The Bones of the Earth (The Dark Age)

by Scott Bury

  Christmas came with cold weather, and church services got longer, more splendid and more sombre; Javor wondered how the congregations could seem so depressing while professing the birth of the Saviour. He learned not to question the contradictions in the story—questions usually earned him derision and scorn, or at least a passing reference to “the mystery of Faith.”

  He did not get involved in the arguments about how Jesus Christ was divine and fully human. Maybe the answer is that the human mind cannot comprehend God. But no one ever said anything like that.

  These Romans are ready to fight and riot over the littlest things when it comes to religion.

  Receiving instruction in two different, overlapping religions at the same time often got confusing. Javor once asked Father Peter “Which Gospel says Mary Magdalene married Jesus?” Father Peter's face go so red, Javor thought it would pop.

  “Where did you ever hear such a heretical idea?” he screamed. Foam flew from his lips. “I ought to have you flogged for uttering such blasphemy!” Terrified at the priest’s anger, Javor ran from the room.

  “Examinations will come soon, Javor,” Brother Theodor said one day. “How do you feel about that?”

  “What’s coming?” Javor was still expanding his Greek vocabulary.

  “Examinations,” Brother Theodor repeated gently. “Where your instructors will measure how much, and how well you have learned your lessons in Catechism, history, rhetoric and so on.”

  The whole concept was new to Javor. “How will they do that?”

  “By asking questions about the things they have taught you. Do you feel ready?”

  Javor thought about that quietly for a few minutes. “I think I should try to keep feelings out of it,” he said, finally. “I'll rely on memory and logic.”

  Brother Theodor was speechless.

  Chapter 25: The barbarian princess

  Winter in Constantinople was mostly rainy and dull. Winds blew wet and miserable through bare trees, chasing drops off rooftops. Javor did not miss the killing snows of his home, but he found it almost impossible to feel warm.

  The monks and priests had given up on assigning menial tasks to Javor. Everyone could tell he was favoured by the Comes. He had his regular duties helping to clean up in the kitchen, but he was usually excused from work in the stables along with the other first-years to make time for his lessons in Gnostic knowledge.

  Of course, no one else knew he was learning about gnosis. And he liked to help his friends when he could. He even was willing to help Flaccus shovel manure from the stable.

  “Are you going to be a priest?” Flaccus asked one brighter day that brought a promise of spring. The air was almost warm and the sky was clearing.

  Javor was shocked. “Why would you think that?”

  “Well, you’re doing a lot of extra classes.” Flaccus flung another pitchfork of manure onto the pile.

  Javor thought fast. “I’m training for a—a mission.” Will he believe that? Why didn’t I ask Austinus about this? He wheeled a barrow to Flaccus. “I’ve just been talking to the Comes about my people in the North. What it will take to convert them to Christianity. The True Faith,” he added.

  Flaccus dug his pitchfork into the smelly pile and grunted. “Don’t you need to be a priest to be a missionary?”

  “No, not at all,” Javor said quickly.

  Flaccus grunted again and shovelled more manure into the barrow. “You’ve got a pretty sweet deal, here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You do about half the work of any of the rest of us.” Flaccus’s tone was flat, neutral; anyone but Javor would know he was bitter. “No after-school chores. No stable chores. Just a little help in the kitchen—that’s all they ask of you.”

  Javor thought hard. “Well, the missionary training is pretty tough. I have to learn… another whole language.”

  Flaccus leaned on his manure shovel. “Oh really? I thought you already spoke Slavic.”

  “I’m not ‘Slavic,’ Flaccus,” Javor protested. “I told you: my people are the ‘Sklaveni.’”

  “Okay, okay,” Flaccus waved.

  They were interrupted by Brother Sergius. “Fall out in the main courtyard. We’re going to see a Triumph.”

  “What’s a Triumph?” Javor asked, but Sergius ignored him.

  “Whose Triumph is it?” Flaccus asked, putting his pitchfork in its place and brushing off his cassock.

  “General Priscus has returned victorious from a campaign against the Slavs,” Sergius said, and Flaccus turned to Javor and raised a single eyebrow. “We are all going to the Mese to watch the parade.”

  Within the hour, the entire Abbey, priests, monks, novices and the few initiates like Javor were trooping down the hill toward the Mese. Because the big thoroughfare would be dominated by rich people, Father Albertus decided they should all walk through the side-streets toward the Tetrapylon, the great four-sided gate where the Mese intersected Embolos Avenue.

  They were paralleled as they walked by the Sisters of the Convent of St. Mary. Dressed all in white robes and kerchiefs, the Sisters did their best to snub the Brothers.

  The closer they got to the Mese, the heavier the crowds got. Before they were halfway to their destination, the Brothers and the Sisters were separated by throngs of other Byzantines, all hurrying to get a look at the triumphant army on its return.

  Javor was soon separated from the rest of the monks. He looked up and down the broad avenue, lined with spectators and scattered Praetorian Guards, but he couldn’t see anyone else from the Abbey. But he forgot about looking for them when the Triumph came into view.

  For the first time, Javor saw the true might and majesty, the basis of the power of the Roman Empire: its Legions. Looking at the Equites on horseback, capes fluttering in the April breeze, at the ranks upon ranks of proud Legionnaires, stepping high with straight legs, Javor felt there was nothing on earth that could stand against them. The men looked—indomitable. Where did I learn that word? Their faces were proud, stern, terrible. They looked straight ahead, to the future, confident in their power to continue the Empire forever.

  Then came hundreds, thousands of prisoners: men, women and children tied and chained at the necks and legs; some were cramped into rough yet sturdy wooden cages on wagons pulled by oxen. The cages were not high enough for the men to stand up straight, and many prisoners bore terrible wounds. They wore only dirty rags. The women stood staring wide-eyed, hands like claws around the wooden bars. The children were dirty and slumped; their eyes looked dead. “They say General Priscus brings more than seventeen thousand prisoners back from the war against Bayan, Khagan of the Avars,” said someone beside Javor.

  Avars! The word ran through Javor like a blade. He remembered the fur-hatted horsemen on the hillside on his birthday—not even a year ago, but it seemed like a different world. He remembered their cruelty, remembered old Oresh falling under their mace, remembered Elli’s screams as Krajan and his men took her and Grat for multiple rape. The dirty, broken men in the cages didn’t look like they were capable of cruelty anymore. “The Empire defeated the Avars?”

  “In battle after battle, Priscus defeated and routed them!” gushed the man beside Javor. He was thin and had light-brown skin and lots of curly black hair. White teeth flashed under a prominent nose. “He killed sixty thousand of the barbarians!”

  “Just Avars? Some of those prisoners look like Sklavenes.”

  “Huh? You mean Slavs? Probably. They’re servants of the Avars.”

  “No, they’re not. I’m Sklavenic—a ‘Slav.’” Javor did not know why he felt angry.

  “Oh—sorry. I thought you were Sarmatian.”

  Javor’s anger deflated. He had never heard of Sarmatians. He turned his attention back to the parade. After what seemed like hours, the train of prisoners passed. Behind them was another troop of soldiers in splendid uniforms and gleaming armour, and behind them, a great wagon pulled by a team of enormous horses. On the wagon was
a huge cage made of polished bronze, and inside the cage, sitting on a small but splendid chair of wood and bronze, sat a thin, young woman dressed in long, colourful robes. Her long brown hair hung down in waves behind her, tied with a golden ribbon. She had an oval face and a long nose, but the most striking thing about her were her big, green eyes. In her thin face, they looked even bigger, and sad beyond anything Javor had ever seen.

  Javor gasped. The thin man beside him looked at him quizzically.

  Javor could not take his eyes off the girl in the cage. Even though her clothes were resplendent, shimmering under the afternoon sun in more colours than Javor could ever name, he recognized her. It was Danisa.

  She had the same half-starved appeal, the same look of wonder and terror in her eyes as Elli on the night he had brought her back from being kidnapped by the Avars. Behind Danisa, in another, plain wooden cage on another, plain wagon, was a small group of other women, wearing plain, rough-looking robes and dark scarves.

  “Why is that girl in the cage?” he asked.

  “Her?” The dark-haired man squinted. “She’s the barbarian princess, Ingund. The most valuable hostage. The daughter of some Slavic king who’s a vassal of Bayan. Pretty enough, if you like that type. Kind of thin, though. She’ll probably be married to some Roman or Greek nobleman.The ladies behind her are her noble ladies. Or what passes for nobles among the barbarians.”

  Javor could not believe his eyes. It was Danisa. His Danisa. “Ingund? How do you know she’s named ‘Ingund’?”

  The dark man shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s the word around town.”

  “If she’s going to be married, why does she look so sad? And why is she in a cage?”

  The dark man sputtered for a moment. “Well, it’s not her choice. She’s a princess! Her marriage is part of the peace treaty between Rome and whatever God-forsaken country she comes from!”

  Javor watched the girl as her wagon slowly rolled past. She was trembling, and the crowds along the street were taunting her, hurling insults. Javor wondered if she could understand the language, but even if she couldn’t, she must have understood the tone, the intent to jeer and humiliate the enemy’s princess. But she ignored the crowd, looking down at her feet. The ladies behind her were all crying.

  “Danisa! Danisa!” he called, as loudly as he could, when her cage-wagon passed him. But she didn’t hear him.

  “What’s wrong?” the dark-haired man asked. “Do you know her?”

  Javor shook his head, fighting back tears. Something told him to keep his knowledge to himself. What would people think? He watched Danisa until her cage was out of sight.

  The final display of the parade came into view: the triumphant general, Priscus, in shining silver armour decorated with gold tassels and bracelets. His helmet was plated with a gold eagle on the front, and was topped with a huge plume of pure white horse-hair. A white and gold cape fluttered from his shoulders in the morning breeze. He rode in a gilded chariot, driven by a tall black slave and pulled by two huge white horses, and he waved and smiled at the crowds who cheered as he went by.

  “That’s Priscus!” shouted the dark-haired man.

  “He’s so handsome!” exclaimed an older woman behind him.

  Priscus seemed to be a typical Roman to Javor: short, with dark curls escaping from under the helmet ; a broad face with a heavy nose and mouth. He looks a lot like Antonio. But I'll bet he has all his teeth.

  They watched the parade go by until it had disappeared down the Mese, presumably to be greeted by the Emperor. The crowd was excited. Men congratulated each other on the power of the Legions and the intelligence and prowess of the general as if they had personally and single-handedly defeated the Avar Khagan.

  Danisa. What are you doing in Constantinople? Why do people call you Ingund? Javor found the other monks on his way back to the Abbey. He kept thinking about Danisa in the pond, the way the wet cloth clung to her skin, the way the sunlight flickered in her green eyes, the shape of her mouth and her long chin. He thought of how they had made love that night when they both had too much to drink. But more than anything else, he thought of her green eyes. Her big, bright green eyes that seemed to know everything.

  You said you were the daughter of the hetman. I guess that makes you a princess. But how did you get back home? Or did you? Are you really a captive?

  Was anything you said true?

  At the Abbey, he went immediately to find Austinus. “Domestikos? Did you see the parade?”

  “Parade? The Triumph? Well, I saw some of it from the high window as it went along the Mese. Why do you ask?”

  “Did you see the girl in the cage? The princess?”

  “Ingund? Yes, I saw her. Pretty little thing, but terribly thin. Poor girl.”

  “What will happen to her?”

  “Why, she will be married to the son of a senator or proconsul or one of the Emperor’s high officials. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, she didn’t look very happy. Not like a bride going to her wedding.”

  “She is more than just a bride on her way to a wedding, Javor. She is a princess, a representative of her nation. Her happiness is not at issue.”

  “Well, it doesn’t seem very fair.”

  “Fair? Her marriage may stabilize relations between her nation, whatever it is, and Rome. Is it fair that young Gothic or Slavic men should die at the Legions’ swords? Is it fair that Gothic and Slavic towns should be razed and children orphaned and enslaved?”

  Javor was shocked. He had never dreamed of the way that international politics worked. Princesses marry foreign princes to guarantee a peace treaty. He stared at the floor while that idea settled in his brain. “So, is she a prisoner?”

  “Oh, without question. She is no more free than her countrymen who are even now being sold on the slave block. But she will be far more comfortable. Her only duty will be to produce sons for her husband.”

  Austinus sat down on a wooden bench. “Tell me, Javor, among your people, does a young girl choose her husband?”

  “Well, not on her own. The boy—the man—is supposed to be the one who chooses the wife and pursues her. He’s supposed to ask her father permission to marry her. But if a girl likes a boy, she has ways to let him know. And then the parents get involved. Sometimes too much. I know one boy who liked a girl, but his mother didn’t like her mother and wouldn’t let him marry her. But usually, the girl likes the boy she marries. And she at least knows him.”

  “Ah, yes. That is the difficulty for the girl. I imagine it is the source of her greatest discomfort: the fear of what she might find when she meets her husband-to-be for the first time.”

  Javor thought about Danisa in her multi-coloured robes and in her wooden cage, about her sad, sad face and big green eyes. So much like Elli, yet so different. “Where will she live?” he asked, and noticed that the sun was getting low. Verros would be screaming at the novices in the kitchen to get the evening meal ready.

  “I do not know. In some well-defended palace in the Caenopolis section, I expect. Comfortable, prestigious as befits the intended bride of a senator’s son, but easy to defend so that she does not escape.”

  “When will the wedding happen?”

  Austinus shrugged again. “Probably not for some months. There will be a lot of preparations and celebrations along the way of a royal wedding.”

  I wonder if I could break her out of there? No, that’s crazy. Impossible! How would I get her out of the city? And it would cause another war!

  He realized then that he had fallen in love with Danisa long before that day by the pond. And he also realized that he really had no way of knowing how she felt about him.

  Chapter 26: Examining the dagger

  The next morning, Nikos fetched Javor immediately after breakfast, asked him to bring his dagger and led him to a square outbuilding beside the main Abbey building. I always have my dagger. And my amulet.

  The inside of the square building was brightly lit by large wi
ndows almost the full size of the northern wall. Shields and armour hung on wooden racks, spears tied together like sheaves of wheat stood near the walls, swords hung from pegs on the walls, helmets lined up like severed heads on shelves with other metal, wooden and leather gear that Javor couldn’t identify. At one end, a forge threw off a little heat.

  In the midst of the armour, weapons, frames, tables and benches were the Comes Austinus with Philip, Malleus and another man Javor had never seen before. He was tall and thin and completely bald; the corners of his eyes and his mouth drooped slightly so that he looked continuously sad.

  “Ah, good morning, Javor!” Austinus said. Behind him, the bald man looked at Javor with a slightly guilty expression. “So good of you to come so early. As you know, I have been looking into your mysterious dagger—or trying to. I have not managed to get very far.” He turned to the bald man. “So, I have called on my good friend, here, an expert on metals and metal-working and a fellow Gnostic, although not a member, per se, of our Order. Javor, this is Pello Hephastios. Pello, Javor, the young man from the North I was telling you about.”

  Pello nodded and smiled sadly. “Hello, Javor. A pleasure to meet you.”

  “And you,” Javor replied, remembering his manners. “What is this place?”

  “This is the Order’s armory,” said Malleus. “Not many people are allowed in here.”

  “Only the Initiates,” said Austinus. “But everyone here knows we have an Armory. While it doesn’t seem to be in keeping with the Lord’s message of peace, it is necessary to keep one for our own defence in case of an emergency, or if the Emperor calls upon us to do our duty for defence of the Empire. Malleus is our Chief Armourer.” Malleus bowed ironically.

  “Now, my boy, would you let me see your dagger again?” Austinus asked. Reluctantly, Javor drew it out and put it in the Comes’ hand. Austinus watched it catch the early sun’s light, then passed it to Pello.

  “Well, Javor, you have a certainly fascinating dagger,” Pello said.