Shards of Empire

by Susan Shwartz

  “And who are you? Ducas! Princeling from the city that throws us away...”

  “He came here, turned his back on them ... he was to be a monk...”

  “Some fine monk, visiting the Jews’ house!”

  “Look at him, city man with that great monster in the red tunic always stalking along behind him. Needs only his axe—I tell you, he's going to use us for an army to go back and become Emperor himself; and then what? Throw us away again?”

  “Say, he's a good one. He fought for us. Brought us the hermit. If he says he turned his back on his fine folk, I believe him.”

  “You really think he's going to make a run for the Empire, if what you say is true about the girl?”

  “Shut that down. How'd you like someone speaking that way of your daughter? And she's sitting right there, quiet as you please...”

  Asherah was too old, had seen too much to blush this way. She nodded, practically a bow of gratitude at how the merchant had intervened.

  “What's it to them? Any time they want, they can get out of here...”

  “Look, the old man, the chief Jew, you know which one, wants to speak again. You'd think he would keep his mouth shut in this town when it's not a matter of trade, wouldn't you?”

  “They're crazy. Why else would they deny Christ? But they're not cowards. Come on, brothers, let the man speak!”

  “Good people, let me speak.” To Asherah's utter horror, Joachim rose again. She twisted fingers in the folds of her robes to conceal how they trembled. The somber luxury of her father's clothing fell about him, giving him a quiet dignity equal to that of the priests. Too often and too long in this Empire, they had to conceal themselves. Let the Christians see.

  “I need not tell you I am a stranger in a strange land, a guest in your country,” he spoke quietly, without rhetorical tricks or a hint of foreign accent. “I know the risk that I take in setting my word against that of a holy man, though he has allowed me to call him ‘friend’ for many years. But listen to me!

  “One thing we Jews know...”

  “Is how to turn dung to gold!”

  “Or anything else!”

  At least the laughter that followed those interruptions was good-natured, for now.

  Joachim shook his head. “It's true that God has blessed my hard work with success, which some of you have shared. Now, I have not survived to this ... somewhat surprising age of mine without knowing how to survive and how to face facts. Here are the facts I would lay before you: we are far from the Empire's great capital, and the roads—I do not think we can rely on them for messages or help. Empires rise, and empires fall. And right now, I fear we are on our own to thrive or perish as our wits and strength serve us.”

  “So, do you run, old Jew? Is that your way? Grow rich here, and, as soon as you see danger, run away?”

  Asherah clenched her hands in her lap, thankful for veils that concealed what she knew to be a dagger-glance. These fools, these fools saw courage only in the sword. What did they know of the courage that made you run and live when lying down to die would hurt less? What did they know of the pride that forced you to rebuild, when you might have wallowed with pigs, of all unclean things, in their sties? They spoke of an ancient past: compared with hers, what was their Empire but the twinkling of an eye?

  “Here I am, and here I stay!” Joachim shouted back, taunted beyond his facade of humility. “I tried to send my daughter away. She is the only hope of my house. Do you think I do not want her safe? But she will not go.”

  The people turned toward her. She relaxed her hands and raised her head, trying to look fearless, like a great lady in whose presence people should not jeer, rather than a disobedient child. Leo caught her eye and gestured reassurance at her. The yells died down to mutters, then subsided.

  “She insisted on coming here tonight, too,” Joachim forced a rueful smile, as if he had been overruled by a much-loved child. “But, if any of you have children of less spirit, I will gladly find places for them in my caravans—those that the Turks let through. You choose.”

  “You say we're cut off, then?” demanded one of the merchants.

  “We don't leave our land. Ten generations on it and buried in it...” a farmer shouted. “Too bad if I'm the eleventh, but that's how it is.”

  “Then, what do you intend?” Joachim cut in as smoothly as Asherah had ever seen him press a point. “If you will learn from me and my people's history: we have seen enemies come and enemies go. Pharaoh, Antiochus, Herod: they came, they conquered, they faded into time; and we remained. That Turk can tell you. His kin respect people of the Book.”

  “They respect courage too!”

  Underfoot, the ground rumbled. Joachim swayed somewhat.

  “Yes, they respect courage. There are many kinds of courage. Which will you choose?”

  “My children...” Meletios’ voice was very faint. Leo made frantic gestures for quiet. “Thank you, son. I shall be better as soon as I can rest. My friend Joachim and I, though we differ on points, as we have ever done, agree upon one thing. We cannot muster an army. We have no army to muster. He gives you the example of his own survival. I offer you the shield of faith.

  “Just like the valley I have been chosen to guard, this place has become a place of refuge, not just for men and women, but for what they believe. Thus it has been for untold years filled with prayer. Now—and this is a great mystery that I would not reveal to you if we did not stand beneath the shadow of death—in all those thousands of years, do you truly think that all the men and women who have lived here have vanished without a trace? Or that their beliefs have passed into silence? How can we say that when, every day, we live amid the relics of their errors—and when we have men and women who still cling to old ways among us?”

  I hope he knows what he is doing, Asherah thought. And that it's not “kill the Jews” again. The line of reasoning Meletios pursued could lead either to tolerance or death.

  “I am proud to call Reb Joachim friend. Some of these others, though, who died before we were born would never have been friend to me or anyone else here. I believe their spirits yet remain, inquiet among us, their spirits and those of their false gods. Like the plotters on Constantinople, they linger in the shadows, wishing to rise, yet unable to seize power for themselves—

  “Until such a time as now! If we fight a war, I tell you, I fear that war is likely to make this land erupt in fire or sink in earthquakes or back into the sea from which it rose. It is for us to exorcise the land itself, to heal it. And we cannot do that if we fight!”

  Asherah met Joachim's eyes, and he shook his head. The man was old and sick, dying perhaps. And all these years, she had stubbornly refused to meet him. It was time to change this as so much else had changed. She rose to her feet, her silks flowing about her with a splendor that other women noticed and sighed at, and made her way to her father.

  “This crowd is too much for him,” her father told Leo. “But if I say ‘take him outside,’ they will swear that the ‘old Jew’ means to smuggle him out of the way, then kill him.”

  “I can arrange that,” said Father Demetrios.

  He gestured, not daring, despite his priesthood, to clap his hands. No young men with strong backs—and hard heads—came promptly up; they were all shouting. Instead, the tallest of the former nuns approached.

  “The holy father is ill and would rest.”

  Sister Xenia nodded. The former nun beckoned to her sisters. “If you permit, we will bear you hence,” she offered. She paused, as if waiting for a protest, either from Meletios or from the other nuns. Here, at what seemed like the end of their world, it was forgiveness of a sort.

  The old man sighed, submitting to a return of good for exile. “It is as it must be.”

  Their active lives had kept the nuns strong, despite their age. As one, they stooped and lifted the pallet on which the hermit lay, and left the room, marching as if in some procession.

  Sister Xenia swept her eyes across the r
oom. They fell upon Asherah and paused. The tall old woman strode toward her, seized her by the wrist, and pulled her along until she stood before the ancient priest.

  “Do you think we don't know why you have not shown proper respect to your father's friend and a holy man?” asked Xenia. “We are going to forgive him now. So are you.”

  Asherah suppressed a laugh that might have caused a riot. If Father Meletios wanted the Jewish woman to accompany him, then she would—whether she chose or not.

  She lifted her veil and sank down. She did not kneel, she told herself, before a holy man, but in order that she could meet the eyes of her father's friend.

  No, that was wrong, too: Meletios was blind, wasn't he? She could not think of him as a blind man. His eyes lifted, then, and she saw that they were dark, quite burned out by the sun or some other affliction. The thing that made her trust her dreams resonated within her, and she knew he saw her with eyes other than those of the body.

  “So you are my old friend's daughter? And have you forgiven me for taking your father from you at times, and for barring women from my valley?”

  “If the sisters can put anger aside, it is surely foolish in me to hold such anger now.”

  “I would bless you,” Meletios said, “but you are your father's daughter, stiff-necked as he—and all your ancient kind. But there is one gift I would give you. Will you will take it?” His voice trailed up, and he raised his hand. Asherah caught her breath at how the thin brown fingers trembled as they groped for Leo's hand.

  “Come here, my son, just for a moment, while they shout at one another. Here,” Meletios whispered. He held Leo's hand and reached out for hers, just as her father had done.

  Father Demetrios’ face, though he dared say nothing, went blacker than his robes. The nuns sank to their knees and whispered. “I knew from the moment she came here that she was the one chosen,” Xenia whispered. “Praise...” her voice trailed off into prayer.

  Asherah placed her hand in the old man's callused, dry one.

  He joined the hands he held and lowered his head, murmuring prayers Asherah had never expected to hear, least of all for her.

  Leo's eyes sought hers, shy, after what had passed between them. He flushed deeply: well enough, she too found herself hot with blushes. He bowed his head and murmured as the old man instructed him.

  “Canon law forbids...” Joachim commented.

  “Still clinging to the letter of the law, are you? For once, let a Christian get the better of you, old friend. In this case, I think we had best obey its spirit,” said the old man. “I have done what I can. You will no doubt insist that your own holy men can do it better.”

  He turned to Asherah. “Now, daughter, you repeat...”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. This was not what she had been led to expect; she had been led to expect nothing. But Leo's hand held hers, and she found breath and voice to whisper her unexpected vows.

  Leo reached for the veils wreathing Asherah's hair as if they were a marriage crown. The assault of sweat and sheep and spices and fear upon her nostrils gave way to memories of incense and cinnamon and of thrumming in her blood. She swayed toward Leo, who reached out to embrace her.

  “Later,” said Father Demetrios. “Let them know outside, and you will have a riot instead of a wedding feast.” There would be no time for such a feast, but he looked as sour as if the food lay spoiled upon his table. He was being sensible, Asherah knew: Meletios’ impulse was likely to strike a lot of people here as a violation. Leo pressed her hand.

  “Lift me up,” Meletios pleaded with Leo. “Help me!” He looked at Joachim.

  “He is exhausted; he should rest. I could tend him.” Pity made her blurt it out.

  “On your wedding night, my daughter? Ah, I shall be resting sooner than you. I beg you, just let me speak, and I am done.”

  “He's probably never begged in his life,” Joachim told Leo. “Better do as he says.”

  Leo gestured to the nuns. Will you carry him back outside? He released Asherah's hand.

  The buzzing in the outer room swelled into a roar as they entered. Leo entered the room and shouted for quiet.

  Meletios raised himself on one elbow. Asherah sensed the prickling of energy, summoned and waiting for use, waiting for a sick old man to draw it from the earth, up along his spine, and let it manifest to the nuns and the town priest. A light gleamed about his face, and they gasped.

  He was consuming himself, and he knew it as well as she.

  “One thing more,” the hermit said. “I am leaving you now. Tell the others. This too I leave with you to tell them, whatever you decide are the fit tasks of younger men, yes, and women too. I commend you all to God's mercy. My task now is simple: guard the way and pray for all your souls. I have never ceased to pray. As soon as I can, I shall take up the role of guardian again.”

  Meletios sagged back. This time he did not refuse restoratives. “Now, take me from this place,” he said. “I want to go home.”

  Joachim nodded. This sounded too much like a conspiracy for Asherah's liking: get her out of there; it was no place for a woman; we want you safe. At the same time, Meletios had just joined her hand and Leo's. She could remember the pressure of his fingers and the warmth of Meletios’ hand, protecting both of them. This might be all the marriage she was going to have, and she hardly felt like spoiling it with a quarrel. But she would have to be, she saw, very, very watchful lest her father and—would the Christians really consider them wed?—her husband Leo ally against her to keep her safe and ignorant.

  Just let them try.

  Once again, the nuns picked up Meletios’ litter. Hardly a bridal procession, was it? Her eyes met Leo's. What she saw in them robbed her of breath and made her kindle again as if they stood in the deepest city-caves and the seductions of incense, music, and ancient memories ringed them about.

  Leo's eyes darkened as they had in the underground ways when he had spoken her name in a voice that made her shake; and his breath came faster.

  Asherah replaced her veil, but not before she let her father and her new husband see her ironic smile. For now, she would obey, because it suited her. Later on, it would suit her to extract from them every detail of every decision that was made. She stopped on a sudden revelation.

  Leo would be returning home with her. “On your wedding night?” Father Meletios had teased her gently. Beneath her veil, she raised her fingers to her lips. They were trembling as if Leo had already kissed them to breathlessness.

  A yowl, a scrabbling of claws on stone ... instantly, Leo awoke, sweating in fear. He forced himself to lie motionless, eyes closed, even as he eased his hand toward the weapon he kept hidden beneath a tumble of pillows.

  There. The touch of the deadly metal strengthened him. Leo tensed, waiting.

  Another yowl. Something struck a wall, followed by an oath, as if someone had thrown a rock at one of the strays that prowled throughout town—and missed.

  Leo loosed his grip on the hilt of his sword and lay back, sighing with relief. The silk under which he had hidden the sword comforted his sweaty hand. The room in which he lay was fragrant and hung with heavy fabrics that glowed in the faint light of the tiny alabaster lamp glowing on a low table. Thank God, no danger this time. He raised his hand to bless himself and hesitated. Not here. There were no icons in this room and never would be.

  At least, the noise and his sudden alarm had not waked his wife of but a few weeks. The idea of Asherah in danger, Asherah needing protection, Asherah with only him and his pillow-sword to rely on made his heart pound in a very different way from other kinds of thoughts about her. At least, she had not seen him glance about instinctively for an icon.

  In sleep, Asherah's face was as serene as the statue of the goddess he had caressed in another, lonelier existence. The light glowed on her shoulder where tangled skeins of dark hair and the bedcoverings parted to reveal it. She had been brought up to modesty, but, since their marriage, she slept clad only in her hair
because he loved waking beside the silken warmth of her skin. It was a pleasure he had not known before.

  Now she opened her eyes. “How bad was the dream this time, love?” she asked softly.

  He had been so relieved when the buzzing in his brain from the blow he had taken at Manzikert had ceased, when he could sleep again, when no horrors had waked him. When, shortly after their marriage, his dreams had turned ... lively again, or the need to rise and prowl about, as if guarding his new home, drew him out of bed, his old fears of madness returned to humiliate him before his wife. “You're better off without me,” he had told Asherah. She had welcomed him with all her heart, shared herself and her family's treasures with him; and he was only a burden.

  “Don't be foolish,” she retorted. It was the closest she ever came to snapping at him. And then she had drawn him into her arms and showed him another reason for wanting to go on living.

  If Leo hadn't enough to do helping to fit into his new home and protect it, he really thought he could make a career out of being wrong and learning better. Asherah knew—she would know—what it was like to wake screaming from a dream. She believed that lives might depend on understanding what his dreams prophesied, and she was skilled in reading them. She knew, too, that dreams could mean the growth of further, and unwanted, powers. After that first nightmare, when all Leo could do was shiver with reaction and shame in her arms, he confessed his fears of madness to her. He had even told her about the hag, the earthquake, the storm. Then, the miracle had occurred: she had not thought he was insane.

  Asherah stirred. Leo shut his eyes. She had worked long and hard that day. Perhaps he could convince her he was sleeping before she came fully awake. He should have known better than that.

  “Leo,” her voice coaxed him, drawing out his name. She stretched out slim, bare arms, drawing him to rest against her breast.