Two for Joy (8 page)

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.”

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.”