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CHAPTER FOUR

“PRAY FOR US ALL”

Later that afternoon the Holy Synod of the Church of Kórynthia met in formal assembly in the annex of Saint Konstantín’s Cathedral in Paltyrrha, presided over by the octogenarian Avraäm iv Kôrbinos, Patriarch of Paltyrrha and All Kórynthia.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” the old man said, bowing his head. “Let us pray.”

After some small time spent in contemplation and self-examination, the secretary of the synod, the Protopres­byter Varlaám Njégosh, introduced the matter which had prompted this meeting. Varlaám was a man of about forty years, distinguished by the prominent hawk nose and widow’s peak of his ancient noble family, which hailed from Érskeburg east of Arrhénë.

“My lords spiritual,” he said, wheezing, “metropolitans and archbishops, Thrice Holy Patriarch”—he bowed unctu­ously in the direction of their leader—“a matter has been brought before us that requires your most urgent attention. Permission has been sought by the king to bury the late Lord Feognóst, a suicide, in hallowed ground, something that is clearly forbidden under canon law. Because this is a matter of great import, involving one of the leaders of state, the Archbishop of Paltyrrha”—he again nodded in the direction of Avraäm—“has asked for your advice in synod before rendering a reply to King Kyprianos. What say you?”

Ismaêl Metropolitan of Myláßgorod, whose beard reached down almost to his broad waist, spoke first, being the se­nior serving member of the group.

“The law is clear on this matter. If Lord Feognóst died by his own hand, then he must not be interred in hal­lowed soil.”

Metropolitan Timotheos lifted his brows in re­sponse.

“According to Fra Jánisar,” he said, “the man acted under a compulsion. If another forced him to fall upon his sword, this was murder, and the blame falls on the perpe­trator, not on Feognóst. I believe we should give him the benefit of the doubt, and honor him for his service to the king. Let him be buried with his family.”

Philoxenos Gôritzos, Metropolitan of Bolémiagrad, agreed: “We must always act as Christians, not only in name, but in deed. If there is any doubt regarding the way in which he died, we should let God decide.”

However, Zôïlos apo Prousês, Archbishop of Velyaminó, said: “I disagree. A public suicide cannot be excused or amended. Thousands of his soldiers saw him do it. To allow him to be interred in hallowed ground is to tell the world that we will acquiesce to the demands of the state if enough pressure is put upon us. No! A thousand times, I say, no!”

But he was outvoted by Eudoxios Metropolitan of Susafön, and by the Metropolitans and Archbishops Angelar­ios, Hierônymos, Nestorios, Iôsêph, and Konôn, while Kyriakos and Mêtrophanês sided with Ismaêl.

Finally, the patriarch spoke in his quavering voice.

“My brothers,” he said, “we can add little to this debate, other than to voice our own dismay at what is hap­pening to our belovèd land. This is Satan’s work”—they all murmured their agreement—“and we must take every step necessary to purge this evil from our council halls. Therefore, we propose that the king be requested to allow the Protopresbyter Varlaám to exorcise his court and coun­cilors, and also the generals and officers who will soon be leading our soldiers against the papist-loving Walküri. May we hear your voices united in support of this initia­tive?”

They all agreed, without dissent, and deputized Metropolitan Timotheos to approach the War Council with the suggestion.

“As far as Lord Feognóst is concerned,” Avraäm said, “we propose that he be buried conditionally with his relatives, with the language of the service subtly altered to take into account the unique circumstances of his pass­ing. We do not wish to offend the king, nor do we wish to divide the nation at the time of its great enterprise. We have spoken: let it be recorded,” he ordered Varlaám.

“Are there any other matters to be brought before this gathering?” he asked.

“Most Holy Patriarch,” Timotheos stated, “I again raise the issue of the vacant bishopric of Söpróny in Gär­rewestfählen, and propose that the Archpriest Athanasios Hokhanêmsos would be a most suitable candidate to fill that position.”

Metropolitan Ismaêl smiled his crooked smile, showing several teeth yellowed and furrowed like the well-worn fangs of some wild beast.

“We have heard this one before, brethren,” he said, “and I for one do not wish to hear of it again. The career of this Athanasios has been focused exclusively on the Megalê Scholê, and while this is an honorable position, to be sure, which none of us should scorn, nonetheless it has provided insufficient experience for the administration of an episcopal see. I propose the Archpriest Samouêl Kontarês, who has managed his several parish assignments with great skill during the last fifteen years.”

After much discussion, Ismaêl’s candidate was elected, by a vote of seven to five, several of Timotheos’s supporters being swayed by the evident competence of Kontarês, who was promptly confirmed in his new office by the patriarch. The consecration of the new bishop was scheduled for a week hence. Then the synod quietly ad­journed.

But Timotheos remained behind to discuss matters with his mentor.

“I’m very sorry, Timósha,” the older man said, looking every bit his eighty years, “you have not made a friend today.”

“Ismaêl was never a friend, holy father,” the metropolitan said, “and I’d rather have his enmity dis­played openly in the pasture than hidden somewhere in the vale. I didn’t really expect to win the appointment for Afanásy. I’m merely laying the foundation for the future.”

“My son, my son,” the patriarch said, clucking his tongue, “your deviousness will be your undoing one day. These men are not as stupid as you sometimes think, and they resent being manipulated, particularly old Ismaêl, even though I know and he knows that you thereby accom­plish some ultimate great good for the church. But falter just once, Timósha, and they’ll turn on you, particularly after I’m gone. How will you come to sit in this chair by acting so foolishly?”

“I don’t want to sit in that chair, father,” the cleric said.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Avraäm said. “Do you think that I ever did? Do you think that I craved the power and the glory of leading the church? I refused the honor at first, did you know that? No, I see by your reaction that you didn’t.

“Well, twice I turned them down, and I was deter­mined to avoid the burden altogether, if necessary by re­turning to the cloister. Then Ismaêl, yes, that very one, he came to me privily and said that I must accept for the good of the church, that there was no one else who could assume the reins at that place and at that time without causing a di­vision in the ranks. And so I was persuaded to relent. I think he regrets his advice now, yes I do.

“But that’s the way that God works, my dear Timó­sha. You think that you can oppose what He wants, and then, poof!, suddenly things are turned upside down, and you’re acting on His behalf, just as our poor metropolitan did. Well, my time here is nearly done.”

“No, no, father,” the metropolitan said, “you’ll be guiding us for years yet to come.”

“Don’t humor me,” the octagenarian said. “I’ve been patriarch for a great many cycles now, as you well know, and I’ve been subject throughout that entire period to king and prince and metropolitan, all trying to get the ‘old man’ to do what they want.

“I attempt very hard to see things as they are. I know that I’m dying, at the very time when we are facing the worse crisis to affect our people in a generation, and I also know that you understand this full well, and have al­ready begun calculating the considerations and conse­quences thereof. But you forget, Timotheos, that however much you plan, you can never comprehend or circumvent God’s plan for you, or for this Church, or for this land. I know that you mean well, but there’s an arrogance yet in you that must be tamed if you’re to rule wisely.”

“But you just said, father,” the prelate said, “that God will dispose of all of our prideful prognostica­tions.”

“Don’t play the sophist with me, Timósha,” Avraäm said, “it doesn’t become you. You will be patriarch, I can see this in my dreams, oh thank the Lord for them, and they’re true dreams, I’m convinced, but the how and the why and the when, I do not know. I’m comforted, how­ever, by this knowledge as I approach the limits of my tenure here, because I know that in the end you’ll do the right thing, that you’ll follow the pathways that I laid down for you so many years ago, that you’ll be a credit both to this office and to the Holy Church.”

“I’d still like to find a decent position for Afanásy,” Timotheos said.

The patriarch just laughed, long and hard.

“Oh, foolish, foolish man, oh you with so great a mind and so little faith.” He chuckled. “Father Athanasios will also be patriarch, this too I have seen, and nothing that you or he can do will alter that fact.”

“Afanásy?” the younger priest said, astonished by the information.

“Afanásy,” the old man said. “You go on playing your games, Father Timotheos, you play them as much as you want, but there is only one game in the sight of the Lord, and you, both of you, will have to decide in due course how you will respond to the love that He en­trusts unto you, when you have the guidance of the Holy Church as your sole responsibility.

“But do not despair. For as much as He grants you the authority, so too will He give you the strength that you will need to face the perils yet to come. I will not be there, except in spirit, always that, but He is eternal. He will support you. He will guide you. He will not fail you.

“Alas, I am but a frail vessel, and I must now take my rest. I apologize, my old friend, for scaring you in this way, but you have become, at times, rather overcomplacent and overcomfortable with your position, and a man needs to reflect every so often upon the true and vital things of his existence.

“Now let me bless you before I go. May the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ watch over you, comfort you, and give you direction, throughout all of the days of your life. Amen.”

“Amen,” Timotheos said. “God go with you, father.”

“He is always there if you let Him enter your heart, Timósha. Find a way to lead us home to Him, my son. And pray for me. Pray for us all.”