you to climb pillars.”

Justinian’s round, florid face bore its customary bland smile. Some of his enemies characterized that smile as the expression of an idiot, others considered it the blank mask of a demon yet to completely master aping the human form. And some called it both, but not too loudly.

Justinian turned toward Aurelius. “Word has reached my ear that you are not well, senator.”

“A matter of minor import, Caesar, about which I did not wish to trouble you.”

“I see,” Justinian said. “But I do wish to say this. Doubtless you’re aware that when physicians failed the ancients, oft times their patients visited the sanctuary of Asclepius. Our medical knowledge is much advanced since those days, but still it does not do to ignore the possibility of divine intervention, while bearing in mind that the faithful now petition Saint Michael rather than a pagan god.” His tone clearly conveyed the promise that anyone addressing their petition to the latter could be guaranteed ill health as soon as the fact was discovered. “Perhaps,” he continued, “you should consider making a visit to such a shrine.”

Aurelius murmured his humble appreciation for the suggestion, which was the same advice he had already received from more than one of his acquaintances.

Justinian fell silent, staring into the vault of the ceiling and then pacing away, forcing his two visitors to follow. He never seemed to stand still. John, who dealt with the emperor nearly every day, could almost believe the popular rumor that Justinian never slept.

“But I shall smooth your way for you, my dear senator,” the emperor went on. “I am sending you with the Lord Chamberlain here to visit the shrine of Saint Michael, the angelic physician himself. It is beside the Bosporos. You will have horses at your disposal within the hour.”

Aurelius bowed his thanks.

“And now, my friends, we shall turn to the particulars of why you were summoned to see me.” The emperor’s tone hardened. “It so happens that a crowd of pilgrims has taken up temporary residence in and around that very shrine. It is a holy place, we are all agreed upon that, and therefore worthy of pilgrimage. However, their leader, who conveniently enough calls himself Michael, has apparently taken leave of his senses.”

Justinian was off again, scarlet boots padding quietly across the marble floor as John and Aurelius trailed at a respectful distance.

“I received a communication from this Michael a few days ago demanding an audience, if you can believe such audacity!” he went on. “It also stated that certain dire events would soon come to pass if the demand was not met. As vaguely worded a prophecy as any, yet it appears to have been borne out by the deaths of the stylites.”

John exchanged a glance with Aurelius before speaking. “Gaius will doubtless have apprised you of the results of our investigations into those deaths, excellency?”

“Indeed he has, and he is of the opinion that they were caused by lightning. He also informed me you are not quite so certain, Lord Chamberlain. Why is that?”

“Lightning does not usually strike so many places at once. Such a remarkable coincidence gave me pause.”

“True enough, but then chance can confound our expectations,” Justinian pointed out. “Recall that Emperor Carus was struck down by lightning during a military campaign. Even a prudent gambler, if such a person can be found, would happily have wagered the entire imperial treasury against half a follis that such an event would never happen.”

“Unless of course the lightning was directed by a divine hand,” Aurelius put in.

John glanced quickly at him. Apparently the senator’s contemplation of a lengthy ride to the shrine of Saint Michael undertaken while suffering his painful condition had disconcerted him. Suggesting the possibility of divine retribution against an emperor was surely a statement the senator would normally not dream of making.

“I have heard it said that there might be a more worldly explanation for the emperor’s death,” John quickly remarked, “but most would dismiss that as mere gossip.”

“No doubt, Lord Chamberlain, no doubt,” Justinian agreed mildly. “But as for these poor holy men, I know you would prefer there was a mystery to be solved, and so would I, rather than suppose that this Michael person possesses the key to knowledge of the future. Thus, you will suspend your investigations and all your other duties for a day or so since there is a journey to undertake.” He flourished the parchment he carried. “Here is a second communication from Michael, newly arrived. He again demands an audience, but this time he mentions something of his theology, which is extraordinary to say the least.”

“Caesar, if I could have a copy of these messages, it might…” John quickly said.

Justinian waved the letter in a dismissive gesture. “Do you doubt my characterization of them?”

“Of course not.” John knew well the folly of contradicting Justinian.

The emperor smiled coldly and continued. “Very well, then. You and Senator Aurelius will go to the shrine as my ambassadors. Meet with this Michael and ascertain all you can of his plans or any other information that will be useful to me. You are there officially as bearing my greetings, but I also wish you to ascertain whether he may be inclined to negotiation.”

Justinian addressed Aurelius. “Now, senator, I would not tax your strength further. I will speak to my Lord Chamberlain alone.”

As soon as Aurelius had departed the hall, Justinian handed John the rolled parchment. “Since you were so interested in reading Michael’s letters, you may examine this latest one. First of all, give me your general impressions,” he ordered.

John rapidly scanned the proffered parchment. “I note that Michael writes in excellent Greek and his hand is fairly neat, but that his theology is not what the Patriarch would term orthodox.”

“Yes, it is an interesting theory, is it not, this idea of theirs, what would you call it, not a Trinity but a Quaternity?” The emperor’s lips twitched into what, for the first time since the audience began, might have been a genuine smile. “But this notion of a purely human Christ co-equal with the Trinity, that is the blackest of heresies.” Justinian’s smile did not waver as he made this pronouncement. “Still, I intend to compose a thesis upon this startling suggestion. Perhaps we can discover some path to a mutual understanding with these Michaelites, as they apparently call themselves.”

John did not doubt that the amount of understanding that might be discovered would depend heavily upon the number of followers Michael could claim. “If there is such common ground, I am certain you can find it, excellency,” he said tactfully. “The Patriarch himself bows to your theological prowess.”

“Thank you, Lord Chamberlain. And now a question for you personally. What is your opinion on this matter of an audience? Michael’s theology is fascinating, if abhorrent, and I confess I am drawn to a dialogue. Perhaps his words are not so blasphemous as they seem at first glance, if we could only decipher their meaning correctly.”

John bowed his head in thought. Few knew better than he how dangerous it was to give the emperor the wrong advice.

“Caesar,” he said at last, “I would counsel most strongly against granting him an audience. What purpose do the land walls of our city serve but to keep out the enemy? If this Michael should be revealed as such, we should have thrown wide the city gates to let him in without so much as lifting a hand in our own defense.”

“True enough, Lord Chamberlain.”

John saw disappointment in Justinian’s ruddy face and added quickly, “Doubtless you are aware that after Daniel the Stylite came down from his pillar and was allowed entrance to the city, Emperor Basiliscus was forced to flee to Hebdomon.”

“Those events are known to me, of course. It is not so long since they took place, after all.”

John paused, reluctant to say what he sensed had to be said. “And if I may draw your attention to the end of that particular story?”

Justinian’s shoulders stiffened slightly. The eyes that looked out at his advisor from a pudgy mask of affability might have been the burning eyes of a demon. Then he averted his gaze and a strained laugh emerged from his lips.

“Thank you, John. I value your advice, as always. May you and the senator have better success with Michael than all Basiliscus’ chamberlains and senators achieved with Daniel. You may depart now.”

John’s heart did not cease its clamorous pounding until he had bowed his way out of the reception hall into the fresh air of the palace gardens. Everyone in Constantinople was aware of the ending of that particular story, when, in the presence of much of the population of the city, Emperor Basiliscus and the Patriarch had humbly prostrated themselves at Daniel’s feet.

“I’m sure this Michael knows the story of Daniel and Basiliscus as well as anyone else,” growled Felix after John had outlined his conversation with Justinian.

John could not help noticing that just the mention of an emperor’s humiliation had sent the excubitor captain’s scarred hand to the hilt of the short sword at his side, startling a passing clerk who immediately hastened his pace along the peristyle outside Felix’ office.

The burly, bearded German directed a rumbling laugh at the retreating scribe’s back. “What is it you want, John? Just so long as it doesn’t involve me standing down wind of some dead stylites again…”

John assured him that he was not planning any more visits to stylites’ columns. “I just wished to ask if you were able to secure any assistance from the Prefect?”

“He wasn’t as helpful as usual.” Felix frowned. “Perhaps we should discuss this matter elsewhere?” he added cautiously. Around them Justinian’s administrative army had embarked on its daily march, ready to wield quill and writ against all enemies of the empire, treacherous tax delinquents, marauding purveyors of unlicensed silks, barbaric bakers asking an unregulated price for their loaves, and all their criminal brethren. Who could say who might be eavesdropping?

“I can’t linger, Felix. I was ordered to leave almost immediately! But as to that, I know a route that will provide more privacy for our conversation.”

When they were on a narrow path winding between thick plantings of yew trees Felix glanced casually over his broad shoulder and, seeing they had not been followed, took up the conversation while keeping his tone discreetly low. “The Prefect’s resources have been stretched rather thin lately, John. The Blues have been growing bolder by the week and now they’re hunting in packs. One of my guards was robbed outside the Inn of the Centaurs only three days ago. He was still in uniform and armed! If Justinian would only allow it, I’d be more than happy to hunt those Blues down like the cowardly vermin they are.”

“At least the Greens have not yet dared confront them, and just as well, considering the riots that would be touched off if they did,” John said grimly.

Felix wondered thoughtfully if the death of the stylites might provide the excuse the factions scarcely needed to be at each others’ throats.

“I wouldn’t think so,” John replied. “But that is one reason I want the matter looked into very carefully. Exactly what aid did the Prefect feel able to offer?”

“He agreed to interrogate his patrols about anything odd or unusual they may have observed in the forums where the deaths occurred. Odd activities, fights, that sort of thing. But as far as questioning vendors and merchants, I fear to accomplish that I’d have to place some of my men on, shall we say, extended leave?”

“I have placed you in an uneasy position, Felix. Your superior is no friend of mine. I can see that that would be difficult.”

“But on the other hand, the Master of the Offices is too consumed with political intrigues to take much notice of the work we are doing, so long as we do it quietly and without drawing attention.” Felix briefly displayed his wolfish smile. “So perhaps we may be able to assist you more than seems possible at first glance.”

John led the way through a garden and into an enormous rectangular building housing the imperial financial offices. Down a narrow, echoing hall they went, descending into the building’s lower level. Finally, having navigated a labyrinth of passages that would have defeated the Minotaur, they emerged into a terraced garden from which the long profile of the Hippodrome was visible above a line of poplars planted alongside the palace walls.

“The remains of those poor stylites will have been removed from their pillars by now,” John said thoughtfully. “I doubt their bodies have anything left to reveal, and in any event mens’ lives are always more instructive than their deaths. Those men were not always perched up beyond the world’s reach. Is there some common thread that links them?”

“We have plenty of informants among the religious orders,” Felix offered, speaking in a normal tone now they were outside in the open. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to ascertain their backgrounds. It might cost more than a follis or two, though.”

John stared thoughtfully at the Hippodrome. “I will see that your expenses are discreetly reimbursed, Felix. Now, however, I must be on my way.”

Felix tugged thoughtfully at his beard. “I think too much is being made of this Michael, John. Remember, in the end Daniel went back to his pillar. Perhaps Michael’s just a simple holy man, like all the rest. I’d wager-if I were still a betting man, that is-he’ll tell you that all he wants is permission for a triumphal procession down the Mese and an audience with Justinian.”

“I hope you’re right,” John replied. “I’ll know more at the end of my journey.”

Peter had been beset with misgivings as he watched John and Senator Aurelius ride off on their diplomatic mission. The armed escort provided by the emperor had done nothing to reassure him. It merely pointed at the danger involved in his master’s mysterious journey.

Nevertheless he was heartened when Philo departed the house soon afterwards, muttering that there had to be at least one person in this barbaric city who might have need of a man of learning. As a good Christian, Peter had offered a brief prayer on behalf of the philosopher that such a person would be found. He also offered a briefer prayer on his own behalf that such a patron would not be found until night arrived. Then he allowed himself to contemplate the pleasing prospect of a quiet day alone.

Thus when there was a knock on the door he answered it reluctantly. He was relieved to be greeted by a dark-eyed young Egyptian woman.

“Hypatia! It’s been some time since you last visited. Come in! Come up to my kitchen.”

They had met when Hypatia arrived to serve as gardener for Peter’s former owner, Lady Anna. Following their mistress’ untimely death, they had both been freed and now Hypatia worked in the imperial gardens, living on the palace grounds although in a house far less magnificent than John’s.

The young woman set a basket of pears down on the scarred kitchen table. Reaching into the basket she pulled out an earthenware pot of honey.

“I heard that you have been unwell, Peter,” she said, “so I brought along a small gift for you. Now, make certain that you eat it all yourself and don’t use it in dishes for John!”

Peter peered under the lid, smiling his surprise and gratitude. The honey was the same golden brown as the woman’s skin. “I do occasionally like to indulge in something sweet,” he admitted. “Thank you for the gift and your concern, Hypatia. But I am better now, thanks be. And now tell me, how are things with you?”

“Well enough, Peter. Yet I must say that while the palace is certainly a place of luxury, lately there seem to suddenly be many dark corners. I’m grateful that my work keeps me outside in the sunlight, even on colder days.”

Peter nodded. “There is indeed much darkness in the city,” he agreed sadly, “and not always during the hours of night. Now, before you go back to digging and pruning and such like, sit down and take some wine.”

“Why, Peter, can it be that you have taken to imbibing in your old age?” Hypatia asked affectionately, pulling a stool to the table.

Peter smiled again. “I would be offended beyond belief if we had not worked together for the Lady Anna, rest her soul, and I had the measure of your frivolous speech! No, this will be just a splash, for the humor’s sake. Gaius prescribed it for a tonic as needed and the master insists that I follow his instructions.”

He measured out two small libations.

Hypatia pushed her dark hair away from her face. “And has your kitchen lately been invaded by that young man Anatolius?” she asked with too careless inquisitiveness.

“Anatolius? He is often here, yes, although I sometimes wonder whether he visits to speak with the Lord Chamberlain or to steal my stuffed dates. And why do you inquire?”

The young woman blushed. “Oh, I was just curious. I sometimes see him passing by when I am working in the flower beds.”

“Ah.” Peter’s thoughtful monosyllable had subtle shadings.

“But,” she rushed on, “never mind about court dandies like Anatolius. Everyone is abuzz about these Michaelites.”

“The emperor sent the master off to visit them,” Peter said. “I must say that I do not think he would normally care to mingle over much with such people, a rabble by all I hear, despite their being led by a holy man. But then he must do his master’s bidding, just as we must obey ours.”

Hypatia took a sip of wine and asked for Peter’s thoughts about the situation.

Peter paused to compose his reply. Elderly cooks were not often asked to explain matters of religion, much to his disappointment, and he was happy to have the opportunity to expound his theories.

“I know you worship the gods of Egypt, Hypatia, and so perhaps the finer points of theology do not intrude upon your reflections,” he began, quickly adding, “and I see you are valiantly trying to conceal your amusement at an old man’s words. However, the beliefs of these Michaelites are rather unsettling, to say the least. Their deity, it would seem, is comprised of four parts, one entirely human. It’s not so long since that they would have been immediately executed for daring to even breathe such a thing.” His voice trembled slightly at the very thought.

“But,” he went on, fortifying himself against such rank heresies with a sip of wine, “as to that, they say that this Michael has promised to rid the city of all unbelievers and that those houses about which decent men do not speak will be shuttered, and much else besides.”

Hypatia commented that if this band of believers was able to achieve such lofty goals, they would have done what all of Justinian’s laws had not yet been able to accomplish.

“True enough. Yet they seem to have had supernatural assistance. It is chilly in here, don’t you think? Or perhaps I notice it more as I get older.”

Peter got up stiffly and stirred the nearly dormant brazier back to life. “I only hope the Michaelites do not stir up a greater conflagration than this,” he murmured.

“The merchant who sold me this honey said there was much disquiet expressed at the inn he patronizes,” replied Hypatia. “When inns are awash with such talk you can be certain the streets will soon be equally flooded with trouble. And like you, he mentioned the supernatural. Do you know anything more about that?”

Peter sat down again. “Well, Hypatia, the evening before last,” he began, “and I assure you that this is the perfect truth, I saw a fiery angel descending from the heavens. The master insists it was merely one of those unfortunate stylites who were struck by lightning, but that is not what I saw. And like you, I speak to people in the market place so I know that others trembled before the same vision.”

Hypatia looked thoughtful rather than surprised. “And this angel, do you think he has arrived to battle on the side of Michael or to defend the city against him?”

“As to that,” said Peter, “time will tell.” He stared into the flames leaping above the brazier. A few moments before the kitchen had seemed cold, now it felt suffocatingly hot.

“That’s true enough. But meantime perhaps you should try some of the honey, Peter? It’s said Hippocrates recommended it for a variety of ailments as well as for making sweet confections, for bees distill whatever may be in the plants they visit. I’ve heard of soldiers poisoned by bees who feasted on rhododendron. But don’t worry, those who labored to make this honey for you dined only upon the best wheat!”

Peter could not resist dipping his finger into the honey. “This makes for a better potion than wine,” he said, lifting his finger to his lips. “But now tell me, how do their keepers persuade the bees to feed only on wheat or clover?”

“Oh, it’s quite simple, really. The hives are placed in the middle of a wheat field or a patch of heather or other flowers, depending which flavor is desired. Bees do not stray far from their homes and so will only visit flowers within a certain area around them.”

Peter smiled. “Perhaps we should all take note of the ways of the industrious bee, then, and if at all possible seek not to stray too far afield. If we settle our hearts in the midst of righteousness and remain close to home, then we will never taste evil.”

He was discomfited to see that Hypatia was suppressing a giggle.

“I’m sorry,” she said, patting his hand affectionately. “But truly, when you’ve had perhaps a sip or two too much wine you could pass for a churchman.”