Two for Joy (10 page)

“The man started a fire for warmth on a chilly night and fell asleep too close to the flames. It is not uncommon.” John set down his empty cup.

“Now, you were telling me what you learned about the three dead stylites,” he went on. “There was Matthew, who braved the stone-throwing demons in an abandoned church, but what of the other two?” John had been horrified to learn of Philo’s adventure but since the deed was done it seemed best to attempt to derive some benefit from it.

“Well, John,” Philo began eagerly. “I haven’t imparted to you even half of all that I learned. Peter, I must say that these are excellent honey cakes. They remind me that Virgil said that a bee contains a particle of divine intelligence.”

Peter turned away from rearranging utensils and bowls on the kitchen shelves. “If he is correct then you must contain more than a particle of intelligence yourself, sir, because you have partaken much of the work of those intelligent creatures. These cakes are quite tasty, master. Perhaps you should try one.” The look he directed at Philo clearly added “before he eats them all.”

John declined politely. He found it difficult to face food before midday. “You ascertained the other stylites were called Gregory and Luke?”

“That is correct.” Philo studied the platter of cakes before selecting another. “Several of the pilgrims I interviewed knew of Gregory. He was reputedly a small landholder near Tyana. Then one day he was bitten by a snake and fell into a deep trance. His doctors gave him up for dead. Then—you will never guess—a miracle occurred. Isn’t that always the case in these tales? Anyhow, it seems he suddenly awoke but unfortunately he was paralyzed.”

As Philo paused in his narration to take another bite, Peter seized his opportunity. “Wasn’t Gregory the one they carried to a nest of snakes? A friend of mine has taken much comfort from his sermons. He’ll have to find solace at another pillar now.”

Philo frowned. “Your servant, who has so kindly interrupted us, is essentially correct, John. It seems that as soon as Gregory awoke he imparted to his grief-stricken family a vision he had had of a nest of snakes in a certain grove of trees outside the town and requested to be taken there. And when they came to the place they found it to be so, and once among the snakes Gregory miraculously recovered, there was much rejoicing and many hosannas, all that sort of thing. He stayed there, and as word spread he preached with amazing eloquence to multitudes of pilgrims who, of course, kept at a respectful distance although personally I suspect that was more because they could not rely upon another miracle should one of them get bitten.”

“But he who has seen the Lord is armored even against the serpent’s fangs,” Peter put in, making his religion’s mystical sign.

“I prefer your servant’s culinary efforts to his philosophy,” Philo muttered to John.

“Yet if it were not for Matthew’s token, which you administered to me yourself, I would not be here to cook for you,” Peter pointed out sharply.

Philo sniffed. “Yes, well, that was an interesting coincidence, wasn’t it? Perhaps the foulness of the medication revived you? But to resume my tale, after several years’ journey along a regular thoroughfare of vermin-infested caves and ruins, Gregory finally found his way to Constantinople, where no doubt he found himself immediately surrounded by more snakes than populate the deserts of Arabia and all equally deadly, despite possessing legs.”

John smiled thinly. “And concerning Luke?”

“He arrived here more recently than Gregory, who ascended his pillar about four years ago. I wasn’t able to learn what Luke did before he took up mortification of the flesh but I did ascertain that he began his vocation near Antioch. A man who owned extensive olive groves there awoke one morning to find that someone had erected a column during the night on his land, something of a wonder in itself if you ask me given the short time available. But in any event, the sun rose and there sat Luke, already in residence atop the column.”

“It was a great honor to the olive grove owner,” Peter protested.

“He was outraged, apparently,” snapped Philo, without deigning to look at the servant, “and no wonder. You can’t have strangers taking up residence on your property on a whim, after all. But before he was able to convince the appropriate authorities of the necessity of investigating the matter, the silver-tongued stylite—for that is what they called him, Luke of the silver tongue—had begun to attract large and potentially riotous crowds.”

“Wherever there’s a crowd of followers, there’s always the possibility of a riot,” agreed John, thinking of the crowds outside the shrine where Michael and his acolytes were encamped. “But what was the outcome?”

Peter, who had finished ordering the shelves and was now wiping the steamy window panes clean, jumped into the conversation once again. “I have heard that the olive grove owner underwent a change of heart and became one of Luke’s followers.”

“More likely the authorities made the stylite’s tenancy worthwhile to the landowner,” countered Philo. “It’s remarkable what these stylites can get away with, really it is. In fact, since neither Senator Aurelius nor anyone else in this city seems to perceive a need for my services, perhaps I should climb up one of those recently vacated columns and earn a crust by preaching to the multitudes.” He finished his honey cake. “I will admit that asceticism, in moderation, is not to be derided. It is considered a virtue by nearly all philosophies and one I try to practice myself.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Peter, whisking the platter of cakes away from Philo’s descending hand.

***

“Philo perched atop a column, preaching about beauty to a crowd of unwashed pilgrims? Now that’s something I’d like to see! In fact, I’d gladly pay my father to continue refusing his entreaties for aid just to witness such a spectacle. Or rather, I would suggest such payment if I could maintain a civil conversation with the august Senator Flavius Aurelius long enough to make the offer.” Anatolius ran a hand irritably through the unruly black curls of his still-damp hair as he and John emerged from the Baths of Zeuxippos. Behind them, a faint fog of steam escaped through the uncovered gymnasium in the center of the sprawling building, coiling up into a gray, leaden sky.

Anatolius shivered. “This cold is unseasonable,” he complained. “Perhaps the Christians’ god wasn’t angry at those stylites but just wanted to warm his hands.”

The sight of the Great Church facing them across the square apparently struck him as a rebuke, because he added quickly, “You truly believe this Michael could have caused their horrible deaths?”

John, who had related the results of Philo’s investigations to Anatolius, nodded. “Caused them, or, if not, has certainly sought to take advantage of them.”

“But this first message you mentioned, didn’t it predict their deaths?”

“So Justinian said. Unfortunately, I have been unable to read the letter itself, nor am I likely to, since the emperor apparently construed my request to inspect it as a direct criticism of his powers of description.”

“And once he has spoken on a matter it is closed. Not unlike my father,” Anatolius replied with a scowl. “But surely the emperor can read well enough? Why do you suppose that he overlooked some important fact or other?”

“It’s been my experience that the most magical aspect of prophecies is how much clearer they appear in retrospect. There might have been something useful to be gleaned by examining that letter.”

They had crossed the square and were now walking down a street behind the Great Church.

“I shall be going home momentarily,” John continued, “but first I wanted to inspect where Philo stumbled across the dead beggar. Felix gave me directions this morning, having got them from Darius, who, by the way, says that on your last visit to Isis’ house a certain composition was very well received. I understand her girls are all hoping you will write poetry for them too. You seem to be quite a popular young man with the ladies, Anatolius.”

Anatolius, who appeared preoccupied, muttered a noncommittal comment. He tended to be intolerably voluble during one of his frequent periods of longing after a lady, but when his love was requited he became belatedly discreet. This consummation occurred far less frequently than anyone would have guessed, given his rank, poetic turn of mind and a face that might have been chiseled by a sculptor of the classical era—one who wasn’t busy creating statues of wise old philosophers. But it was no puzzle to John, who had observed over the years how his friend invariably set his heart on women who were either hopelessly below or too far above him in the city’s stratified society and therefore well out of reach.

One day, John feared, Anatolius would suffer the misfortune of actually making an unsuitable match.

They passed through a small forum where one of the city’s ubiquitous stylites still preached, for the mysterious deaths of the three had not come near to even decimating their population. Soon they plunged into one of Constantinople’s countless narrow byways. There was a lingering aura of darkness about it, as though the previous night had not quite seeped away but remained puddled along the base of the walls hemming in its narrow length. They paced up and down for a time, kicking at reeking piles of refuse that yielded up only a few outraged rats.

Anatolius asked John what it was that he sought.

“I don’t know. The poor die in alleyways all the time. I thought if I examined…” John’s voice trailed off. “Nothing suggests itself, I’m afraid.”

A moment or so later they had regained the sunlight. John’s spirits lifted somewhat as he recounted what Felix had imparted when he stopped briefly at John’s house that morning, not long after Philo had completed detailing his investigations.

“According to the information Felix received, no one in the vicinity of the columns saw anything out of the ordinary when the stylites burst into flame—unless you count a brawl between a Blue and a Green a few hours before not far from where Luke stood, although you could hardly call that out of the ordinary.”

Anatolius laughed. “In other words, Philo has thus far uncovered about as much useful information as the captain of the excubitors and all his informants and in a shorter time. Perhaps my father could use Philo’s services after all—to spy on me! He may uncover some shortcomings I have as yet unguessed!”

John finally allowed himself to comment on his friend’s foul humor. “You have argued with your father again?”

“Why not ask if the sun has risen? We are so unlike in character, John, that I sometimes wonder if I am not my late mother’s bastard child and that is why he despises me so.”

“All men disappoint their fathers, or at least suppose that they do.”

“Even you, John? A man who is Justinian’s Lord Chamberlain?”

“I do not care to speak of my own family. I left that life behind long ago.” John’s tone was uncharacteristically curt. “But you, Anatolius, although you are young, you are already a man of substance. As secretary to Justinian, privy to so much of the emperor’s confidential correspondence, you hold a most responsible position. You have also risen to the rank of Soldier of Mithra. You have been anointed with the blood of the Great Bull. Your father is proud of you, I am certain, although he may but rarely say so.”

“No, John, I am derided for acting like a boy. I am told I do not carry myself with the appropriate gravity. When my father strides naked through the baths men address him as senator! Senator! As if that title means anything these days. A senator’s worth as much as the land he holds and nothing more.”

***

When they arrived at John’s house, he invited Anatolius into the quiet garden. “If we go upstairs I am afraid Philo will insist on regaling us with another of his orations. I am too tired for that at the moment.”

“An intruder in your own home,” Anatolius remarked, not even attempting to make a jest of it.

“I can’t bring myself to say so. He was my tutor once, after all. But it certainly feels that way.”

“Unfortunately, I must be off, John. I would not idle away more of my time. After all, there must be some grand task I can accomplish, some act of manly bravery. I must go forth and search for it.”

“Put your efforts into seeing that the banquet goes well, my friend, and don’t brood too much over your father’s harsh words. He’s had much difficulty with that bladder stone and Gaius tells me the pain it brings can be hellish. And of course these Michaelites pose a real threat to us all. Such trials would make any man’s temper short.”

“But my father, the senator, will of course set the situation to rights,” was the sarcastic reply, “and that is as certain as it is obvious that I never could accomplish such a thing, given my supposed hot headedness and hasty tongue.”

Anatolius turned to go but John placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Wait. I hesitated to mention this, but now I think I must. Don’t you see why Justinian chose your father to assist in his negotiations with these people?”

Anatolius gave John a questioning look.

“It is because he is a pagan,” John said. “After all, although such things are never publicly acknowledged at court, there is no doubt that they are known. And he is from old and aristocratic Roman stock so such beliefs would almost be expected, if not talked about too loudly. But nevertheless, just as we ourselves both are, he is a pagan in a city where only Christianity is officially recognized.”

Despite the fading light, John could see horrified understanding draining the color from Anatolius’ face.

“You have grasped the situation correctly,” John said evenly. “If negotiations with Michael fail, your father, as an extremely high ranking official—but a pagan—will make a convenient sacrifice. If worst comes to worst, Justinian will have no hesitation in ascertaining if the mob can be placated with a senator’s blood.”

***

After the shaken Anatolius had departed, John remained sitting beside the garden pool, listening to its soothing, hypnotic trickle. Around him, the garden’s friendly darkness rustled as night creatures ventured out. He sighed. What he really wished to do was sit in his study and commune with Zoe. Was it possible Philo might have put his game aside and retired early?