The Blood of Alexandria (31 page)

‘Sir,’ their officer said in the rough Latin still used in some units of the Army, ‘can I suggest a detour?’ He pointed at the narrowing street ahead. ‘I don’t like the look of those high buildings. They’re ambush territory.’

‘We’ll have to risk it,’ I said. I looked again at the directions Macarius had given me. I agreed those dark, upper windows looked dodgy. A good hail of stones from up there, and we’d be hard put to fight off a determined attack from the ground. But I also knew we’d be lost in a moment once we moved off the path laid down for us. Macarius knew these people and their part of the town. I’d have to trust his judgement of where was and wasn’t safe. I drew my own sword and laid it on the table built into the carrying chair. It had a reassuring look as it glittered in the sunlight that streamed down past the canopy over my head.

‘My Lord is earlier than expected,’ the Deacon said apologetically as the courtyard gate swung shut behind us. With two inches of wood now to muffle the sound, I could barely hear the rush and bustle of the street outside.

I nodded and stepped down from the chair. The Deacon and his secretary bowed low before me. Priests and monks scurried about their business under the colonnade. After the rising uneasiness out in the streets, it was pleasantly quiet and familiar. Except the whispered language around me wasn’t Greek or Latin, I might have been within one of the larger Church buildings anywhere in the Empire.

‘If My Lord would come this way,’ he added, motioning towards a door that led in from the colonnade.

At first, all was dark within. I bowed instinctively to avoid knocking my head on the lintel. As my eyes adjusted, I could see that, after the first two rooms, we were in a longish corridor. It must have run the entire length of the church. Again, it was all much as I’d expected. I really might have been in one of the middling churches in Constantinople. The only difference was that, mingled with the incense was the smell of something foul. It was the sort of thing you came across in hospitals or prisons.

A few yards more and I found out the cause of the smell. About halfway down the corridor, just before an icon of Saint Antony of the Desert, there was a pool of vomit. I could now see quite well in the gloom. Even so, I nearly stepped in it. The Deacon hissed something in Egyptian at one of the church slaves, who was waiting politely for us to pass. The man pulled out a large cloth and fell to his knees by the pool. As he splashed it over himself, the smell drifted up still stronger of stomach juices and rotting fish.

‘His Holiness is guarded this month by the Sisters of Saint Artemisia,’ the Deacon said as if that explained matters.

I gave him a non-committal look.

‘She was the daughter-in-law of an Emperor,’ he went on, guessing I hadn’t understood the significance. ‘It was in the time of darkness before the True Faith was established in the world. She was a beauteous yet abandoned woman, sunk in every vice of the Imperial Court. She put these things behind her when she, with her husband, was converted to the Faith. Thereafter, she grew famous throughout the still forbidden Church for the strictness of her observances. As often as she was compelled to attend the banquets of sinful luxury, she would purge herself out of solidarity with the starving poor of the Empire.

‘To this day, the Sisters of Her Order maintain the custom. They are permitted to eat only enough to maintain their efficiency. If inadvertently, or through weakness of the flesh, one morsel above this is permitted to pass their lips, they are required to purge themselves and eat no more for three days. During this time, they must abase themselves with lack of sleep and piercings of the flesh and other holy penances.’

I paid no attention to the rest of his narrative. I’d known the woman by her Latin name, and it was all coming back. She’d died in some overturning of her chair as it was carried too fast down the street. The event itself was unclear, and several mutually exclusive miracle stories had fastened themselves almost at once to it. It was a happy day for the Empire – if not for the Church, which now had to wait for Constantine to come along and convert – that her father-in-law had outlived her equally if differently insane husband.

I was seated and left alone in a small office that I supposed was near the main body of the church. The neat desk and the racks bulging with correspondence reminded me of the Dispensator’s office in Rome. Joyous times those had been – I didn’t think – when he’d called me in there to charge me with one of his ‘little missions’. They were never small, and they’d usually involved me in escapes from death by the skin of my teeth. As often as Martin could be bullied or tricked into joining me, they’d involved me in some very hard moments with Sveta. It was with one of these that he’d tricked us into the journey to Constantinople. That hadn’t ended, I thought with a smile, entirely as he’d expected. Recollections of that meeting with him on my last visit to the Lateran Place could cheer me at the lowest moments.

Deep inside the church, there was a late service still taking place. I could hear the chanted responses. They weren’t in Greek, but the translation had kept the Greek rhythms well enough for me to follow whereabouts the service had reached. Closer by, there was a Sunday school in progress. In high, clear voices, the boys all together read their lesson from the board. Again, I could just follow what they were reading. The few Greek words placed strategically, and the proper names given at the right intervals, told me it was the trial of Saint Paul from the Acts of the Apostles.

There was no wine on the tray of refreshments left beside me. Most welcome, though – bearing in mind how worn out I was feeling from all that sun – was the very hot, sweetened kava juice. I drank the liquid straight down from the jug. I went back to listening. Yes, the boys had reached what could only be the verse ‘Then said Agrippa unto Festus, This man might have been set at liberty, if he had not appealed unto Caesar.’ I might not believe a word of it. Even so, I knew my Scripture backwards.

I felt a sudden tremor of interest in learning Egyptian. It might come in handy for the journey to and my stay around Soteropolis. It couldn’t be that hard to learn. The hardest language to learn is always the second, and I was now fluent in seven. And if the Egyptian versions of Scripture were as faithful as they seemed, I’d have a wondrously smooth key to the language. I might not even need a tutor.

I drifted into thoughts of how much I could get of the language in private between now and Soteropolis. It might not do to let anyone else know what I was about. If I had to set up a miracle, it would be handy to know something of what the natives were saying to each other under my nose. I could probably get the texts I needed out of Hermogenes. I’d be seeing him anyway in the next day or so.

I twisted round and looked at the icon of Saint Mark hanging above the door. It was in exactly the same style as the one Martin had bought and set up in his office. The only difference was that the text wasn’t in Greek. A new and uneasy thought came into my mind. Back in Constantinople, Sergius and I had worked on the assumption that a settlement of the Monophysite dispute would solve most of our troubles with the non-Greek Churches in the Empire. Sitting here, I wasn’t so sure. This wasn’t like in the West, where orthodox and heretic Churches all worked in Latin, and a switch to orthodoxy meant very little in practice. The native Churches here were in worlds of their own. They didn’t know Constantinople. They didn’t need Constantinople. They were almost like ripe figs dangling from a tree. They could drop off at any moment. If they rotted where they fell, that was their problem. It might even be good for the tree.

Was Egypt a problem for the Empire, I asked myself, because it was heretical? Or was its heresy part of a deeper problem? Suppose we gave in, and accepted the whole Monophysite case: would that be an end of the matter in Egypt? Or would the Egyptians only find another trifling point of difference to justify their steady drift out of the Greek orbit? I thought of my conversations with Lucas. I’d think more about this when I wrote another of my coded reports to Sergius.

I’d just finished crunching on the residue of the smashed-up beans when the door opened.

‘Let the ground be kissed where His Holiness cares to stand,’ the Deacon called in his flat Greek.

I stood up and bowed respectfully as Anastasius, Monophysite and so-called Patriarch of Alexandria, walked in. Still dressed in full canonicals, he’d come, I could see, straight from Sunday service.

Chapter 31

‘Do please be seated, My Lord,’ the Heretical Patriarch said once the door was closed again and we were alone. He took off the jewelled episcopal crown of a kind I’d only ever seen the Pope wearing – both Sergius and John wore rather modest copes: then again, no one doubted
their
status as patriarchs – and put it heavily on the desk. As he struggled to reach back for the ties securing the immense brocade of his robe, I jumped up and helped. Together, we managed to get him down to something that approached sensible clothing in this climate.

A small, bearded man of about fifty, Anastasius finally took his place behind the desk. He had none of the scowling, broody manner fashionable among priests who looked other than to Rome. His face bordering on the jolly, he might, indeed, have been a Western cleric. Untouched by the sun, his face had no more than the sallow appearance of every Mediterranean race. He looked at the now empty kava jug. Before I could speak, he leaned forward and looked closely at me.

‘I had a letter the other day from Constantinople,’ he said. ‘My dear Brother in Christ Sergius sent what I am happy to regard as friendly greetings to me, and therefore to the whole Church of Egypt.’

I didn’t bother saying that I’d been sent a copy of the letter. Certainly, I didn’t question his claim to leadership of the national Church. Back in Constantinople, Sergius had assured me – and I’d seen no reason here to correct him – that Anastasius was accepted by somewhere between a third and half of the Egyptian Monophysites. He mattered for our purposes because that included almost everyone in and around Alexandria. The further you went into Egypt, though, the crazier and more independent the heretics became.

‘I have not spoken this month with John, the – ah – Imperial Patriarch of Alexandria,’ he added. ‘But please do convey to him all my brotherly love.’

I nodded faintly in reply. This was an informal visit. But if, for a generation past, the viceroys had left off persecuting the official heretics – and even gave the Heretical Patriarch a degree of recognition – I was still sitting opposite a man who, in strict law, was a criminal. If it was out of the question to treat him as a criminal, it was barely less so to acknowledge the status he was impliedly claiming.

‘Your Grace,’ I opened – the man was undeniably a valid bishop of the Church, and the form of address was ambiguous enough to cover the more deniable claim – ‘I am grateful for your being able to see me at such short notice. I am here on business that you may find surprising, but that has become of considerable importance to the Empire.’

‘Your Magnificence,’ Anastasius replied – he paused and laughed softly, though at what he laughed was as ambiguous as the form of address I’d used – ‘your visit, though welcome, is anything but a surprise. There is very little in Alexandria that escapes my notice. If my dear Brother in Christ John could bring himself to sup with me more often, we two patriarchs could be known, here and throughout Egypt, as the two eyes of the Church.’

He paused again as there was a knock at the door. A monk entered with a pile of letters. I looked up briefly, and then looked again. Even before the guttural conversation opened, I knew there was something odd. Then it hit me: the unmistakable smell of unwashed menstrual discharge. The monk looked male enough. There was even a thoroughly unclerical though empty scabbard on display. But this was a nun.

‘The Sisters of Saint Artemisia are a military order,’ Anastasius explained to me. ‘With the present state of things in Alexandria, I find their term of duty here a great support.’ He switched back into Egyptian and was lost for the moment in some kind of directions.

I continued looking at the nun. Her face was turned away from me. For her shape and general bearing, she really might have been a man. Except among the wilder barbarians, I’d never seen armed women, and I did nothing to keep the shocked look off my face.

‘I may have the respect of the natives,’ Anastasius added with a smile at my face. ‘Do not suppose on that account I have their practical leadership.’ He spoke again to the woman. She bowed and went silently out.

‘You have been in Alexandria just over four months,’ he reopened once we were alone. ‘You were sent here from Constantinople, without any of our language and without any understanding of our ways. You came to impose a new settlement on the land that has much to commend it in the abstract, and that I can hope will, on the Last Day, set off what I believe to be considerable derelictions elsewhere in your attitude to the Faith. But it is a settlement not suited to the ways of our land.