Two for Joy

Chapter Five

The crowds bustling through the bright sunlight and long morning shadows striping the colonnaded Mese were being regaled with a sight which, unlike the dining habits of bees, would soon be the subject of hundreds of excited conversations.

A mounted company of heavily armed imperial guards, twenty strong, was clattering along the wide street at a steady pace. In the midst of the contingent rode two men of obvious importance, one a silver-haired aristocrat with tightly drawn lips, the other a lean, somber looking man who might have been mistaken for an ascetic except for his elegant robes and the richly embroidered mantle lying over his shoulders. Passersby stopped to stare, as they might have paused to listen to distant thunder, while hoping that the storm surely being heralded would break over someone else’s head.

John was aware of the faces gaping at him. A private man, their attention made him uncomfortable. He knew, however, that both route and escort were designed precisely to gain such attention. The emperor could have ordered his envoys ferried across the narrow mouth of the Golden Horn from where it was but a short ride to Saint Michael’s shrine beside the Bosporos. But, John guessed, Justinian’s agents were already spreading word of this diplomatic mission far and wide and before long, all over the city, people would be exclaiming that indeed it was true, the most pious of emperors had accorded Michael the respect due such a man. Hadn’t they seen with their own eyes the lofty officials dispatched to visit him as Justinian’s emissaries?

As to whether this display of magnanimity would serve to placate the restless populace as much as Justinian apparently imagined or would simply encourage further support for the heretics, John could not say.

So the showy entourage made its way through the bustle of the circular Forum of Constantine, past the rotunda of the senate house and the towering column surmounted not by some ragged stylite but a gleaming statue of the city’s founder, and through the much smaller but still busy Forum Tauri beyond which the Mese forked. Here they turned not south, towards the Golden Gate and the Via Egnatia which would have taken them, after weeks of hard and dangerous travel, to the ancient capital Rome itself, but toward the west.

Only when they were beyond the inner city’s wall and away from the crowds did John speak. “Do you wish to stop and rest for a time?” he asked Aurelius.

“I would rather continue and have the journey over with that much sooner.” Although the senator spoke without taking his gaze from the flat stones of the roadway in front of them John could see the pallor of his face. Recalling Justinian’s comment about sending the senator to the shrine for a cure, he couldn’t help remembering Philo’s reference to the emperor’s cruel concept of mercy.

“Have you consulted Gaius about this ailment?” he asked, concerned.

“Unfortunately, yes. He had me taking a vile concoction of naphtha which, I have heard, can kill as easily as cure. But since it failed to render either service to me, he has demanded I fast for three days. If the stone has not passed by then, he intends to play the surgeon.”

They were riding through one of the cemeteries that dominated the area between the inner and outer walls of the city. Modest burial mounds and grave markers were scattered around and between sheltering cypress trees. Aurelius waved his hand at the tranquil scene, adding in an undertone, “If worse comes to worse, I’d as soon rest here in three days’ time than lie under that drunkard’s knife. The pain has been so desperate that I have actually contemplated visiting my country estate and sacrificing to Salus. On the other hand, now there’s the matter of this shrine we’re visiting. Many have dreamt cures for their ailments there, or so I have heard.”

John remained silent.

Aurelius continued thoughtfully, as much to himself as to his companion. “Consider the well-known case of Aquilinus. He was starving to death after a fever because he was unable to keep nourishment in him. When his physician could do nothing, he went to St Michael’s shrine, carried there, so they say, by one of his servants. And what happened but at the shrine Aquilinus dreamt he would be cured by dipping his foot into some strange sludge of wine and pepper and honey. Oh, his physician was doubtless much put out and, I am willing to wager, called it a cure flying in the face of medical knowledge and probably much worse. But since the man was half dead anyway, he determined he would do as he dreamt and did so and indeed was cured.”

John pointed out sympathetically that as far as treating illness was concerned, sometimes in battling them it was necessary to face the knife.

Aurelius laughed harshly. “You preach to me in the same manner in which I lecture my son! What you say is true enough, John. But a warrior does not have his legs trussed up over his head while the physician standing behind him-how may I put this delicately-coaxes the cursed stone along in a fashion that would make even a powdered court page blush. I could endure the knife that follows without flinching, but not the indignity that precedes it.”

“We can’t always choose what we must endure. Indignity, at least, can be survived.”

The senator realized that his words had been ill chosen and his expression grew even more stricken. He apologized.

“You don’t have to excuse yourself for reminding me of what I have endured, Aurelius,” John replied. “But although you might choose to leave us prematurely for your own reasons, think of Anatolius. He is certainly a man of many talents, but…”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Aurelius muttered, sparing John the impossible task of finding some tactful phrase to describe Anatolius’ dangerous blend of impetuosity and impracticality. “I’m sure he has informed you about his new prospects?”

“He went on at greater length about the banquet, but he did mention you are planning to launch him upon a legal career.”

Aurelius winced, perhaps from the jolt of his horse stepping down harder than hitherto. “You sound almost as enthusiastic as my son about the prospect, John.”

“It’s a good plan, though. Anatolius tends to drift with his fancies and those ponderous legal phrases may serve to anchor him. However, he still needs occasional guidance.”

Aurelius shook his head wearily. “Not guidance, John. Let us be honest. He still needs to be protected from himself.”

The senator fell silent and few words were exchanged during the remainder of the tedious journey. Both men knew that just as they had been ordered to observe Michael and report back to Justinian, so one or more of their escorts would be under orders to observe the emissaries.

Having passed beyond the high mortar and stone walls built to protect Constantinople on its only side exposed to land attack, the mounted party proceeded northward around the end of the Golden Horn and then back east along that narrow drowned valley. The way was lined with small settlements alternating with fields and villas set amid country estates. The city they had left was visible across glassy water bristling with ship masts. Tenements and churches clung to the side of a long ridge whose highest points formed six of the seven hills of Constantine’s new Rome.

Their journey was more rapid than John anticipated. Other riders, pedestrians and the drivers of carts and wagons, realizing at a glance that the company was about imperial business, readily vacated the narrow road at their approach. Although such highways were a boon to trade their real purpose was military, having been built wide enough to accommodate the passage of a single war chariot.

Only when they turned north in the direction of the Euxine Sea were the travelers forced to slow their pace as the road grew increasingly congested with people on foot, predominantly peasants and laborers by their simple tunics. As they neared the shrine, more than one slave-borne litter and even a covered carriage could be seen, swept along in the human tide flooding the road.

“This crowd reminds me of the day before a celebration,” observed Aurelius, before leaning down to address a sturdy farmer leading a donkey burdened with baskets of fruit. “Shouldn’t you be going in the other direction, to the market?”

The farmer looked up fearfully. “I would on any other day, excellency, but today I am taking an offering to Michael, to ask for his blessing upon me and my family.”

“Justinian will not be pleased to learn how quickly the man’s fame is spreading,” John remarked.

The senator made no reply. His eyelids had narrowed to slits and his lips, drawn tight for hours now, looked nearly bloodless as his horse, made restive by the crowd, snorted and pawed at the ground, jolting its rider painfully.

The guards, who earlier had been talking and laughing in a relaxed manner, became as restive as the horses. They shouted warnings, shaking spears to underline them.

“Take care,” John admonished the nearer of their guards. It would not take much to touch off a disturbance. A carelessly handled weapon drawing blood, for example.

They finally saw St Michael’s shrine after cresting a long hill. A rectangular marble building with a flight of steps leading steeply up to its columned portico, the shrine sat at the far edge of a grassy open space where the ground dipped away from the road before dropping abruptly to the Bosporos. The building was indistinguishable from hundreds of other small temples, Christian and pagan alike, to be found in all parts of the empire, but it was here that the sluggish river of humanity spilled off the narrow road into a wide lake swirling around the shrine.

The company rode to the foot of the shrine’s steps, forcing a path through the massed pilgrims. The murmur of the crowd gradually rose higher as it took note of the imperial party. When several excubitors had taken up posts at the shrine’s doorway beside a pile of baskets, sacks and amphorae that had accumulated there, John quickly dismounted as Aurelius struggled off his horse, grimacing in pain.

“Well, John,” the senator muttered, “I hope you know the proper ceremonial greetings when meeting some holy vagabond fresh off the road from who knows where, because this is something quite beyond my own experience.”

A fresh breeze had been scouring the shrine with the sharp smell of the sea, but as it subsided momentarily John detected from within the building another odor, a disturbing blend of sweet perfume and the acrid smell of the sick. He had just noted it when a ruggedly-built man almost as tall as himself emerged from the shrine.

The man’s size and the hard lines of his face suggested a military background, but he appeared unarmed and wore a long white robe. He offered no hint of a formal greeting nor did he make any effort to hide his disdain as he looked down the steps at the emperor’s emissaries.

“I see Justinian has declined the opportunity to meet personally with the master. However, there is yet time enough for that. You may follow me,” he instructed.

If John had intended to reply he would have had no opportunity because the acolyte, as he supposed the man to be, immediately vanished back into the building. Aurelius gave a grunt of displeasure. Their visit was not beginning well.

Inside the shrine, a long nave ran between two aisles accessible through archways. The shadowy aisles and their niches were filled with figures, some reclining on stone benches along the walls, others lying on straw pallets on the floor. A harsh cough echoed, then another. The rasp of labored breathing and low, monotonous moaning echoed around the stone walls. The smell of illness was overpowering.

“These poor creatures are seeking the aid of Saint Michael, the heavenly physician,” noted the big acolyte. “And so by faith they shall be healed.”

Dimly seen figures moved around, attending to the sick. A knot of acolytes, going by the fact that their robes were identical to that worn by their guide, stood conversing in the center of the nave. As he went by them, John noted the eastern eyes of a Persian, an Egyptian’s hawk nose and wavy hair, a man in a himation who could have been Philo’s brother, not to mention two men who looked to be of sturdy peasant stock, possibly farmers temporarily absent from their land. Michael’s theology appeared to appeal to a dangerously heterogeneous group, it seemed.

John was weighing how he could best reveal this unfortunate discovery to Justinian as they reached the end of the nave, where a plain marble altar stood before a slitted window in the back wall. A dusty beam of sunlight lanced through the lazy coils arising from two perfumed candles, the only items adorning the altar.

The swirling smoke stung John’s eyes. He blinked away tears and suddenly there was a figure standing in front of him.

Michael was not the begrimed, weather-beaten desert hermit John had half-expected. He was a slight man of elegant appearance, dressed in an immaculate white robe. His head was shaven, his face gaunt but smooth. Sunken eyes flashed in the candlelight like water at the bottom of a well as he inclined his head in silent greeting.

Why did an invisible hand wrench at John’s vitals at the sight of this man? Fighting back his inexplicable unease, John made his formal salutation.

“The Emperor Justinian, conqueror, ever Caesar, conveys to the pious Michael his greetings. We stand before you as his eminent representatives, the revered Senator Flavius Aurelius and myself, John, Lord Chamberlain to the emperor.”

Michael regarded his two visitors placidly. “I look forward to consulting you concerning the arrangements for my meeting with your most eminent emperor, Lord Chamberlain.”

He spoke softly but even so could not disguise the unnatural timbre of his voice. John understood then what troubled him.

Michael was a eunuch.

“The emperor has graciously granted audiences to many pious men such as yourself,” Aurelius said.

“I see,” Michael replied with a slight smile. “So there have been many who were heralded by all-consuming holy fire?”

John stood silent for the length of several heartbeats. He abhorred dealing with other eunuchs, nearly all of whom had been maimed as children. He had reached manhood before being castrated and did not like the thought that many would mistake him for one of those effeminate creatures whose nature had been prevented from taking its proper course. Aurelius’ suddenly raised voice abruptly brought his attention back to their mission.

“We regret that we have not been granted authority to escort you into the city at this time. The emperor has instructed us only to offer you his felicitations and the prospect of an audience to be arranged at his convenience, a boon that few receive and many would envy you.”

“We must hope then that Justinian will be able to invite me into the city for an audience with him before the cleansing fire strikes again. When you return, please convey to him the matter we will be discussing when we finally meet.”

“And what matter would that be?” Aurelius inquired stiffly.

“Concerning my ascending to the patriarchy and, of course, to co-equal rulership with Justinian.” Michael replied calmly.

Aurelius stared at Michael in amazed disbelief.

John remained silent. He realized now that they were dealing not merely with a eunuch, but with a madman. Or at any rate, he reminded himself, a man who was obviously familiar with the story of Basiliscus prostrating himself at the feet of Daniel, and furthermore a man wise, or perhaps foolish, enough to attempt to use it to his own advantage.

It was obvious that there was nothing further to be learned today. John was preparing to make a formal farewell when, without warning, Michael stepped toward Aurelius and grasped the senator’s shoulders.

“You have been unwell.” Spoken in a whisper, the words took on an even more abnormal timbre. One could almost imagine that the voice did not emanate within the frame from which it emerged.

Michael closed his eyes for an instant, then stepped back quickly, causing the perfumed smoke to writhe about him. “Now, however, you are healed,” he said. “Go back to the emperor with this miracle.”

On their homeward journey John and Aurelius rode for a long while in silence. They were proceeding back along the Golden Horn before John finally spoke.

“I judge this Michael to be a dangerous man indeed, Aurelius. All his talk about divine retribution and miracles is bound to stir up unrest.”

“Considering that he seemed to be implying that there could be more deaths, I have to agree,” Aurelius said. “But surely you do not take his claims seriously?”

John lowered his voice before replying. “Fire is sacred to many religions and to be honest, I do not see it being used as a tool for divine retribution. Those stylites died by some human agency, I am certain of it. The sooner I can discover who murdered them the faster peoples’ fears can be laid to rest. And also of course the sooner this fraud can be sent back to whatever desert he emerged from, if he is not executed, that is.”

“You have allowed him to upset you, John.” Aurelius observed. “Is it possible he is simply seeking to take advantage of some strange but natural occurrence that happened to kill those unfortunate stylites?”

John shook his head. “I think not, and considering the size of the crowd gathered around him, I wish I were already back on the other side of the water looking for the person who is really responsible.”

Aurelius’ gaze moved to the glittering waters of the Golden Horn and the city beyond. He too wished he were back there, if only to be spared the painful jolting of this seemingly endless ride.

“For all our sakes, I hope you’re right, John,” he said. “Yet despite my own religious inclinations I do wish the man possessed the powers he claims because the miracle he claimed for me would be exceedingly welcome, to say the least. But as to your investigation, didn’t you mention Felix was continuing in your absence? Certainly he is a capable and trustworthy man. Perhaps he will have some information for you by the time we arrive back.”

“True enough, Aurelius. As you say, investigations are proceeding in good hands.”