Two for Joy

Chapter Six

Philo was questioning yet another of the pilgrims among the crowd milling around the base of the column which had until recently been home to Matthew the Pure.

“Why, I was standing here on this very spot, as the Lord is my witness,” declared the pilgrim, a middle-aged man with weather-reddened skin, an unkempt beard and a cast in one eye. It seemed to Philo that the grubby traveler had looked flattered to be asked for assistance by such an obviously learned gentleman as he.

“I’d just arrived,” the pilgrim went on, “having come all the way from Galatia. At least when I get home I shall certainly have a story to tell, no doubt about that. But I never heard Matthew preach!” he added petulantly.

“Just as well,” declared a nearby crooked-nosed man leaning heavily on a stick. “You have seen proof of what Matthew’s words were worth, which is to say nothing at all. He was consumed from within by his own evil, just as Michael said!” He began to quote scripture.

Philo sighed. These pilgrims, he had learned, were extremely eloquent on the subject of their beliefs but not overly forthcoming when it came to facts. Nevertheless, it was barely the ninth hour of the day and he had already visited the other two columns whose occupants had died so horribly. He was now completing his self-appointed task in the forum he and John had been passing through at the time of the deaths. He had certainly earned the coins Felix had paid him, he thought smugly. It had not been difficult to convince the gruff excubitor captain that John had recommended that his old mentor assist in the investigation and for only minimal remuneration. Certainly, given the success of his questioning, John would forgive him the small lie.

“Could you tell me what precisely you observed?” Philo asked the Galatian pilgrim, interrupting the nearby man’s droning recitation of sacred verses.

“Just what everyone’s been saying. He was consumed by fire from within. One moment he was looking down over the railing, spreading his arms in benediction, the next he was on fire. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“You mean you think you saw, but you’re half blind,” put in a stout, clean-shaven man who had joined the growing cluster of curious spectators around Philo and his informant. “But what I heard was that a fiery hand reached down out of the clouds.”

“Nonsense!” someone at the back of the group shouted. “I was right here at the time. The flames came out of his fingertips and ran up his arms.”

“The fingertips of what?” inquired another voice. “Matthew’s hand or the hand from the clouds?”

It was no different here than at the other columns. Everyone had seen it happen or had heard in detail about the event, but no one could agree on any of the particulars. Perhaps it was not surprising, thought Philo. He had himself observed no more than anyone else since Matthew had already been on fire when he looked up.

“Do you know anything about Matthew’s life?” Philo changed his line of questioning by contriving to appear a garrulous old gossip.

The pilgrim he addressed inclined his head slightly. “Why, I believe he was from Cappodacia,” he began vaguely. “What he did before he began to preach I couldn’t say. But I did hear that before he journeyed here, he lived in an abandoned church on the road to Pergamom. A cousin of mine lives nearby and he told me about this church. Years ago, it was invaded by demons, so it seems, but Matthew entered it anyway and dared to spend that night and many subsequent nights. For weeks, it seems, the foul beings pelted the church with stones that appeared out of thin air, but finally he vanquished those ghastly beings.” The pilgrim paused thoughtfully and a look of pain crossed his weathered features. “Yet it would seem he was actually having commerce with demons all the while. My wife will be sorely disappointed when she hears about that and I shudder to think what my cousin will say.”

Several of those standing near Philo became engaged in arguments about the origin of the fire, the nature of the stylite and the exact wording of the scriptural verses recently recited. Philo shook his head. These Christians, he thought, could never agree upon anything.

Leaving them to their arguments, Philo paced thoughtfully around the granite column. It was the tallest of the three he had visited. This afternoon there were no baskets of offerings at its base, he noticed. The pilgrims had apparently gathered there out of curiosity or perhaps to share their stories, or possibly because they had undertaken long and arduous journeys with this destination in mind and wanted to rest for a while before returning to their distant homes with an astonishing tale to tell. Philo glanced around idly, not certain what it was that he sought.

The Galatian pilgrim had become embroiled in a loud dispute with the crooked-nosed man who had now apparently lost his need of the stick on which he had been leaning, considering how vigorously he was shaking it at his opponent.

“You question Michael?” shouted the stick waver. “Stand back, sir,” he cautioned Philo, “for this evil one is about to erupt into flames. Move away for your own safety!”

“I was merely wondering about Michael’s choice of sinners to strike down,” countered the florid man hastily. “Matthew’s secret heart may have been blackened with sin, but no-one can dispute that he suffered exposure upon his pillar, while some of his so-called brethren dwell in comfortable huts atop theirs. And,” he added with a sniff of outrage, “Eutropius, as is well known, crawls through a trap door into the hollow of his pillar when darkness falls, there to spend the night well protected from unkind weather.”

“Calumny!” raged the other. “Eutropius has braved the elements day and night these fifteen years!”

“It’s merely thirteen-“

“Stand back, sir!” his opponent addressed Philo. “Guard your fine robe! Can’t you see sparks beginning to emerge from this vile creature’s ears?”

The philosopher could bear no more. He, a man who had spent his life debating the nature of beauty and order, was now cast adrift in a city where zealots came to blows to claim for their particular religious champions the most disgusting cases of extreme physical mortification. It was intolerable.

Still, hawkers in the streets did cook the most succulent piping hot peas, he reminded himself, having just noticed one such vendor on the opposite side of the forum.

After filling his stomach while hardly emptying his purse, Philo decided to abandon his investigation and turn his steps homeward. It was not a long walk to John’s house. He had merely to go past the Church of the Holy Wisdom, a building that was certainly magnificent but, according to John, was not yet consecrated, then by the Baths of Zeuxippos, skirt the wall of the Hippodrome and so into the palace grounds. He would be back in plenty of time for the evening meal. Perhaps Peter had prepared duck again.

Two hours later with the sun already grazing the roofs of the surrounding tenements, Philo was forced to admit to himself that he was lost. He had vainly tried to orient himself by the relentlessly dropping sun, but the streets and alleys he followed obstinately refused to lead him in the proper direction.

He was aware of the narrowness of the peninsula on which Constantinople was located. Simple logic, he told himself, proved that he was either moving in a circle, or had somehow turned inland-west-for otherwise, considering how long he had been walking, he would have already fallen into the sea. Logic, however, refused to reveal to him exactly where he was. And small as it was, Constantinople was enormous compared to the familiar grounds of the Academy with its ordered paths.

At first, from sheer stubbornness, he had refused to ask passersby for assistance. Now, he noted with alarm, he seemed to have wandered into a shabbier quarter. Its few pedestrians had a rough look about them, so since he thought it would be extremely imprudent to reveal himself as a stranger to the city, alone and lost, he kept walking.

The narrow street he was now traversing was rendered prematurely dusky by the overhanging tenements that crowded out the fading daylight. He strode along at the best pace he could muster, fighting off exhaustion and trying to appear confident of his destination rather than terrified. Lining the way there were only the blank walls of the tenements’ lower floors and workshops already closed for the day, or perhaps shut forever, having ceased trading entirely. Looking ahead, he noticed a patch of sunlight where the street opened out on to another forum. He forced his suddenly shaking legs to move faster. Surely, at last, he was coming to some familiar landmark?

But when he emerged into the open space, he found only an empty, weed-infested expanse of flagstones. Atop a dry fountain set in their middle, some forgotten ruler surveyed the surrounding warehouses holding the empire’s children with an imperious and uncaring marble gaze.

Philo had already walked past this fountain once.

Or had he?

Exhausted, he dropped down to sit on its rim, sending a rat skittering away.

Again his thoughts turned to the Academy. He had never expected to be cast out of those ordered and tranquil surroundings into the unruly and dangerous world beyond.

He commanded himself to settle his mind and consider the problem, as if he had become one of his own flighty students. Which had been the last place he had recognized? The Forum Constantine? Well, it was huge and circular and who could mistake the statue of the city’s founder glittering atop its central pillar? He had considered going from there down the Mese, since he knew it would lead him straight to the Great Church.

Why hadn’t he done so? He had been lost for some time before he stumbled into the Forum Constantine. But instead of thanking the gods for their favor, he had chosen instead to insult their kindness by electing to take what he foolishly thought would be a quicker route home. Thus, he had crossed the forum, plunged into an alley, and almost immediately lost his way again.

That moment of decision was so clear in his mind-and so maddeningly irretrievable. If only he could return to that time and rectify his mistake. Well, such was life, he told himself, realizing even as he muttered the words that if he were, indeed, still at the Academy, his erstwhile colleagues would scornfully demolish such a shallow and uninstructive bit of trite philosophizing.

Philo stood up and looked around. Since John’s house was at the eastern end of the city he should be moving away from the sinking sun, which he now realized uneasily he would not have for guidance much longer. He had just started towards one of the streets radiating from the forum, one that seemed to run most nearly in that direction, when three figures appeared.

Their long hair and beards immediately put him in mind of the Persians among whom he had spent his years in exile. However, thanks to John’s recent explanation he now realized that these were not foreigners, but rather fashionable members of the Blue faction.

Had they been following him? These were youths who had no compunction about robbing passersby in the middle of crowded forums, or so John had warned him.

The three Blues paused for a moment. Then one of them pointed toward Philo and called out, “Is it not the old man we were talking to a day or so ago? How fortunate we are to have found you by yourself. Come over here and we can resume the discussion your thin friend so rudely interrupted!”

The man’s words sounded friendly enough, but Philo detected only mocking menace in his tone.

He ran away.

He was much too old to run so hard and a philosopher’s voluminous and intricately draped himation was designed for thinking while pacing in a stately manner, rather than fleeing for one’s life. But he ran anyway, cutting first down one alley and then into another, back and forth, like a rabbit racing before the fox.

He came to a gasping halt in a narrow passageway, closely resembling the others he had passed through by being darkened by overhanging buildings leaning overhead. The sun was now no more than a faint orange glow at its mouth, but at least as he stood trying to quiet his loud, ragged breathing, he could discern no sounds of pursuit.

Futilely he attempted to tuck his disordered robes back into some semblance of orderly neatness. Now that darkness was creeping in ever more quickly, he could think of nothing else to do but seek out some sheltered nook in which he could safely pass the night.

With this in mind, he continued slowly down the passageway, his tired eyes directed toward the rectangle of dimness marking its exit. He did not observe the dark shape huddled against the base of the right hand wall until he was suddenly made aware of it by its sickening stench. Revolted, he glanced down briefly as he scurried by.

But as always, he was ruled by his curiosity and after a few steps onwards, he went back to investigate.

Holding his breath, he bent over the shape.

It was the corpse of a severely burned man.

Philo gagged and backed away. Backed into a barrel chest as hard and unyielding as the dirty walls hemming him in.

He turned and looked up into the curly-bearded face of a huge man, who although doubtless in the process of planning an imminent attack upon Philo, was smiling jovially down at him.

Felix had served the empire on many battlefields, from the forests of his far-off homeland of Germania to the no less dangerous streets of Constantinople. Few doubted his courage. Yet he looked strangely ill at ease lounging on the couch in Isis’ lamp-lit sitting room.

The other occupant, a man even larger than Felix and perching incongruously on a tiny, gold-inlaid stool, took the liberty of pointing out this interesting fact.

“Well, Darius, it’s one thing to visit Isis’ house for pleasure,” Felix growled bluntly, “but quite another when you realize you must make a special visit to inform your friends they’re likely in danger. The streets are becoming worse by the hour, as you well know.”

Although he had always been a military man and thus was accustomed to austerity, Felix had to admit the warmly perfumed room had a certain charm. Here it would be easy to sink into the soft embrace of the couch’s red and gold pillows and let the outside world go to Hades in its own way. The problem was, of course, that the outside world was just as likely to take a detour and march loudly through this cozy sanctuary on its way to that place. He observed as much to Darius.

The other looked thoughtful. “Yes, the world certainly passes through madam’s establishment, but of course it’s usually bent on more pleasant matters than attempting to close it down. And you say that that could well happen if these Michaelites obtain the ear of the emperor?”

“So it seems. Of course, it won’t just be this house that will be shuttered. After all, a place such as this is not everyone’s idea of heaven!” Felix replied straight faced, since he, along with John, Anatolius and a number of others at court were of necessity secret followers of Mithra and Darius well knew it.

The burly captain leaned forward to pluck a small, fragrant apple from the silver bowl set on a small ivory table in front of the couch. He examined the fruit, put it back in the bowl and then looked unhappily around the room.

It had been a long day. He had spoken with numerous officials after a mercifully brief audience with the emperor and as he placed together a rumor heard here with news reported there, adding a scrap of privileged information inadvertently alluded to elsewhere, the picture slowly forming was indeed a frightening one. He was about to say as much to Darius when the door opened and Isis swept in.

Darius rose ponderously to place an upholstered chair for her near the couch. She sank into it in a cloud of perfume and a thankful wave of a beringed hand.

“My dear Felix,” she began, helping herself to an apple. “Let us be blunt. Is it your opinion that Darius and I must now make plans concerning the safety of my house and my girls?”

Felix nodded. “Indeed it is. I was just discussing some general strategies with Darius and he agrees it would be an excellent plan to post two extra guards in the front hall as well as at the door into the back alley. And also I think it might be best to keep your shutters closed and secured at all times.”

Isis grumbled that she would be forced to buy more olive oil for the extra lamps that would thus be rendered necessary. “Still, better the expense than stones through our windows,” she concluded. “Perhaps I should also consider purchasing protection until this latest storm passes. What do you think?”

“The factions may provide such useful services, as they call it although most of us would call it extortion,” replied Felix, “but I doubt that these religious zealots would even consider accepting any such useful financial arrangement.”

“Are they so otherworldly they don’t need a nomisma or two now and then?” Isis wondered. “If so, I fear those of us who are still corporeal may be facing difficult times indeed. But who knows, all this trouble might turn out to be the sort of cloudburst that dies before it’s crossed the city walls.”

“Perhaps, madam,” Darius commented, “but may I also suggest that it would be wise to make such alternative arrangements in case it becomes necessary to abandon this house for a time? Of course, I would be honored to continue guarding you personally for as long as you wish.”

Isis glanced up sharply from cutting her apple with a silver knife. Popping a sliver of fruit into her mouth, she chewed thoughtfully. “Yes, you are quite right,” she finally said. “My girls all have special friends among their clients to whom they could go for temporary shelter if need be. As for myself and Darius, I wonder if I could impose upon John for hospitality if worse comes to worse?”

“I don’t think he would refuse since he has recently opened a hostel for unemployed philosophers,” Darius put in with a jovial smile. “I found one such not far off only an hour or so ago, hopelessly lost, and assisted him in returning safely to John’s house. He talked all the way there!”

Felix uttered a mild oath. “Philo! He wasn’t unemployed today, though, since he was working for me. He told me John had recommended his services. But now I doubt he was able to find much information when he couldn’t even find his way home.”

“I would not say that,” replied Darius. “In fact, he’d just stumbled on a charred corpse.”

“Corpses are a common affliction, I fear.” Isis spoke lightly but her expression betrayed fear. Fire anywhere nearby was a matter of the gravest concern. For every sturdy brick structure that Constantinople boasted, ten shoddy wooden buildings were piled like kindling around splendid forums and public buildings.

“I’ve already notified the Prefect of the discovery,” Darius said.

“Do you think it has something to do with this Michael?” Isis wondered.

“I would hardly think so,” Felix answered. “Why should he or his deity wish to inflict such a death upon some poor soul in an alley?”