“Piers hath done well learning Latin,” the boy’s mother had said, “I wondered if we might put him to Oxford, or the Church.”
“I have no money for it, Sister, if I would,” said Uncle Norton. “God witness what I do now is by my reckoning the best I can devise for him, and I could no better were he my own son.”
“Don’t fret, Mother,” the boy had said. “I’d rather far set sail than be a clerk at Oxford. I’ll be all right.”
But he had not been all right. And Uncle Norton’s own son, his cousin Tom, was safe at home in England, while he was here; caught in some mysterious trap.
“Oh, help me!” he cried suddenly to Stephanos. “Talk to him! Make him send me home!”
“He cannot, child,” said Stephanos. He took the boy’s hand, and drew him down to sit between them in the high window, and he told the boy what had happened in the garden.
“It seems to me an idle, foolish fancy to put trust in dreams and prophecies,” the boy said at last, when he had heard it. “But if he does, why does he not take the old gentleman who dreamed the dream? Why did he lay this burden upon me?”
“Take Plethon with him?” said Stephanos, throwing up his hands. “God knows he has troubles enough without that! There are already in the City ten thousand shades of opinion upon every topic in theology; but a man who puts Plato before Christ, and praises all day and every day none but the ancient heathens—why, he would infuriate them all! The Emperor Manuel did well to persuade Plethon to leave the City, and study here in peace. My Lord Constantine must have thanked God for you, when he slipped out of the trap Plethon had laid for him, and got out of taking Plethon home!”
“It would be the death of the old man, anyway,” said Manuel.
“But if it’s just a trap … just a bit of scheming,” pro tested the boy, “why does anyone heed it? Why does it matter? Why must I lose my freedom for it?”
“It is like this, my son,” said Stephanos. “The Lord Constantine dare not offend Plethon because he is a famous scholar, known and well loved in the West, from whence is our only hope of help against our enemies … and he dare not take him to the City for fear of offending the Church, against which he already struggles in vain to make them submit to the Pope in Rome, and so get help from him … and he dare not ignore the dream and the prophecy because whatever he thinks of it himself, the people are deeply moved by such things, and will blame him if he flouts them, and he must somehow make one people out of them, and make them fight.”
The boy said nothing. “No wonder he calls you Vrethiki,” said Stephanos.
“Why does he so?” demanded the boy angrily. “I am Piers Barber, an English apprentice merchant out of Bristow …”
“‘Vrisko,’ you kept saying. ‘Find.’ Our word for a lucky find is Vrethiki.”
“So what, then, is to become of me?” asked the boy.
“You will stay with the Emperor. When he is crowned and goes to the Imperial City, you will go too, to keep the people’s courage up, and be a talisman of hope to them.”
“Well,” said the boy. “Since you say I must, I must. But not willingly. I could wish my uncle had sent me on the Iceland run, or anywhere in the world but here, where I am no more Piers Barber, a free-born Englishman, but Vrethiki, the Emperor’s most unwilling and resentful slave. I shall run away if I can, as a slave is like to do!”
“Few men are free,” said Stephanos. “Try to resign yourself.”
Chapter 3
How could he resign himself, when he was racked with homesickness? When he thought of England—and there was nothing to take his mind off it in all those long hours standing uselessly around, witnessing everything, understanding nothing—when he thought of England it was its greenness he remembered. Not that the land of the Morea was not green, but it was the wrong kind of green. The olive trees that carpeted the valley floor were a silver-gray aspen color, with a lovely shimmer like silken garments when the wind caressed them; but pale and cold. And the tall cypresses, elegant and lovely tapered towers, were green, but heavy green, with a bitter touch of blackness in them, and they, too, of a cold dark hue. The leaves of the orange trees were green, with that dusty dark greenness that overtakes English leaves in summer, but the boy was yearning for the bright yellow-green, fresh juicy green of an English meadow, the amazing tender emerald green of the young leaf sprouting and unwinding in the cool northern spring.
Flowers came; the Greek spring dawns early, and soon the land was extravagantly coverleted in flowers. Every dry stony crack put forth blooms, every blade of grass was divided from the next by flowery stems. Strange and beautiful, and quite unknown to him as many of them were, they gave him joy, but his heartache grew worse from them even so. Improvident and wildly spendthrift, this foreign spring wantonly used up the flowers for every season at once; fruit and blossom in the orchards side by side, daisies and violets to remind the boy of spring at home, and at the same time poppies and the wild rose to tug at his heart with thoughts of English summer. When the land began to put forth flowers, he thought he would never bear it.
As for the people at home, he remembered his Uncle Norton with venomous particularity, every hair, every wrinkle of his overbearing face; he remembered his Aunt Norton, whom memory could not deny was handsome, with almost equal resentment—she and her nasty present for making fruit preserves! He remembered his father lying in the rank close sickroom smell of the upstairs bedroom, and his mother …
All day long he pushed away, crushed and stamped on images of his mother when his mind suggested them, be cause they hurt too much. But then at night, at night, when he unrolled his straw pallet in the great high antechamber to the Lord Constantine’s room, and lay down in the light from a little oil lamp whose sweet golden brightness did not reach the roof, so high it arched above him … then, when the lamp made of the painted figures on the walls a host of tremulous quivering ghosts, towering over and around him, their feet and hems bright, but their faces sinisterly occluded … then, before Stephanos came and lay down somewhere near him, then, when he really needed her, he could not find her face. Her nose he could remember, her eyes, her lips, the set of her head on her shoulders, her hair drawn back into her snood, but he could not make these fragments join together, and see her whole, even for an instant, and his pallet was often splotched with tears.
•
NOT ONLY HOMESICKNESS TROUBLED HIM; THERE WAS SOMETHING in the air. The Lord Constantine had been offered, and had accepted, a golden crown; yet there was no rejoicing. There was an eerie gloomy tranquillity about everyone, a quietness not as though they were at peace, but as though they were crushed. And now and then he would hear that note of aching sadness in a voice whose tone was clear to him, though its words were not. Then, thinking over and over what Stephanos had said, he found sinister phrases in it … The Lord Constantine needed help from the West … wished his Church to bow to Rome and so get help from the Pope … against enemies … the boy himself was to be talisman of what hope there was … The boy recalled these words, and flinched at them inwardly for day upon day before he screwed up courage to face a clear answer, if he asked Stephanos a clear question.
“What meant you, telling me of hope and danger, and help from the West?” he asked at last. He was helping Stephanos and Manuel sort and pack away the Lord Constantine’s linen, his cloak-pins and prayer books. “What danger are you all in?”
“The Turks,” said Stephanos. “We are surrounded on all sides by the infidel. Of the whole Empire this is the last province left—this, and a few miles round the City, and the City itself. The Sultan could crush us between finger and thumb. He has tried once to take the City—and God raised up a scourge for his back: the horde of Timur the Lame, who fell upon his lands from the East, with a great mob of nomad warriors, so that the Sultan had to leave the City, and hasten away. But we know he will try again.”
“Never say die,” said Manuel. “The City has withstood so many sieges before. Besides, the West will s
end help.”
Looking swiftly toward Stephanos, the boy saw at once that he did not believe it, though he did not shake his head, or speak a word.
Trembling, the boy asked, “He is going to take me … to somewhere … with the Turks all around it?” His voice shook.
“Child,” said Stephanos to him softly, “those pirates who took you from the water … who fettered you … they were Turks, were they not?”
“No!” wailed the boy. “No! I can’t, I can’t, I don’t remember!” His eyes had that shallow, shuttered look in them, and he was clenching his hands.
“It does make it hard on you,” said Stephanos. He reached out a hand, and squeezed the boy’s taut shoulder.
“What’s upset him?” asked Manuel in Greek. He often failed to understand the boy’s school Latin.
“He is dismayed at the thought of going to the City,” said Stephanos.
“There’s no accounting for the barbarians,” said Manuel.
ON THE EVE OF THE CORONATION OF THE LORD CONSTANTINE at Mistra, his prelates and companions assembled to hear from the Metropolitan bishop the details of the ceremony that faced them on the morrow. First, in his own hand the Emperor must write the Creed, and swear to uphold the Holy Church, and the teachings of the seven Councils. Someone suggested that it would look well in the West, and speed up what help might be coming, if the Emperor would write the Latin Creed instead of the Greek one. This set off a dispute which went on late into the night. Iagrus and Lascaris—they who had brought the crown—were summoned, then Plethon, then John Dalmata, and various holy monks from the monasteries of the town.
Standing wearily behind the Emperor, half asleep, leaning against a wall, Vrethiki waited. Supper was long over due, and still they talked. First hungry, and then, as the accustomed hour for eating came and went, no longer hungry, but very tired of standing on the hard cold floor, Vrethiki, bored as always, watched. After some consider able time his aching knees gave way, and he slid to a sitting position on the floor. The hard wall behind him resisted the projection of his shoulder blades, and the cold flagstone chilled his buttocks through the worn thin fabric of his clothes. Even in his discomfort he wondered what agitated these strange gentlemen now. Could the Turks be coming? Hardly. Plethon—curse him for his dreams!—seemed to think it childish, whatever it was, or so the boy thought, watching his countenance. Iagrus and Lascaris thought it grave. The Metropolitan was deeply upset—his voice trembled, his hands shook, perhaps with anger, and he seemed near to tears. Emotion filled the room. And the Lord Constantine—who seemed to insist on hearing each man’s opinion—he, Vrethiki thought, was filled with weariness and harassment. The boy thought, “What use is it to be Emperor, if you let these bigwigs bully you?”
It was very late when at last they reached agreement, gravely bowing themselves out, and the Despot rose at last from his chair in the council room, and went to his own quarters. He beckoned John Dalmata, a plainly clad, soldierly sort of man, to join him. A meal was laid waiting for him on a great table in the antechamber, a table large enough for the whole family of any Emperor who had one. He looked around at the faces of his overwatched attendants, and spoke. At once more stools were brought, and the plain loaves of bread, and cheeses, and bowls of olives that the servants ate were carried in on platters, and set round the table. Naming them one by one, the Lord Constantine asked them to sit and eat with him. Blushing, they took their places, at once discomforted and pleased. Vrethiki, called by name, was given a place at the Despot’s left, with Stephanos beside him. John Dalmata sat on the Despot’s right, and beside him a chaplain, who spoke a blessing. There was an uneasy silence, and no one began to eat.
“Come, friends,” said the Lord Constantine gently. “Eat with me tonight, for we are all hungry. And once I am crowned and in the City, there will be no chance of this; I shall no longer be able to live like an honest soldier, whose household is his family. You all here have served me well and faithfully through many hardships, and more are to come; let us eat like friends while we still may.” He passed the plate of cold fowl and the wine jelly that had been set before him, down the table for all to share. He asked for more wine to be brought, and watched to see that every plate was loaded and every cup was filled before he took a morsel of the bread and meat on his own golden dish.
Vrethiki seized his round of bread in both hands, gripped on the edge with his teeth, and tugged. He spat out the olive stones with a little plopping noise. His fellow dinners averted their eyes. The Lord Constantine beside him ate delicately, hardly like a man, thought Vrethiki; he broke his bread into fragments, and took them to his mouth held daintily between finger and thumb with the other fingers elegantly curved. What happened to the olive stones Vrethiki didn’t see, and couldn’t imagine; and the Despot ate, he noticed, hardly more than a bird.
Later, when the board was cleared and the bedding unrolled, and the Lord Constantine helped into his night shirt and to bed, when the servants lay down in the ante chamber, and Stephanos blew out the little lamp, Vrethiki lay eyes open in the darkness, wrestling with memories of his mother. He had got past sleepiness, just as earlier in the day he had got past hunger.
“Stephanos?” he murmured in the dark.
“What is it?” whispered Stephanos, and his hand found Vrethiki’s. “Does the dark trouble you?”
“What were they all disputing over so long, that grieved the Lord Constantine so?”
“They could not agree whether he should write the Greek or the Latin Creed. It must be written in his own hand, and handed to the bishop who crowns him as a pledge of faith.”
“Why couldn’t they agree?”
Stephanos sighed, but he answered patiently, “The Lord Constantine’s brother, the late Emperor John—God rest him—tried to unite the Eastern and the Western churches. He thought it would be good if there were but one Christendom; and he thought that the Pope would bring a Crusade to rescue the City, if the City were Catholic too. There was a great council at Florence to decide the matter. That is when I became an Imperial slave—for the Emperor John purchased me because I knew Latin, and took me with him to Italy. In the end there was agreement. All but two of the Greek churchmen signed it. But then they came home again, and the people in the City railed on them, and would not have it, and our brave churchmen mostly revoked their signed consent. So now it is like this. Plethon and some others say if the Emperor writes the Latin Creed it will be a gesture that might win good will in the West, while Iagrus and Lascaris, who have come straight from the City, say nothing would be more foolish: it would enrage the people, and cast doubt on the coronation in the eyes of the pious—bad enough that it is to be done outside the City, and by the Archbishop of Mistra not by the Patriarch. The Lord Constantine wishes to be loyal to his brother, who signed for uniting the churches, and at the same time to be loyal to the true and ancient faith. He does not know what to do.”
“If it’s a bad thing not to, why doesn’t he go to the City and be crowned by the Patriarch?” said Vrethiki, trying to take this all in.
“First, because the Patriarch is being ignored by half his clergy, since he is one who supports the Union with the West. Second, because the Lord Constantine wants authority quickly.”
“Oh,” said the boy. “Stephanos? If you were the slave of the Emperor John, why are you Constantine’s now?”
There was a pause. Then Stephanos said, “My master the Lord John had a wife whom he greatly loved. While he was in Florence she died of the plague. Nobody had courage to tell him; he learned of it only as he was entering his palace again, thinking to see her. Then he could not bear anything which reminded him of his long absence, and his bitter loss. In Florence I had been with him daily. He gave me away to his brother.”
“Oh,” said Vrethiki. “Stephanos, did you mind?”
“Go to sleep,” said Stephanos.
The boy said nothing for a minute. Then after a while, “Stephanos? What difference is there between the Greek and
Latin Creeds?”
“They have added to it in the West,” muttered Stephanos wearily.
“What have they added?”
“The word Filioque, thus making the Holy Ghost proceed from the Son also instead of from the Father only …”
“Mother of Christ!” exclaimed Manuel from the dark ness beyond Stephanos. “Must we listen to this all night as well as all day?”
“Filioque …” thought Vrethiki, sleepy at last. “One word … added … but what difference does it make?”
Chapter 4
On the morning of the lord constantine’s coronation as Emperor of the Romans, Stephanos came wearing a remarkably splendid tunic, purple embroidered in scarlet, and carrying a ceremonial garment for the boy. This garment was so stiff with round medallions, leaves, branches and birds embroidered in golden wire that it stood upright of its own volition upon the floor.
“I’m not wearing that!” said the boy indignantly. “It’s a woman’s sort of thing!
“Who asked you what you would wear?” said Stephanos. “No one asked you. This is what you must wear. You have to walk beside an Emperor today.”
“No!” the boy cried. “What’s wrong with my ordinary tunic? What’s all that gold for?”
“Gold?” said Stephanos. “That’s spun brass, child, you may be sure. You needn’t think of running off in it, imagining it will pay your passage home. But with a little sunlight on it it looks good enough.”
“I won’t wear it!” said the boy. “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!” “And why should I do everything they say?” he thought. “Am I a slave? Or did I willingly enter service here? Anyone has his pride—a dog has that. There must be something they can’t make me do!” But even while he made these fine statements in his head, his head was extinguished like a candle flame under the conical snuffer of the offending robe.
Emperor's Winding Sheet Page 3
