Videssos Cycle, Volume 1 (27 page)

But Helvis did have a reply, and one so apt Marcus felt like a blockhead for not finding it himself. “What of Balsamon?” she asked. “He strikes me as a good man, and one the Videssians listen to.”

“The Cocksures’ patriarch?” Soteric said incredulously. “Any Videssian
blue-robe would send us all to the eternal ice before he’d lift a finger for us.”

“Of most of them I would say that’s true, but Balsamon has a different feel to him. He’s never harassed us, you know,” Helvis said.

“Your sister’s right, I think,” Marcus said to Soteric. He told him of the startling tolerance the prelate of Videssos had shown in the Emperor’s chambers.

“Hmm,” Soteric said. “It’s easy enough to be tolerant in private. Will he do it when it counts? There’s the rub.” He rose to his feet. “Well, what are the two of you waiting for? We’d best find out—myself, I’ll believe it when I hear it.”

The ruthless energy Soteric had wanted to turn on Videssos now was bent against his sister and the tribune. Helvis paused only to pick up her son—“Come on, Malric, we’re going to see someone.”—and Marcus not at all, but they were not quick enough to suit Soteric. Scoffing at Helvis’ idea at the same time as he pushed it forward, her brother had her and Scaurus out of the Namdalener barracks, out of the palace complex, and into the hurly-burly of the city almost before the Roman could blink.

The patriarchal residence was in the northern central part of Videssos, on the grounds of Phos’ High Temple. The Roman had not cared to visit that, but some of his men who had taken to Phos marveled at its splendor. The High Temple’s spires, topped with their gilded domes, were visible throughout the city; the only problem in reaching them was picking the proper path through Videssos’ maze of roads, lanes, and alleys. Soteric led the way with assurance.

More by what did not happen than by what did, Marcus got the feel of how unwelcome foreigners had become in the capital. It was as if the city dwellers were trying to pretend they did not exist. No merchant came rushing out of his shop to importune them, no peddler approached to ply his wares, no small boy came up to offer to lead them to his father’s hostel. The tribune wryly remembered how annoyed he had been at not achieving anonymity after his fight with Avshar. Now he had it, and found he did not want it.

Malric was entranced by the colors, sounds, and smells of the city, so different from and so much more exciting than the barracks he was used to. Half the time he walked along among Helvis, Soteric, and Marcus,
doing his short-legged best to keep up; they carried him the rest of the way, passing him from one to the next. His three constant demands were, “Put me down,” “Pick me up,” and, most of all, “What’s that?” Everything drew the last query: a piebald horse, a painter’s scaffold, a prostitute of dubious gender.

“Good question,” Soteric chuckled as the quean sauntered past. His nephew was not listening—a scrawny black puppy with floppy ears had stolen his interest.

The High Temple of Phos sat in lordly solitude at the center of a large enclosed courtyard. Like the arena by the palace complex, it was one of the city’s main gathering points. At need, lesser priests would speak to the masses assembled outside the Temple while the prelate addressed the smaller, more select audience within.

The residence of the patriarchs of Videssos stood just outside the courtyard. It was a surprisingly unassuming structure; many moderately wealthy traders had larger, more palatial quarters. But the modest building had a feeling of perpetuity to it that the houses of the newly wealthy could not hope to imitate. The very pine trees set round it were gnarled and twisted with age, yet still green and growing.

Coming from young Rome, whose history was little more than legend even three centuries before his own time, Marcus had never quite gotten over the awe Videssos’ long past raised in him. To him, the ancient but vigorous trees were a good metaphor for the Empire as a whole.

When he said that aloud, Soteric laughed mirthlessly, saying, “So they are, for they look as if the first good storm would tear them out by the roots.”

“They’ve weathered a few to come this far,” Marcus said. Soteric brushed the comment away with a wave of his hand.

The door opened before them; a high-ranking ecclesiastic was ushering out a Videssian noble in white linen trousers and a tunic of lime-green silk. “I trust his Sanctity was able to help you, my lord Dragatzes?” the priest asked courteously.

“Yes, I think so,” Dragatzes replied, but his black-browed scowl was not encouraging. He strode past Marcus, Helvis, and Soteric without seeming to notice them.

Nor did the priest pay them any heed until his gaze, which was following
Dragatzes’ retreating back, happened to fall on them. “Is there something I can do to help you?” he said. His tone was doubtful; Helvis and her brother were easy to recognize as Namdaleni, while Marcus himself looked more like a man of the Duchy than a Videssian. There was no obvious reason for folk such as them to visit the head of a faith they did not share.

And even after Marcus asked to speak with Balsamon, the priest at the door made no move to step aside. “As you must know, his Sanctity’s calendar is crowded. Tomorrow would be better, or perhaps the next day …” Go away and don’t bother coming back, Marcus translated.

“Who is it, Gennadios?” the patriarch’s voice came from inside the residence. A moment later he appeared beside the other priest, clad not in his gorgeous patriarchal regalia but in a none too clean monk’s robe of simple blue wool. Catching sight of the four outside his door, he let loose his rich chuckle. “Well, well, what have we here? A heathen and some heretics, to see me? Most honored, I am sure. Come in, I beg of you.” He swept past the spluttering Gennadios to wave them forward.

“But, your Sanctity, in a quarter hour’s time you are to see—” Gennadios protested, but the patriarch cut him off.

“Whoever it is, he’ll wait. This is a fascinating riddle, don’t you think, Gennadios? Why should unbelievers care to see me? Perhaps they wish to convert to our usages. That would be a great gain for Phos’ true faith, don’t you think? Or perhaps they’ll convert
me
—and wouldn’t that be a scandal, now?”

Gennadios gave his superior a sour look, clearly finding his humor in questionable taste. Soteric was staring at the patriarch in disbelief, Helvis in delight. Marcus had to smile, too; remembering his last meeting with Balsamon, he knew how much the prelate relished being outrageous.

Malric was in his mother’s arms. As she walked by Balsamon, her son reached out for two good handsful of the patriarchal beard. Helvis stopped instantly, as much in alarm at what Balsamon might do as to keep him from being tugged with her.

Her fright must have shown, for the patriarch laughed out loud. “You know, my dear, I don’t eat children—at least not lately.” He gently detached Malric’s hands from their hold. “You thought I was an old billy
goat, didn’t you?” he said, poking the boy in the ribs. “Didn’t you?” Malric nodded, laughing in delight.

“What’s your name, son?” the patriarch asked.

“Malric Hemond’s son,” Malric answered clearly.

“Hemond’s son?” The smile slipped from Balsamon’s face. “That was a bad business, a very bad business indeed. You must be Helvis, then,” he said to Malric’s mother. As she nodded, Marcus was impressed—not for the first time—with the patriarch’s knowledge and memory of detail. Balsamon turned to Helvis’ brother. “I don’t think I know you, sir.”

“No reason you should,” Soteric agreed. “I’m Soteric Dosti’s son; Helvis is my sister.”

“Very good,” Balsamon nodded. “Come with me, all of you. Gennadios, do tell my next visitor I’ll be somewhat delayed, won’t you?”

“But—” Realizing the uselessness of any protest he might make, Gennadios gave a sharp, short nod.

“My watchdog,” Balsamon sighed as he led his visitors to his chambers. “Strobilos set him on me years ago, to keep an eye on me. I suppose Mavrikios would take him away if I asked, but somehow I’ve never bothered.”

“It must amuse you to bait the ill-humored fool, besides,” Soteric said. Marcus had thought the same thing, but not in the cruel way the Namdalener said it.

Helvis laid her hand on her brother’s arm, but Balsamon did not seem disturbed. “He’s right, you know,” the patriarch told her. He looked musingly at Soteric, murmuring, “Such a pretty boy, to have such sharp teeth.” Soteric flushed; Marcus was reminded that the patriarch could care for himself in any battle of wits.

Balsamon’s audience room was even more crowded with books than Apsimar’s had been back at Imbros, and far less orderly in the bargain. Volumes leaned drunkenly against the shabby chairs that looked like castoffs from the Academy’s refectory. Others jammed shelves, swallowed tables, and did their best to make couches unusable for mere human beings.

Peeping out from the few spaces parchment did not cover was a swarm of ivories, some no bigger than a fingernail, others the size of a big
man’s arm. They were comical, ribald, stately, furious, what have you, and all carved with a rococo extravagance of line alien to the Videssian art Scaurus had come to know.

“You’ve spied my vice, I fear,” Balsamon said, seeing the tribune’s eye roam from one figurine to the next, “and another, I admit unjust, cause for my resentment against Yezd. These are all the work of the Kingdom of Makuran that was; under its new masters, the craft does not flourish. Not much does, save only hatred.

“But you didn’t come to hear me speak of ivories,” the patriarch said, clearing things enough for them to sit. “Or if you did, I may indeed become a Gambler, from sheer gratitude.” As usual, what would have been a provoking name in another’s mouth came without offense from his. His hands spread in a gesture of invitation. “What do you think I can do for you?”

Helvis, Soteric, and Marcus looked at each other, none of them anxious to begin. After a few seconds of silence, Soteric took the plunge, blunt as always. “We’ve had reports the people of Videssos are thinking of violence against us because of our faith.”

“That would be unfortunate, particularly for you,” Balsamon agreed. “What am I to do about it? And why ask me to do anything, for that matter? Why should I? After all, I am hardly of your faith.” He pointed at the patriarchal robe draped untidily over a chair.

Soteric drew in a breath to damn the prelate for being the stiff-necked fool he’d thought him, but Helvis caught the gleam of amusement in Balsamon’s eye her brother missed. She, too, waved at the crumpled regalia. “Surely your flock respects the office you hold, if nothing else,” she said sweetly.

Balsamon threw back his head and laughed till the tears came, clutching his big belly with both hands until his wheezes subsided. “One forgets what a sharp blade irony has—until stuck with it, that is,” he said, still chuckling. “Yes, of course I’ll pour water on the hotheads; I’ll give them ecumenism enough to choke on. For your presumption, if nothing else, you deserve that much. We have worse enemies than those who could be our friends.”

The patriarch turned his sharp black stare on Marcus. “What are you, the silent partner in this cabal?”

“If you like.” Unlike either of the Namdaleni, Scaurus had no intention of being drawn into a verbal duel with Balsamon, knowing it could only have one outcome.

Helvis thought he had little to say out of modesty, not policy, and came to his defense. “Marcus brought us word of trouble brewing,” she said.

“You have good sources, my quiet friend,” Balsamon told the Roman, “but then I already know that, don’t I? I thought that was your role here—it’s too soon for externs like the islanders to have caught the smell of riot. I haven’t been working on this sermon more than a day or two myself.”

“What?” Marcus shouted, jolted from the calm he’d resolved to maintain. Soteric and Helvis simply gaped. Malric had been almost asleep in his mother’s arms; startled by the sudden noise, he began to cry. Helvis calmed him automatically, but most of her attention was still on Balsamon.

“Give me some credit for wits, my young friends.” The patriarch smiled. “It’s a poor excuse for a priest who doesn’t know what his people are thinking. More than a few have called me a poor excuse for a priest, but that was never why.”

He rose, escorting his astounded guests to a door different from the one they’d used to enter. “It would be best if you left this way,” he said. “Gennadios was right, as he all too often is—I do have another visitor coming soon, one who might blink at the company some of you keep.”

Thick hedges screened the side door from the front of the patriarchal residence. Peering through the greenery, Marcus saw Gennadios bowing to Thorisin Gavras. Balsamon was right—the Sevastokrator would not be pleased to see the tribune with two Namdaleni.

“Right?” Soteric exclaimed when Scaurus remarked on it. The islander was still shaking his head in wonder. “Is he ever wrong?”

The tribune elbowed his way through the thick-packed crowd surrounding Phos’ High Temple. In his hand was a small roll of parchment entitling him to one of the coveted seats within the Temple itself to hear the patriarch Balsamon’s address. A priest had delivered it to the Roman
barracks the day before; it was sealed with the sky-blue wax that was the prerogative of the patriarch alone.

In his outland gear, Marcus drew some hard looks from the Videssians he pushed by. A disproportionate number of them seemed to be city toughs of the sort Scaurus had seen on the day he first met Phostis Apokavkos. They did not take kindly to foreigners at the best of times, but the sight of the Roman’s blue-sealed pass was evidence enough for them that he stood high in the regard of their well-loved prelate, and he had no real trouble making headway.

Videssian soldiers at the bottom of the broad stairways leading up the Temple kept the mob from crowding rightful seatholders out of their pews. They were nonplussed to find a mercenary captain with a token of admission, but stood aside to let him pass. At the top of the stairs a priest relieved him of his parchment and lined through his name on a roll of expected attenders. “May the words of our patriarch enlighten you,” the priest said.