Sailing to Sarantium (64 page)

Then, into such stillness in the cold night, came speech. The birds
on the grass, and yet not them. Voices of women were heard in the
air, in the darkness, soft as leaves, women who had died here, long
ago.

Do you hate him?

Now? Look what has been done to him.

Not only now. Ever. Before. I never did.

A quiet again, for a time. Time meant little here, was hard to
compass, unless by the stars slipping from sight as they moved, when
they could be seen.

Nor I.

Nor I. Should we have?

How so?

Truly. How so?

And
only look
, said Linon then, her first
words, who had been first of them to be claimed and to return,
look
how he has paid.

He
wasn't afraid, though, was he?
Tiresa.

Yes,
he was
, said Linon. A breath in the
stillness.
He isn't, any more.

Where is he? Mirelle.

No one answered that.

Where are we to go? asked Mirelle.

Ah.
That I do know. We are there already. We are gone. Only say goodbye
and we are gone,
said Linon.

Goodbye,
then
, said Tiresa. Falcon.

Goodbye
,
whispered Mirelle.

One by one they bade farewell to each other, rustling words in the
dark air as the souls took leave. At the end, Linon was alone, who
had been first of all, and in the quiet of the grove she said the
last words to the man lying beside her in the grass, though he could
not hear her now, and then she spoke something more in the dark, more
tender than a farewell, and then at last her bound soul accepted its
release, so long denied.

And so that hidden knowledge and those transmuted souls passed from
the created world where men and women lived and died, and the birds
of Zoticus the alchemist were not seen or known again under sun or
moons. Except for one.

When autumn came round again, in a mortal world greatly changed by
then, those coming at dawn on the Day of the Dead to perform the
ancient, forbidden rites found no dead man, no crafted birds in the
grass. There was a staff, and an empty pack with a leather strap, and
they wondered at those. One man took the staff, another the pack,
when they were done with what they had come there to do.

Those two, as it happened, were to know good fortune all their days,
afterwards, and then their children did, who took the staff and the
pack when they died, and then their children's children.

There were powers greater than royalty in the world.

 

'I should be exceedingly grateful,' said the cleric Maximius,
principal adviser to the Eastern Patriarch, 'if someone would explain
to us why a cow so absurdly large is to be placed on the dome of the
Sanctuary of Jad's Holy Wisdom. What does this Rhodian think he is
about?'

There was a brief silence, worthy of the arch, acidic tones in which
the comment had been made.

'I believe,' said the architect Artibasos gravely, after a glance at
the Emperor, 'that the animal might be a bull, in fact.'

Maximius sniffed. 'I am, of course, entirely happy to defer to your
knowledge of the farmyard. The question remains, however.'

The Patriarch, in a cushioned seat with a back, allowed himself a
small smile behind his white beard. The Emperor remained
expressionless.

'Deference becomes you,' said Artibasos, mildly enough. 'It might be
worth cultivating. It is customary-except perhaps among clerics-to
have opinions preceded by knowledge.'

This time it was Valerius who smiled. It was late at night. Everyone
knew the Emperor's hours, and Zakarios, the Eastern Patriarch, had
long since made his adjustments to them. The two men had negotiated a
relationship built around an unexpected personal affection and the
real tension between their offices and roles. The latter tended to
play itself out in the actions and statements of their associates.
This, too, had evolved over the years. Both men were aware of it.

Excepting the servants and two yawning Imperial secretaries standing
by in the shadows, there were five men in the room-a chamber in the
smaller Traversite Palace-and they had each, at some point, spent a
measure of time examining the drawings that had brought them here.
The mosaicist was not here. It was not proper that he be present for
this. The fifth man, Pertennius of Eubulus, secretary to the Supreme
Strategos, had been making notes as he studied the sketches. Not a
surprise: the historian's mandate here was to chronicle the Emperor's
building projects, and the Great Sanctuary was the crown jewel among
them.

Which made the preliminary drawings for the proposed dome mosaics of
extreme significance, both aesthetic and theological.

Zakarios, behind his thick, short, steepled fingers, shook his head
as a servant offered wine. 'Bull or cow,' he said, 'it is unusual.. .
much of the design is unusual. You will agree, my lord?' He adjusted
the ear flap of his cap. He was aware that the unusual headgear with
its dangling chin strings did no favours to his appearance, but he
was past the age when such things mattered and was rather more
concerned with the fact that it was not yet winter and he was already
cold all the time, even indoors.

'One could hardly fail to agree,' Valerius murmured. He was clad in a
dark blue wool tunic and the new style of trousers, belted, tucked
into black boots. Working garb, no crown, no jewels. Of all those in
the room, he was the only one who seemed oblivious to the hour. The
blue moon was well over to the west, above the sea by now. 'Would we
have preferred a more 'usual' design for this Sanctuary?'

'This dome serves a holy purpose,' the Patriarch said firmly. 'The
images thereon-at the very summit of the Sanctuary-are to inspire the
devout to pious thoughts. This is not a mortal palace, my lord, it is
an evocation of the palace of Jad.'

'And you feel,' said Valerius, 'that the proposal of the Rhodian is
deficient in this regard? Really?' The question was pointed.

The Patriarch hesitated. The Emperor had an unsettling habit of
posing such blunt queries, cutting past detail to the larger issue.
The fact was, the charcoal sketches of the proposed mosaic were
astonishing. There really was no other simple word for it, or none
that came to the Patriarch's mind at this late hour.

Well, one other word: humbling.

That was good he thought. Wasn't it? The dome crowned a sanctuary-a
house-meant to honour the god, as a palace housed and exalted a
mortal ruler. The god's exaltation ought to be greater, for the
Emperor was merely his Regent upon earth. Jad's messenger was the
last voice they heard when they died:
Uncrown, the lord of
Emperors awaits you now.

For worshippers to feel awe, sweep, immense power above them .. .

'The design is remarkable,' Zakarios said frankly-it was risky to be
less than direct with Valerius. He settled his fingers in his lap.
'It is also . . . disturbing. Do we want the faithful to be uneasy in
the god's house?'

'I don't even know where I am when I look at this,' Maximius said
plaintively, striding over to the broad table surface where
Pertennius of Eubulus was standing over the drawings.

'You are in the Traversite Palace,' said the little architect,
Artibasos, helpfully. Maximius flashed him a glance etched in
rancour.

'What do you mean?' Zakarios asked. His principal adviser was an
officious, bristling, literal-minded man, but good at what he did.

'Well, look,' said Maximius. 'We are to imagine ourselves standing
beneath this dome, within the Sanctuary. But lying along the ... I
suppose the eastern rim, the Rhodian is showing what is obviously the
City . . . and he is showing the Sanctuary itself, seen from a
distance ..."

'As if from the sea, yes,' said Valerius quietly.

'... and so we will be inside the Sanctuary but must imagine
ourselves to be looking at it from a distance. It... it gives me a
headache,' concluded Maximius firmly. He touched his brow, as if to
emphasize the pain. Pertennius gave him a sidelong glance.

There was a little silence again. The Emperor looked at Artibasos.
The architect said, with unexpected patience, 'He is showing us the
City within a larger meaning. Sarantium, Queen of Cities, glory of
the world, and in such an image the Sanctuary is present, as it must
be, along with the Hippodrome, the Precinct palaces, the landward
walls, the harbour, the boats in the harbour ..."

'But,' said Maximius, a finger stabbing upwards, 'with all respect to
our glorious Emperor, Sarantium is the glory of this world, whereas
the house of the god honours the worlds above the world ... or
should.' He looked back at the Patriarch, as if for approval.

'What is above it?' the Emperor asked softly.

Maximius turned quickly. 'My lord? I beg your . . . above?'

'Above the City, cleric. What is there?'

Maximius swallowed.

'Jad is, my lord Emperor,' said Pertennius the historian, answering.
The secretary's tone was detached, the Patriarch thought, as if he'd
really rather not be forced to participate in any of this. Only to
chronicle it. Nonetheless, what he had said was true.

Zakarios could see the drawings from where he sat. The god was indeed
above Sarantium, magnificent and majestic in his solar chariot,
riding up like sunrise, straight on, unimpeachably bearded in the
eastern fashion. Zakarios had half expected to protest a prettily
golden western image here, but the Rhodian had not done that. Jad on
this dome was dark and stern, as the eastern worshippers knew him,
filling one side of the dome, nearly to the crown of it. It would be
a glory if it could be achieved.

'Jad is, indeed,' said Valerius the Emperor. 'The Rhodian shows our
City in majesty-the New Rhodias, as Saranios named it in the
beginning and intended it to be-and above it, where he must be and
always is, the artisan gives us the god.' He turned to Zakarios. 'My
lord Patriarch, what confusing message is there in this? What will a
weaver or a shoemaker or a soldier beneath this image take to his
heart, gazing up?'

'There is more, my lord,' added Artibasos quietly. 'Look to the
western rim of the dome, where he shows us Rhodias in ruins-a
reminder of how fragile the achievements of mortal men must be. And
see how all along the northern curve we will have the world the god
has made in all its splendour and variety: men and women, farms,
roads, small children, animals of all kinds, birds, hills, forests.
Imagine these sketched trees as an autumn forest, my lords, as the
notes suggest. Imagine the leaves in colour overhead, lit by lanterns
or the sun. That bull is a part of that, a part of what Jad has made,
just as is the sea sweeping along the southern side of the dome
towards the City. My lord Emperor, my lord Patriarch, the Rhodian is
proposing to offer us, in mosaic, upon my dome, a rendering of so
much of the world, the god's world, that I am ... I find it
overwhelming, I confess.'

His voice trailed away. Pertennius, the historian, gave him a curious
look. No one spoke immediately. Even Maximius was still. Zakarios
drew a hand through his beard and looked across at the Emperor. They
had known each other a long time.

'Overwhelming,' the Patriarch echoed, claiming the word for himself.
'Is it too ambitious?'

And saw he'd hit a sore point. Valerius looked directly at him a
moment, then shrugged. 'He has sketched it, undertakes to achieve it
if we give him the men and material.' He shrugged. 'I can cut off his
hands and blind him if he fails.'

Pertennius glanced over at that, his thin features betraying no
expression, then back to the sketches, which he'd been continuing to
study.

'A question, if I may?' he murmured. 'Is it... unbalanced, my lords?
The god is always at the centre of a dome. But here Jad and the City
are to the east, the god mounting up that side towards the apex ...
but there is nothing to match him to the west. It is almost as if the
design ... requires a figure on the other side.'

'He will give us a sky,' said Artibasos, walking over. 'Earth, sea,
and sky. The notes describe a sunset, west, over Rhodias. Imagine
that, with colours.'

'Even so, I see a difficulty,' said Leontes's long-faced scribe. He
laid a manicured finger on the charcoal sketch. 'With respect, my
lords, you might suggest he put something here. More, um, well...
something. Balance. For as we all know, balance is everything to the
virtuous man.' He looked pious, briefly, pursing his thin lips
together.

Some pagan philosopher or other had probably said that, Zakarios
thought sourly. He didn't like the historian. The man seemed to be
always present, watching, giving nothing away.

'That,' said Maximius, a little too petulantly, 'might be so, but it
does nothing to ease my headache, I can tell you that.'

'And we are all very grateful,' said the Emperor softly, 'to be told
that, cleric.'

Maximius flushed beneath his black beard and then, seeing Valerius's
icy expression, which did not sort with his mild tone, went pale. It
was too easy to forget, sometimes, with the easy manners and open
nature the Emperor displayed, Zakarios thought, sympathizing with his
aide, how Valerius had brought his uncle to the throne and how he had
kept it, himself.

The Patriarch intervened. 'I am prepared to say that I am content. We
find no heresies here. The god is honoured and the City's earthly
glory is properly shown to lie beneath Jad's protection. If the
Emperor and his advisers are pleased we will approve this design on
behalf of the god's clergy and bless the doing and the completing of
it.'