“I was a prince of my tribe,” I told him, “but I put aside nobility long ago to become a servant of God. I was a priest for many years.”
“Ah, I see! A servant of the Most High, Allah be praised! Servant and slave, yes. This is important.” He lay aside the scroll and folded his hands in his lap. “Now I must meditate on this matter. Farewell, my friend.”
“I am to leave?”
“Leave me now, yes. But return tomorrow and we will talk again, God willing.”
“Very well,” I agreed, rising to my feet. “Good day to you, Amet.”
“God go with you, Aedan, my friend.” He touched his forehead with his fingertips and, closing his eyes, arranged himself in an attitude of meditation, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees.
I left him like that, a small island of calm in the midst of the swirling eddies of the busy market. On my way back to the eparch’s residence, however, I debated within myself whether to go back to him, for I had begun to doubt whether any good could come of knowing whatever Amet might tell me. By the time I reached the eparch’s door, I had decided that my own premonitions of the future were confusing enough; it would be better for me not to know any more than I knew already.
This I told myself a hundred times over, and resolved to stay away. But the heart is desperately wicked, and men often fail to do what is best for them. Alas! My once solid resolve had dwindled to such a weak, enfeebled thing, that the next day I crept from the eparch’s house and hurried with hasty steps to the magus’s stall.
41
The Bishop of Trebizond did not approve of the fair; indeed, he abhorred it entirely, by reason of the fact that it led God’s most vulnerable children into doubt and error. He particularly disliked the potion sellers who preyed on the childless, the crippled, and the easily confused. “Worse than poison!” was his judgement on the concoctions they dispensed. “Dogs’ piss and vinegar would do a body more good,” he concluded, “and that you can get for nothing! They sell their vile concoctions at exorbitant rates to those least able to afford them, and then give their poor victims pernicious lies to swallow along with their foul elixirs. Soothsayers! Diviners! Magicians! I condemn them all.”
Despite the bishop’s censure, the people flocked to the fair, and most seemed to enjoy it—especially the farmers and village folk, many of whom brought their animals to the city for sale and trade. I respectfully submitted to the bishop that they could hardly be held to blame who had no priests to teach them or offer a better example.
“I have no qualm or sympathy for the pagani,” Bishop Arius asserted with some vigour. He had come to the eparch’s residence to pay his respects to the imperial envoy and, seeing that I was a monk—for so he perceived me—inquired after me while waiting for Nicephorus to receive him. We fell into discussion of the crowded conditions in the city, and one subject led onto another, as they will. “Unbelievers are none of my concern; they can do what they please. But Christians should not be seen supporting such confabulations. The wickedness proceeding from these fairs cannot be exaggerated.”
“Indeed,” I allowed, “yet there are Christians among the astrologers and seers. I was always taught that such practices were an abomination.”
“Then you were well taught,” replied the bishop tartly. “All such devilry is an abomination in the sight of God. Those are no true Christians you saw holding forth with the seers and soothsayers.”
“Are they not?”
“Be not deceived, son. They are Paulicians.” He said the word as if it were the name of a particularly hideous disease.
I had never heard of this sect, and told Arius so.
“Would that no one had ever heard of them,” he said pointedly. “Forewarned is forearmed, so know this: they are members of a heretical sect which promulgates the instruction of a misguided apostate—a man who styled himself a teacher, yet whose teaching was far, far removed from that of his blessed namesake.”
He spoke with such vehemence, I wondered what they could believe that would arouse such wrath. “These Paulicians,” I inquired, “is it that they believe a false doctrine? Or that they lead others astray with their teaching? Either way, why not simply excommunicate them and ban the belief?”
“That was done,” the bishop affirmed, “and accomplished with admirable vigour. But as sometimes happens, driving them out of the church has only made the sect stronger. It is no longer simply a matter of belief; their very existence is an offence against Heaven and all true Christians. What is more, they have amassed such power in certain quarters so as to choke out the very truth. Their doctrine—if the word can be used—is a perverted accretion of errors, lies, and half-truths.” Arius appeared to have swallowed something sour. “These Paulicians propound that God created only the heavens and the celestial lights, while the Evil One created earth and all upon it. Every other tenet of their belief flows from this.”
I observed that many people held such views—if not overtly, then at least in their tacit response to the world. “Many who call themselves Christians,” I suggested, “behave in such a way as to reveal a true belief in no way dissimilar to that which these Paulicians teach.”
The bishop rolled his eyes. “How well I know it, my friend. I have been twenty-eight years in the church, mind. No, no, it is not their assertion of an evil creator that is most offensive—if only they had stopped there! How much misery would have been prevented, only God can say. But they compound their sins, and go on adding lie to lie.
“For example, they say that the Lord Christ was merely an angel sent from Heaven to wage war against the Evil One,” Bishop Arius replied, his mouth squirming with distaste. “They insist that the Virgin Mary is but an ordinary woman, unworthy of devotion, or veneration, or indeed any special consideration. They hold not to Holy Scripture at all, and preach that all men are free to follow their own dictates since the laws laid down by God were for the Hebrews of old, and no longer concern right-thinking human beings. Accordingly, they do not believe in marriage, or any other sacrament, nor the primacy of the church, nor even baptism.”
“Shocking, to be sure,” I conceded, warming to the debate. How long had it been since I had discussed such matters of doctrine in a learned manner? “Still, they sound harmless enough.” Heresies abounded in the East, as everyone knew; and many were much worse than the benighted Paulicians.
“That is where you are wrong,” the churchman corrected. “They are not content to preach and teach, but persist in fomenting riots and uprisings in the provinces.”
“Over baptism?” I wondered aloud.
“Over taxes,” corrected the bishop. “Four thousand peasants and farmers were killed the last time. For this cause, and all the rest, they were purged from Constantinople. It is our misfortune that they fled east and now reside almost wholly in these much-disputed territories—at least, that is what is said. I have reason to believe, however, that very many yet reside in Constantinople, secretly, gnawing away like rats at the substance of the Holy Church. Rumour has it that some have even wormed their way to the very foot of the throne.”
“What do they want in Trebizond?” I wondered.
“They come here for the fair, like everyone else,” replied Arius. “They come from Tarsus, from Marash and Raqqa in the south, where it is said they have made alliance with the Muhammedans. In exchange for allegiance, the caliph allows them to practise their abominable religion. They are ever seeking converts among the discontented.”
I was on the point of asking him for a description of these Muhammedans when Nicephorus appeared and I was dismissed, whereupon I left the house and hastened to my consultation with Amet.
As I walked along the much-constricted street to the forum, I could not help reflecting on the fact that despite whatever Bishop Arius might say, the fair was well-attended by the humble churchgoers of Trebizond. Tiny golden crosses were purchased right alongside glass amulets to be worn as protection against the evil eye—for if angels stood ready to aid the
God-fearing, then demons were just as eager to harm them; and if Christians could command angels, then the wicked could certainly command devils.
In this and other ways, it seemed to me that most of the bishop’s flock were far closer to these Paulicians he despised, than to his orthodoxy. Still, it was merely a matter of passing interest; I told myself that I was finished with such tedious matters of the faith. The rise or fall of an obscure sect was nothing to me.
These thoughts occupied me as I made my way among the magicians’ stalls set up in the forum: crystal-gazers and potion-makers, men who foretold the future in the livers of freshly killed animals, the amulet-sellers, purveyors of incense and readers of knucklebones and gopher sticks.
In the encampment of the astrologers, I found Magus Amet in much the same posture as I had left him the day before. He opened his eyes at my arrival, welcomed me, and bade me to sit, patting the cushion beside him. Then, turning to a copper pot which was steaming over a small fire, he lifted the vessel and poured a thin brown liquid into two tiny glass cups sitting on a brass tray. Holding the tray, he offered me a cup, saying, “Refresh yourself, my friend.”
Accepting the cup, I lifted it to my lips. It was very hot, so I hesitated. “Drink! Drink! It will not harm you,” Amet said. Taking up his cup, he sipped the hot liquid noisily into his mouth. “Ah! Most refreshing, you will find.”
The stuff smelled vaguely herbal, so I sipped at it and found the taste not unpleasant—a little like rose petals combined with tree bark, and something slightly fruity. “It is very nice, Amet,” I said. Even as I swallowed down the elixir, my heart began beating faster for word of what he had to tell me.
“You are wondering,” he said, “if I have discovered anything of interest to you.”
“That I am,” I granted, “though I must confess that all my teaching prior to this moment has warned me against trifling with the forces of darkness.”
“Forces of darkness?” Amet raised his eyebrows high. “Hoo! Listen to you! If that is what you believe, then be gone from me. Shoo! Go away.”
“Truly,” I told him, shaking my head, “I no longer know what I believe.”
“Then allow me to assure you, my sceptical friend, that I have not spent my life in the pursuit of trifles. The same God—the very same—who set the stars in motion guides my sight along Future’s course. This is my belief.”
We sipped our drink in silence for a time, and then Amet put aside his cup and slapped his knees with the palms of his hands. “I have discovered many things about you, my friend,” he said. “Whether they are of interest to you is another matter, and one which you alone must decide. Shall I tell you?”
“Yes, tell me. I am not afraid.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed as he looked at me. “Fear comes into your mind very quickly. When I said you were a seer, you protested to me that you were not. Yet I know that you are, and I think you have seen something of what the future holds for you, or fear would have no place in your thoughts.”
“It may be as you say,” I allowed vaguely, trying not to give away any more to him than that. If his abilities were genuine, and I truly hoped they were, I wanted to learn from an untainted source.
“Since that is the way of it,” Amet continued, “what can I tell you that you do not already know?”
This seemed to me a ruse—a trick to coax the ignorant or gullible into revealing more about themselves, details which the seer could then claim as proof of his veracity and craft. “Pretend I know nothing of which you speak, for indeed—with all respect, Amet—you have told me nothing.”
The old man’s wrinkles rearranged themselves into an expression of deepest pity. “Very well,” he said, choosing a scroll from among those in his basket. He unrolled the parchment and studied it for a moment, then began to read aloud. “All praise to Allah, Wise and Magnificent, Ruler of Realms, Progenitor of Peoples and Nations! Blessings to all who honour His name.” So saying, he bowed his head three times, then raised his eyes to me and said, “You, my friend, are destined for greatness.” Holding up a finger, he warned, “But this will not be won without great sacrifice. This is God’s decree: virtue is purchased in the marketplace of torment; he who would be great among men must first be brought low. Amen, so be it.”
The old seer’s pronouncement was unexpected and disappointing; it was, in fact, considerably less than I had hoped. My heart sank low to hear what I considered an extremely meek and ordinary announcement—nothing more than a dubious and ambiguous declaration united to a tired aphorism. Was this the wisdom dispensed by the Ruler of the Universe?
“I thank you, Amet,” I said, trying to conceal my disappointment. I replaced my cup on the brass tray and prepared to take my leave. “I will heed your words.”
“You are disappointed,” the magus said. “I can see it in your eyes. You think me a fool.”
“No,” I said quickly. “I think—that is, I hoped you would tell me something I did not know.”
“And I have already said that I can tell you nothing you do not already know, yes?” He frowned fiercely. “Speak plainly, priest. Why did you come to me?”
“I thought you might tell me about my death.”
He peered at my face as if at one of his scrolls. “At last we come to it,” he said.
“Have you seen this?”
“It is tempting fate to speak of death. Since you insist, however, speak of it we will.”
Closing his eyes, he placed the palms of his hands over his face and began to rock gently back and forth. This continued for a little time, and then he whispered, “Amen”.
Opening his eyes, he regarded me with a strange expression. “You have recently escaped death, and you will again. Your enemies are never who they seem, but be warned: your true enemy is very near; his hand is concealed and ready to strike.”
Although this was scarcely less vague than what he had said before, I felt a thrill of recognition as he spoke.
“A captive you are, yet you will change one captivity for another before your true nature is revealed. This is not to be wondered at, neither feared. For your salvation is assured, though your safety is ever in doubt.” Raising his hands either side of his face, palm outward, Amet bowed three times, saying, “This I have seen. May Allah, Ever Merciful, be praised!”
We made our farewells, then, and I offered the old magus the silver coin Gunnar had given me. “It is all I have,” I told him, “but you are welcome to it.”
Amet refused, however, saying that if he could not accept money from another seer, still less could he take it from a slave. “Spend it on yourself, Aedan,” the seer called after me as I left. “The small joy it brings will be the last you will know for a very long time.”
As I had nothing else in mind, I determined to do as he suggested, and the notion stimulated me. I had rarely had any money, and had never spent any on myself. I stood looking around, wondering how best to dispose of my coin. Sure, anything could be bought in the market—from wart potions to Persian parchment and red parrots.
What should I do with the money? The question posed something of a dilemma. The experience of spending was so peculiar to me that with the whole of the market before me, I was stymied—by the multiplicity of choice as much as by the singularity of the experience.
I wandered through the market and the nearby streets rapt in thought over this unexpected problem. I examined soft leather shoes, and silk rugs; I considered buying a knife, and then thought I might like a small purse of fine leather—but, having bought it, I would have nothing to put in it.
Enjoy, Amet had suggested. What would I enjoy?
Just as I posed this question my eye fell upon a young woman standing beside a pillar beneath a covered colonade. She was swathed in finest silk of red and yellow, and on her feet were white sandals with straps of braided gold. Her hair was dark, and fell about her shoulders in a mass of tight curls. I must have stared too openly, for she noticed my glance, smiled, and beckoned me with a
gesture I had seen many times since coming to Trebizond.
In truth, it was only upon seeing her crook her finger in that certain way that I knew the trade she practised. Though it brings me no honour to say it, even as I took my first step towards her, I made up my mind to avail myself of her services. As I had never done this before—indeed, I had never lain with a woman—I did not know how the bargain was struck. Instantly, I was overwhelmed by the most delicious uncertainty. My heart began to beat fast, and my palms grew damp. When I opened my mouth to speak, I found the words strange on my tongue.
Recognizing inexperience when she saw it, the young woman smiled. Shifting her garment slightly, she revealed to me one smooth, shapely white shoulder. My eye travelled down to the swell of her breast to see the rosy tip of her nipple before she adjusted her garment once more. “Would you like to come with me?” she asked. Her voice was not as lilting or as sweet as I had imagined it would be, but it was agreeable nonetheless.
Not trusting my voice, I simply nodded. She smiled again, and stepped behind the pillar. I followed, almost trembling with excitement, and noticed that there were other women waiting further back in the shadows. They took not the slightest notice of us.
“Do you have money?” She put out her hand to stroke my arm.
I nodded again. “Yes.”
She smiled again, and put her hand to the side of my face. The touch tingled on my flesh. Thinking that this is where the act began, I raised my hand to her cheek. She pulled her clothing aside to expose her breast. “Let me see the money first.”
I reached into my belt and withdrew the silver coin. The young woman stiffened. “More,” she said. “Show me more.”
Perplexed, I said, “This is all I have.”
Shrugging her clothing back into place, she pushed me from her. “Ten denarii!” she sneered. “I do not even bend over for less than fifty.”
Stunned by the sudden change in her demeanour, I repeated, “It is all I have.”
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