Videssos Cycle, Volume 1 (28 page)

“He enlightens me every time I hear him,” Marcus replied. The priest looked at him sharply, suspecting derision from this manifest unbeliever, but the Roman meant what he said. Seeing that, the priest gave a curt nod and waved him into the High Temple.

From the outside, Marcus had found the Temple rather ugly, impressive for no other reason than sheer size. He was used to the clean, spare architecture the Romans had borrowed from Greece and found the Temple’s heavy projecting buttresses clumsy, cluttered, and ponderous. Inside, though, its architects had worked a miracle, and the tribune stood spellbound, wondering if he had been suddenly whisked to the heaven Phos’ followers looked to in the life to come.

The structure’s basic plan was like that of Phos’ main temple in Imbros: at its heart was a circular worship-area, surmounted by a dome, with rows of benches projecting off in each of the cardinal directions. But Imbros’ shrine was the work of a not very gifted child when compared to this great jewel of a building.

First and most obvious, the craftsmen of the imperial capital had the advantage of far greater resources to lavish on their creation. The High Temple’s benches were not of serviceable ash but sun-blond oak, waxed and polished to glowing perfection and inset with ebony, fragrant red
sandalwood, thin layers of semi-precious stones, and whole sheets of shimmering mother of pearl. Gold leaf and silver foil ran riot through the Temple, reflecting soft sheets of light into its furthest recesses. Before the central altar stood the patriarch’s throne. For Balsamon that throne alone should have made the High Temple a place of delight, for its tall back was made up of a score of relief-carved ivory panels. Scaurus was too far away to see their detail but sure only the best was tolerated in this place.

He tried to calculate what sum the erection of this incredible edifice must have consumed. His mind, however, dazzled by this Pelion on Ossa of wonders, could make no coherent guess, but only continue to marvel at the prodigies his eyes reported.

Dozens of columns, sheathed in glistening moss agate, lined the Temple’s four outthrusting wings. Their acanthus capitals, while more florid than the ones Marcus was familiar with, were in keeping with the extravagance of the Temple as a whole. Its interior walls were of purest white marble, turquoise, and, at east and west, pale rose quartz and orange-red sard, reproducing the colors of Phos’ sky.

Halfway up the eastern wall was a niche reserved for the imperial family. A screen of elaborate filigreework drawn around the enclosure allowed Emperors and their kin to see without being seen themselves.

For all the treasure lavished on the Temple, it was its splendid design that emerged triumphant. Columns, walls, arches, ancillary semidomes—all smoothly led the eye up to the great dome, and that was a miracle in itself.

It seemed to float in midair, separated from the real world echoingly far below by flashing beams of sunlight streaming in through the many windows which pierced its base. So bulky from the outside, it was light, soaring, graceful—almost disembodied—when seen from within. It took a distinct effort of will to think of the tremendous weight that freestanding dome represented, and of the massive vaults and piers on which it rested. Easier by far to believe it light as a soap-bubble, and so delicately attached to the rest of the Temple that the faintest breeze might send it drifting away and leave Phos’ shrine open to the air.

The play of light off the dome’s myriad tesserae of gold-backed glass further served to disembody it, and further emphasized the transcendence of Phos’ image at its very zenith. The Videssians limned their god
in many ways: kind creator, warrior against the darkness, bright youth, or, as here, severe almighty judge. This Phos watched over his congregation with a solemn yet noble face and eyes so all-seeing they seemed to follow Scaurus as he moved beneath them. Videssos’ god held his right hand upraised in blessing, but in his left was the book wherein all good and evil were recorded. Justice he would surely mete out, but mercy? The tribune could not find it in those awesome eyes.

More than a trifle daunted, he took a seat. He could not help sneaking glances toward the stern omnipotence high above and noted hard-faced Videssian nobles, who must have seen that Phos hundreds of times, doing the same thing. It was, quite simply, too powerful to ignore.

The Temple filled steadily; latecomers grumbled as they slid into seats far from the central altar. Yet the floor sloped almost imperceptibly down toward the center, and no one was denied a view.

Soteric strode in, wearing his dignity as proudly as the wolfskin cape and tight breeches that marked him for a Namdalener. Catching Scaurus’ eye, he sketched a salute. But even his sangfroid showed signs of cracking when he locked eyes with the god in the dome. Under the weight of that gaze his shoulders’ proud set lowered a touch, and he sat with evident relief. Marcus did not think less of him for it; he would have been beyond humanity’s pale to remain unmoved by first sight of that omniscient, commanding frown.

The low mutter of conversation in the Temple died away as a choir of blue-robed monks filed in to range themselves round the altar. Joined by their audience and the pure tones of handbells from behind the tribune, they sang a hymn in praise of Phos.

Marcus had to content himself with listening, as he did not know the words. Nor did listening profit him much, for the canticle was in so archaic a dialect of Videssian that he could understand only a word here and there. A trifle bored, he wanted to crane his neck rudely to watch the bell players perform; he forbore only with reluctance. They were wonderfully skilled, their music clean and simple enough to appeal even to the tribune.

The High Temple’s thick walls had muffled the noise of the crowd outside. As the hymn’s last sweet notes faded, the throng’s clamor swelled, growing like the roar of the surf when the tide walked up the beach. All
questions as to the reason for the increasing uproar disappeared when Balsamon, preceded by a pair of censer-swinging acolytes, came into the Temple. His face was wreathed in smiles as he made his way toward the altar.

Everyone rose at first sight of the patriarch. Out of the corner of his eye Marcus caught a flicker of motion from behind the screen guarding the imperial family’s box. Even the Emperor paid homage to Phos’ representative, at least here in the Temple, the heart of Phos’ domain on earth.

The tribune would have sworn Balsamon winked at him as he walked past. He doubted himself a second later; with every step the patriarch took toward his throne, he assumed a heavier mantling of distinction. He did not contradict the figure he cut in private, but there was more to him than his private self.

He sank into the patriarchal throne with a silent sigh. Marcus had to remind himself that Balsamon was not a young man. The patriarch’s mind and spirit were so vital it was hard to remember his body might not always answer.

Balsamon pushed himself up out of the throne in less than a minute; the packed Temple had remained on its feet for him. He raised his hands to the mighty image of his god on high and, joined by his entire congregation, intoned the prayer Marcus had first heard from the lips of Neilos Tzimiskes northeast of Imbros, though of course he had not understood it then: “We bless thee, Phos, Lord with the right and good mind, by thy grace our protector, watchful beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor.”

Through the murmured
Amens
that followed, Scaurus heard Soteric firmly add, “On this we stake our very souls.” Glares flashed at the Namdalener from throughout the Temple, but he stared back in defiance—that the men of the Empire chose to leave their creed incomplete was no reason for him to do likewise.

Balsamon lowered his arms; the worshippers took their seats once more, though necks still turned to catch sight of the bold heretic in their midst. Marcus expected the patriarch, no matter how forbearant his personal beliefs were, to take some public notice of Soteric’s audacity.

And so, indeed, he did, but hardly in the way the Roman had looked
for. Balsamon looked to the Namdalener almost in gratitude. “ ‘On this we stake our very souls,’ ” he repeated quietly. His eyes darted this way and that, taking the measure of those who had stared hardest at Soteric. “He’s right, you know. We do.”

The patriarch tapped gently on the top of his throne’s ivory back; his smile was ironic. “No, I am not speaking heresy. In its most literal sense, the Namdalener’s addition to our creed is true. We have all staked our souls on the notion that, in the end, good shall triumph over evil. Were that not so, we would be as one with the Yezda, and this Temple would not be a place of quiet worship, but a charnel house where blood would flow as does our wine and, instead of incense, the stinking smoke of scorched flesh would rise to heaven.”

He looked about him, defying anyone to deny his words. Some of his listeners shifted in their seats, but no one spoke. “I know what you are thinking but will not say,” the patriarch continued: “ ‘That’s not what the cursed barbarian means by it!’ ” He brought his voice down to a gruff baritone, a parody of half the Videssian officers in the audience.

“And you’re right.” His tones were his own again. “But the question still remains: When we and the men of the Duchy quarrel at theology, when we damn each other and fling anathemas across the sea like stones, who gains? The Phos we all revere? Or does Skotos, down there in his frozen hell, laugh to see his enemies at strife with one another?

“The saddest part of the disagreement between us is that our beliefs are no further apart than two women in the streets. For is it not true that, while orthodoxy is indeed my doxy, heterodoxy is no more than my neighbor’s doxy?” Balsamon’s listeners gaped in horror or awestruck admiration, each according to his own temperament.

The patriarch became serious once more. “I do not hold to the Wager of Phos, as do the islanders—you all know that, even those who like me none too well. I find the notion childish and crude. But by our standards, the Namdaleni
are
childish and crude. Is it any wonder they have a doctrine to fit their character? Merely because I think them mistaken, must I find them guilty of unpardonable crimes?”

His voice was pleading as he looked from one face to the next. The noise of the crowd outside the Temple had died away; Marcus could hear a great-voiced priest reading the patriarch’s words to the multitude.

Balsamon resumed, “If the men of the Duchy have their faith founded on true piety—and that, no reasonable man could doubt—and if they grant us our customs in our own land, what cause have we to worry? Would you argue with your brother while a thief was at the door, especially if he’d come to help hold that thief at bay? Skotos is welcome to the man who’d answer yes.

“Nor are we Videssians without blame in this senseless squabble over the nature of our god. Our centuries of culture have given us, I fear, conceit to match our brilliance. We are splendid logic-choppers and faultfinders when we think we need to criticize our neighbors, but oh! how we bawl like branded calves when they dare return the favor.

“My friends, my brothers, my children, if we stretch out our arms in charity, even so little charity as would hardly damage the soul of a tax-collector”—No matter how solemn the moment, Balsamon would have his joke, and the sudden, startled laughter from outside when the reader reached it showed it had struck its intended audience—“surely we can overlook disagreements and build goodwill. The seeds are there—were it otherwise, why would the men of Namdalen sail from overseas to aid us against our foe? They deserve our grateful thanks, not tumult readied against them.”

The patriarch looked about one last time, begging, willing his listeners to reach for something bigger than themselves. There was a moment of stony silence before the applause began. And when at last it came, it was not the torrent Balsamon—and Scaurus—would have wished for. Here a man clapped, there another, off to one side several more. Some looked sour even as they applauded, honoring the patriarch but at best tolerating the message for the sake of the man.

Mavrikios was not one of those. He had risen and pushed aside the ornamental grill work, loudly acclaiming Balsamon. At his side, also clapping, was his daughter Alypia. Thorisin Gavras was nowhere to be seen.

Marcus found a moment to worry over the Sevastokrator’s absence. He could not recall seeing the two Gavrai together since their unfortunate meeting at dice. One more thing to plague the Emperor, he thought. It was a dreadful time for Mavrikios to be at odds with his peppery brother.

And not even the Emperor’s open approval could make the notables in the High Temple warm to Balsamon’s sermon. The same confused, halfhearted applause came from the larger audience outside. Marcus remembered what Gorgidas had said; even the patriarch had trouble turning the city from the direction it had chosen.

He did win some measure of success. When Soteric emerged from the High Temple, no one snarled at him. Indeed, a couple of people seemed to have taken Balsamon’s words to heart, for they shouted “Death to the Yezda!” at the mercenary. Soteric grinned savagely and waved his sword in the air, which won him a few real cheers.

Such lukewarm victory left him dissatisfied. He turned to Scaurus, grumbling, “I thought that when the patriarch spoke, everyone leaped to do as he said. And by what right does he call the men of the Duchy children? One fine day, we’ll show him the sort of children we are.”

Marcus soothed his ruffled feathers. Having expected no improvement in the situation, the tribune was pleased with whatever he got.

Back at the Roman barracks that night, Scaurus did some hard thinking about Soteric. Helvis’ brother could be alarming. He was, if anything, more headstrong than Thorisin Gavras—and that was saying something. Worse, he lacked the Sevastokrator’s easy charm. Soteric was always in deadly earnest. Yet there was no denying his courage, his energy, his military skill, or even his wit. The tribune sighed. People were as they were, not as he wished they’d be, and it was stupid—especially for someone who thought himself a Stoic—to expect them to be different.