Raptor (117 page)

I went in a boat from the mainland over to the island of Kos, where the world’s finest cotton goods are woven and the most precious purple dye is produced. The women of Kos are so proud of their island’s produce that they wear it every day, and while doing the most mundane tasks, and when walking on the street. To do that, a woman has to be proud of her body, too, because a stola or tunic or chiton of Kos cotton is so sheer that it is scandalously transparent. I bought some of the purple dye and some cotton garments for my Veleda wardrobe, though I did not plan ever to wear them in public and shamelessly expose myself as the Kos women do.

From a promontory farther south on the mainland, I took a boat to the island of Ródhos, just to look at the long-fallen fragments of the famous colossus there. Until an earthquake threw it down, nearly seven centuries ago, that gigantic bronze statue of Apóllon stood to welcome ships into the Ródhos harbor, and it supposedly stood as tall as twenty men on end. I can believe that, because the
thumb
of it was too thick for me to wrap both arms around. And inside the crumpled torso one can see the winding staircase that once took visitors up to gaze out over the Aegean through Apóllon’s eyes. The colossus would have looked, to people on the ground or on the sea, even taller than it was in fact. Before the time of this statue, sculptors had made their figures strictly to human proportions—a normal man or woman being seven and a half times as tall as the measure of his or her own. head. But this Apóllon was sculptured by artists who had learned to make their figures eight or nine heads high, even ten, thereby giving them more heroic and graceful stature. And so statues—not just of gods but of men and women—have been proportioned that way ever since.

I had by now been long gone from the Purple Palace, but I had left a clear trail, identifying myself by name and title at every pandokheíon I had stayed in, and no messenger had yet come pounding after me. So I assumed that Theodoric still had no need of my presence. Therefore, when I at last turned Velox again toward Constantinople, I continued to travel only leisurely, stopping wherever I found anything of interest.

“What in the world,” I brashly demanded of a priest in the town of Mylasa, “is that awful assemblage of trash supposed to represent?”

It appeared to be intended as a shrine, standing beside a church. The church itself was only a ramshackle affair of mud bricks and thatch, and it was not made any handsomer by the addition alongside. The shrine, if that was what it was, had begun life as an ordinary tree, but that had been lightning-blasted at some time, so it was now dead and leafless. The bolt had neatly split the trunk so that half of it lay on the ground, its upper side as flat and smooth as an ambo reading-table. To make it look
like
an ambo, there was a tattered old parchment scroll unrolled across it, and upon it was set some imitation Communion vessels—a tarnished old chalice, a common tray to represent a paten, a lump of wood rudely carved to resemble a pyx. And behind the simulated ambo was propped a straw figure garbed in priestly brown burlap robe and white stola. The other, upright half of the tree still had its branches, and those were hung with innumerable musical instruments. There were stringless harps, timbrels with torn drumheads, dented cymbals, badly bent trumpets—everything old, damaged, cast-off—mournfully tinkling, rustling or jangling in the wind. Try as I might, I could think of nothing in Scripture or in history that would explain such a curious accumulation.

“It is not apparent to you, pilgrim?” the priest asked, smiling proudly.

“Is it some kind of japery?”

“Oukh, not at all. Like you, every Christian pilgrim pauses to inquire. And most of them stay to admire—and adore.”

“They adore that… mess?”

“And while they stay, they spend money on food and lodging in Mylasa, they make offerings in our humble church, they distribute alms, they even purchase trinket mementos blessed by our Bishop Spódos, such as this miniature reed flute. Allow me to sell you one.”

I declined, on the ground that I was neither a pilgrim nor an Orthodox Christian, and said, “I can recognize the pretended priest and ambo yonder, but what is the meaning of all the musical instruments?”

The priest, seeing no profit in me, evidently saw no reason not to explain. He did that without the least embarrassment.

“Far to the east of here,” he said, “stands Mount Ararat, where the Ark came to ground after the Great Flood. Near that mountain is a Christian church, much like ours here. Its enterprising and energetic congregation has built there an immense replica of Noah’s Ark. They even hewed out great stone anchors for it. Christian pilgrims come from far and wide, in teeming droves, to admire and adore that artifact, and to make rich the church responsible for its construction. This land of Asia Minor abounds in copies of other biblical objects and sites.”

“Excuse me, Tata, but what has all this to do with that overdressed tree yonder?”

With an expansive wave of his arm, he went on, “It was in these lands that St. Paul did much of his missionary journeying. So, reviewing Paul’s life and works and words, we selected an inspiring passage and… behold!” He gestured triumphantly at the trumpery shrine. “Now pilgrims can come and pray where St. Paul preached!”

When I only blinked in bafflement, the priest said, somewhat testily, “Well? There is no proving he did
not
preach on this very spot.”

“Forgive my thickheadedness, Tata, but I still do not understand. All the musical instruments… I cannot recall anything in the Bible about Paul’s having been musically inclined…”

“Ouá!” he cried, in genuine glee. “We have been too clever for you! But there, there. You did confess that you are no Christian. If you were, you would know that in Paul’s day the early Christians were much given to falling into trances or ecstasies, and babbling incoherent gibberish, and calling that divine inspiration. It was, of course, extremely unchristian, imitating the behavior of the detestable pagan oracles, who always gave their nonsensical prophecies ‘in tongues,’ as they called it. So Paul, anxious to discourage that practice—”

“Wait, wait!” I interrupted, laughing, as realization dawned. “That passage where Paul tells the Corinthians, ‘If I speak with the tongues—’ “

“Exactly!” crowed the priest. ” ‘I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.’ Well, look yonder on the tree. Brass horns, cymbals, tabors, all things that make meaningless noises. And there behind the ambo stands St. Paul, as best we can re-create him, preaching his admonition. ‘I had rather speak five words with understanding than ten thousand words in a tongue.’ “

I thanked the priest for his having so lucidly explained, and I made insincere noises of admiration, and I wished him and his church much profit from their endeavor, and I went on my way, shaking my head in marveling amusement.

When I arrived again in Constantinople, I of course went immediately to report to Theodoric. In his chambers, I found him dandling one of the prettier Khazar palace maids on his knee, and looking mischievously pleased with himself. But the marshal Soas, the generals Pitzias and Herduic, also present, were looking unhappy and distracted. They gave me only curt nods of welcome, because they were sternly reproving their king.

“The victim was not just some back-street nonentity,” said Herduic.

“An abuse of hospitality,” said Pitzias, “a disgrace to your office and an insult to the emperor.”

Soas growled, “Zeno must be appalled. Outraged. Furious.”

But Theodoric greeted me jauntily, “Háils, Saio Thorn! You come just in time to see me tried and convicted and condemned.”

“What? Whatever for?”

“Akh, nothing much. This morning I chanced to commit a minor murder.”

“Murder? Nonsense!” snorted Zeno. “Perfectly justifiable. The man was nothing but an excrescence on the world.”

We marshals and generals breathed sighs of relief. I think all of us except Theodoric had imagined ourselves being executed and hung from the city walls.

Theodoric said to the emperor, with no air of apology, “I merely wished to erase the last reminder of the insult to my royal sister.”

He had already told me how, meeting the young man on the street, he had recognized the “gudgeon face” of Rekitakh, and there and then, in broad daylight, had drawn his belt knife and slain the son of Strabo.

“Nevertheless,” said Zeno, his brick face unsmiling, “it was an unbecoming act for one who all last year wore the toga and cincture of a Roman consul. The purple does not confer impunity, Theodoric. I cannot have my people thinking that I am become lazily lenient in my old age. And that is what they would think if they were to see you still enjoying the freedom of my imperial city.”

“I quite understand, Sebastós,” said Theodoric. “You would have me go from Constantinople.”

“I would. I would have you go all the way to Ravenna.”

Theodoric raised his eyebrows.

“A man of your combative nature deserves a worthier antagonist than a discrowned princeling like Rekitakh.”

“A king, perhaps?” Theodoric asked lightly. “You wish me to stick a blade in the King of Rome?”

“At least puncture the man’s overinflated aspirations,” said Zeno, and we of Theodoric’s party exchanged glances. The emperor finally, after having been irresolute for so long, was speaking plainly. “Odoacer has at last tried my tolerance too far. He has recently appropriated to the crown a full one-third of the land of all the great estates in Italia. Or, I should say, he has appropriated from the lands belonging to private families. He has exempted Church holdings, so as not to imperil his hopes of the hereafter. This constitutes flagrant theft of land from its rightful owners, and not for the benefit of any landless commonfolk. No peasant will ever be given a single jugerum of it. Odoacer will merely apportion the land among his sycophant magistri and praefecti and vicarii. It is disgraceful behavior. Disgraceful!”

None of us smiled, though we knew very well that Zeno was only pretending to be righteously shocked. He did not care a nummus that Odoacer was filching from the Roman rich, or that Odoacer was being callously neglectful of the landless poor, or that Odoacer was squandering generosity on his court favorites. What vexed Zeno was the realization that this appropriation measure would enhance Odoacer’s personal popularity. The estate owners whom he robbed were too few to cause him concern. The largest landowner of all, the Church, being exempt, would call him blessed. The legislators and administrators to whom he gave the land would be bound closer to him, making his regnancy more secure. Most important, Italia’s entire population of commonfolk would praise his name, simply because the lower classes everywhere always rejoice to see someone despoil and discomfit their betters, even when it gains them nothing at all.

“I sent Odoacer a severe rebuke,” Zeno went on, “for having so egregiously exceeded his authority. Of course he replied with fervent protestations of his undiminished fidelity and subservience. In token, he sent to me all the Roman imperial regalia—the purple diadem, the stellate crown, the jeweled scepter, the orb and victoria—the priceless ornamenta palatii that have adorned every emperor at Rome for the past five hundred years. This is presumably to assure me that Odoacer does not, at least, aspire to
that
supremacy. I am pleased to have the regalia, but I am not placated by it, because Odoacer still insolently thumbs his teeth at me. He has refused to rescind that order of land confiscation. I have too long endured his presumptuousness. Now I want the man removed. And I want you to do it, Theodoric.”

“It will not be easy, Sebastós. Odoacer has the loyalty of all the western Roman legions, and he has cemented good relations with other western nations. The Burgunds, the Franks…”

“If it were going to be
easy,”
Zeno said tartly, “I would send my wife, Ariadne, or the eunuch Myros to do it. Or the palace cat. Only
because
it will not be easy am I asking a strong warrior to undertake it.”

“And I believe I could succeed at it, Sebastós. I only want you to be aware that it cannot be accomplished overnight. My own Ostrogoth army, even with King Feva’s Rugii in support, will not suffice. I must rally other forces, and Odoacer will naturally know of that, so he will likewise be girding—”

The emperor interrupted. “I am going to make it even less easy for you. Those other forces you speak of—you must not expect to count among them the Danuvius legions currently under your command.”

“Of course not,” Theodoric said, rather stiffly. “We cannot have Roman legions marching against Roman legions. It would sunder what is left of the empire. It would do no good to excise a pimple from the body only to have the body die.”

“And for that same reason,” said Zeno, “I must impose another caveat. When your armies march from Novae toward Italia, for as long as they are treading the ground of the Eastern Empire, they are not to live off the land. During your crossing of the eastern provinces, you will not exact tribute or sustenance from any community. Not until you enter what used to be the Western Empire—in Pannonia—will you begin to victual your armies by foraging and looting.”

Theodoric frowned. “That means our carrying food and supplies sufficient to march for some three hundred Roman miles. And to collect such a mass of provisions means waiting for the next harvest to be reaped. Then, by the time we reach Pannonia, the winter will be upon us. We shall have to lay over until spring. Then there are another four hundred miles or so between us and the Italia border. Depending on where we encounter the first of Odoacer’s forces—or where he sends them to find us—we may not close with him until the following summer.”

Zeno shrugged. “You warned me not to expect overnight success.”

“Very well,” said Theodoric, squaring his shoulders. “I understand my mission and my objective, and I see the necessity for the strictures. Now, may I be so bold as to ask, Sebastós, what do I win in the winning?”

“Everything. The entire peninsula of Italia. The venerable ground of Latium, from which spread and flourished the greatest empire ever known. The Eternal City of Rome, the city that once was the world. The imperial capital of Ravenna. Every other rich city in Italia and all the rich lands between them. Displace Odoacer Rex and you become Theodoricus Rex.”