Читать книгу The Beauty of the Purple - William Stearns Davis - Страница 11

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THE HOUSE OF PEACE IS VIOLATED

Fergal had conveyed his master’s apologies to Kallinikos, and duly conferred with Ephraim as to whether there had been other spies and intruders. No new incidents, however, were reported, and the same was true the next day, when the Celt’s heart was rejoiced by an unusually extended conversation with Sophia. Glad of any excuse, however, Fergal announced he would return the following afternoon for a new investigation. In the morning of this third day after Leo’s departure, Kasia directed her bodyguard to take an altar cloth of her own embroidering to the Church of St. Anna, the pope whereof was a peculiar friend of her chaplain, Michael. Fergal gladly obeyed the order, for the trip carried him far out towards the walls into quarters of the capital he could seldom explore. Kasia had procured him a quick-stepping black mule with a good vermilion saddle and silver bells, and the Armorican (vain fellow!) thought he made a brave showing of himself as he snapped his lash along the Mesē—and wished that Sophia might see him.

The messenger followed the great high street, first through the Forum of Theodosius, and then as it ran southward, through the plebeian quarters. After he had passed the Amestrian Forum, where a vulgar crowd was witnessing the beheading of two bandits, the Forum of the Ox and finally the Forum and lofty Column of Arcadius, the black mule trotted through the so-called “Broad Gate,” which marked the limits of the city as originally laid out by the First Constantine. Here the crowds of pedestrians became thinner, the street mountebanks, jugglers and hawkers less conspicuous, the tall, wooden houses less huddled together. Villa-like structures surrounded by bright gardens appeared down winding lanes, and frequently the Celt came to high, masonry enclosures, above which rose the domes of churches or the red-tiled roofs of other buildings, indicating the wide compounds of monasteries or nunneries.

Presently the frowning battlements and massive towers of the great outer wall of Theodosius II loomed in sight. Fergal turned aside from the Mesē as it ran onward to the “Golden Gate” of the triumphal and coronation processions, and through verdant ways lined with garden walls sought the less-frequented Selymbrian Gate, near which nestled the little suburban Church of St. Anna. He quickly placed his package with the amiable papissa, who was filling her husband’s holy water basin in the vestibule, and put his beast at best pace homeward. Then, swinging back towards the Mesē, he must needs pass the portal of the great Monastery of St. Diomed.

The gate was open; a whole cohort of black robes and tall, black hats was streaming forth. There was much gesticulating and shouting. A long-haired hegumen[26] was waving a gilt cross upon a staff and giving orders:

“Hurry, brethren! We must see how the Lord will devour the wicked! Heresy and devil-worship shall meet their reward. Hurry, our summons came late, but we may be needed.”

“What a strange religious procession,” muttered Fergal, reining his mule to let the dark gowns pass; “no relics, no banners.” Then suddenly his eye caught a layman’s costume following the rear of the holy men.

“Neokles, as I’m a sinner,” he cried, dropping his bridle and leaping to the ground. In a trice he had his erstwhile comrade-in-misery by the hand. The cook greeted him heartily, and the twain exchanged prompt confidences. Neokles was again reasonably happy. His new masters gave good dinners, allowed him easy hours, and did not beat him too frequently. Fergal was outlining his own more prosperous fortunes, when the cook showed signs of impatience to get away.

“Gladly I’d halt and gossip, but my hide’ll pay for it if I don’t keep up with those monks. Already they’re turning into the Mesē.”

“Keep up with those monks?” echoed the astonished Celt. “What have you got to do with those devout jackdaws? Your master surely hasn’t forced you to take the vows!”

“Sacred Mother, no! But Evagrios sent me with a letter to the hegumen, something to bring down all his brethren to help countenance the arrest and punishment of a fearful wizard. I was to guide the holy brothers to this diabolical fellow’s house near the Forum of Theodosius. My despotes is raising all the convents in the city. Something great seems afoot. All yesterday he was racing about Constantinople like mad.”

“Near the Forum of Theodosius?” Fergal’s ears had pricked up like a rabbit’s. “And who might that wizard be?”

“Why, I think they named an old Kallinikos, who hobbles around the University—Prophets and Saints! What’ve I done? Why’ve you got me by the throat?”

A moment later Fergal, having literally shaken out of Neokles every morsel of information the cook possessed touching his master’s project, was sending the black mule along the High Street at a speed which made the spectators gape, and which far outdistanced the serried monks of St. Diomed. In desperation he flogged the beast to her uttermost pace, little heeding that he nigh upset the litter of a rich merchant’s lady, swerved against a pastry vendor’s booth, and splashed copious mud against a silk-clad, musk-scented young Senator who was just lounging across the Forum of Arcadius.

Yet with all his speed, the Celt knew in his heart that he was probably too late. At the Forum of Theodosius men were shouting and running towards the Aqueduct of Valens. “A fire,” cried many, and there were indeed watchmen hasting with their hooked-poles and axes, but the sight of companies of monks, some in small groups, some in the full strength of their convents, made Fergal’s soul sink within him. Frantically he forced the mule through the thickening multitudes, until he reached the parish church of St. Mary the Deaconess, then casting the bridle over a post he plunged down a familiar alley. He was just in time to see a force of the collegati, the city police, brush aside a less orderly rabble of monks, tradesmen and excited women, and thrust open the portal of the house of Kallinikos. A subaltern officer was directing the men, and was evidently trying to make his arrests in a lawful and orderly manner.

Dust was rising in the air. Strident and ribald voices were screaming. Scores of naked arms were tossing, or brandishing clubs.

“The wizard! The necromancer! To the fire with him! To the circus lions with him! The young witches, too, pluck them in pieces!”

“This way, Christians—don’t let the friends of the devil escape alive.”

“Pull down the house. The neighbourhood’s tainted. All our children’ll die of the plague.”

Many cries were of unspeakable vileness. Kallinikos had passed for years as a harmless pedant. Now every evil imaginable was suddenly being trumpeted against him. Fergal thought he could see certain black gowns gliding from group to group and whispering; then the yells redoubled.

Ephraim and the other servants had evidently defended the door against the first howling multitude until summoned to yield by lawful authority. Fergal saw a band of constables thrusting inside. Their swords were drawn as if for desperate business. After them a knot of gesticulating monks attempted to follow, but the Celt with a great elbow-thrust reached the mail-clad police centurion who was trying to flourish back the unofficial intruders with his spear. To his great joy he recognized a junior officer often seen about the War Department.

“Besas,” he demanded, “have you warrant for this?”

“You here, Red-Head?” cried the centurion. “What’s your business? Yes, we’ve very straight warrants, signed by the Patriarch himself.”

“Then as you love salvation, look to your deeds. There’s a fearful mistake. This old Kallinikos is the Strategos’ particular friend; his daughters are guileless doves. The old man invented that new catapult you admired. When Leo crossed to Asia he bade me watch over this family and bring him word——”

A howl that made the roofs and pinnacles shake drowned Fergal’s voice. Gasping and helpless in the clutch of two powerful “collegians” (who for all their strength half feared he would wither them with a spell), dumbfounded and dismayed, appeared Kallinikos. Behind him, a constable clutching each of their wrists, and white-faced with unspeakable terror were led Sophia and Anthusa. The very pigeons on the roofs rose flapping in alarm as the horrid shouts were flung skyward.

“The wizard! The young witches! That’s why Skopis, the chandler’s girl, died yesterday. The region’s accursed. The Panagia’s blighting us. Huz! Huz! Away with them instantly! Pluck in pieces!”

A brawny butcher’s wife, flourishing a cleaver over her head, sprang forward, but Besas (a competent officer after his light) thrust her back with a timely spear thrust; and Fergal shot in his ear: “Keep the old man and the girls unscathed, and their house unpillaged. I swear the Strategos’ eternal favour or ill-will depends on it.”

“I’ll do my duty,” tossed back Besas. “St. Theodore strike me if I like this work.” Then he whistled shrilly to his men: “Form before the door. Beat back this rabble. Give ’em your sword-points if need be. Now Sallustios”—to a spruce young man in an advocate’s crimson, standing by—“what’s the extent of these orders? To arrest Kallinikos and his two daughters; to detain their servants as witnesses; to seal up all the chief defendant’s books, parchments, and apparatus pending examination, but particularly to seize a certain bronze cylinder with all its parts and to transport the same to the Patriarch’s palace under vehement suspicion that said device may be a means of intercourse with the devil.”

“Correct,” assented Sallustios; “and now the prisoners (since these good people must be denied their Christian but too abrupt desires) will be sent, I presume, the wizard to the Patriarch’s own private dungeon for depraved members of the clergy, and the witches straight to St. Gastria, where the nuns can search their persons straitly for amulets, charms and devil’s marks.”

But Fergal had never taken his eyes from Besas, and the latter was inspired to answer firmly: “They’ll all go to the Prætorium, the regular jail by the harbour. If this poor old fool invented that new catapult, I’ll forgive not a little wizardry. Why’s the case before the Patriarch, anyway? The folk aren’t clerics. Now men, get up your closed litters, for these wretches can’t walk. Bring out that bronze contraption, rascals. Don’t be so afraid of it. You’ll not find the fiend squatting inside. And you”—to another platoon—“push back those black gowns and screaming beldames. Clear the street if they won’t stand aside!”

While a knot of very timorous “collegians” bore out the unfortunate engine of Hero, Fergal thrust himself beside the sisters. Sophia was almost fainting. Anthusa’s ghastly lips moved as in prayer.

“Some hideous blunder,” whispered the Celt. “Your father must have an enemy. Everything shall be done. Keep up good hearts. I’m off to Kasia and Michael. If they can’t avail, I’m away to Asia to summon him.”

It was sorry work to abandon Kallinikos and his daughters in the midst of a crowd still shrieking and cursing. The only open friend was the poor dog Dorkon, who sniffed and howled piteously around his benefactress Anthusa, but Fergal could accomplish nothing more, and Besas seemed resolute in discharging his strict duty, and vigorous in protecting the house from spoliation. The brethren of St. Diomed had just come up to join their fellows.

“So they’ve got all three,” monk was calling cheerfully to monk; “the old sorcerer and the young she-ones. The devil couldn’t save them. They’ll get justice from the Patriarch to-morrow. The whole convent must be at the trial.”

Fergal, having forced his way through the press, at last reached his mule, and flew away, kicking her sides until the creature tore across the military parade ground at a foaming gallop. A few moments later his own glib tongue was racing off the entire story to Michael and Kasia.

* * * * * * *

Michael departed immediately, first to the Prætorium prison and then to the Patriarchate. He was back in two hours with a very grave face. At the jail indeed a liberal fee had assured the prisoners tolerable cells and civil treatment, but the Patriarch’s offices had been already crowded by excited popes, hegumens, and even one or two archimandrites frantically denouncing “the scandal,” and how: “It surpassed belief that an outrageous wizard actually should venture to inculcate his soul-destroying blasphemies from a chair in the imperial university; and especially to construct a malefic machine operated beyond a doubt by demons, and keep the same in his dwelling, or rather lair, within arrowshot of a consecrated church and holy nunnery.”

In the face of this tumultuous protest, and fearful lest he himself be assailed for tolerating sacrilege, the Patriarch had consented to try the wizard and his female accomplices the next day at noon. One or two of the unhappy lecturer’s colleagues had indeed pleaded for a slight delay. There had also been suggestions that, since civilians were involved, the case should go properly to the court of the City Præfect, but the Patriarch had bridled at the hint that he was not a competent judge in the matter; the High Præfect Daniel was at his Bosphorus villa near Nikopolis, and his deputy professed complete indifference. Michael himself had tried to urge deliberation. “But,” he added sorrowfully, “my influence is nothing. His Beatitude half laughed while he listened to me, and at once the great hegumen Hygenios cried out: ‘If that servant of the devil waits for his deserts after to-morrow, my monks will pull down the prison, stone by stone!’ A terrible agitation has been worked up. And so, Christ pity our poor friends; here I am!”

“Red-Head,” spoke Kasia immediately, “it’s time that son of mine was told that God needs him more in Constantinople than gawking around in Asia.”

“The Strategos was now to be in Nicomedia,” observed Fergal, tightening his belt. “How far is that?”

“Sixty miles from Chalcedon,” responded Michael gravely.

“And the trial is at noon to-morrow!” The Celt’s eyes darkened, then lit the reckless gleam of his genius. “Blessed Mother, but there’ll be spray around boats and lather around horses ere then—but what can be, can be.” ...

... A little later, Fergal was at the “Stairs” of Timasios, nearest the mouth of the Golden Horn, intent on negotiating at a familiar stand for a caique to Chalcedon. To his astonishment not a skiff was stirring. The harbour was almost motionless, and the Bosphorus was deserted by ships save those at safe anchor.

“No boats for anybody,” an idle wharf officer explained; “three hours ago orders came from the palace that a conspiracy against the Basileus had been unearthed. Not a keel is to cross to Asia or even to Galata, until they nip the suspects, unless with a special pass from high authority.”

Fergal measured the shimmering blue water with his eye. One mile away across the dancing wavelets, beckoned Chrysopolis and Chalcedon with their little white, yellow and red houses crowding down upon the marge, beyond them the domes of churches and the crests of enormous cypresses with villages half hidden in verdure uprearing on the heights behind. If Basil had been at the Navy Yard, possibly he might have supplied a boat and a pass, but the dromond captain had followed his military friend to Nicomedia. The messenger, therefore, took his rebuff coolly and walked away, whistling softly and deep in thought....

... When the shadows of the afternoon were lengthening, if any one had been interested in following Fergal, he would have seen him lurking about some empty sheds, under the very shadow of the Tower of Eugenios, the massive fortification guarding the southern side of the entrance to the Golden Horn. It was, however, a hot and dozy hour. The sentries on the battlements, ordered to watch sharply for any illicit boats, had found the view of the vacant channels very stupid, and were now giving one glance towards the sea-ways, and ten for the game of dice which was in progress in the shade of a certain guard tower.

Casting himself upon his belly the Celt crept out the length of a small deserted breakwater until at a point where its base was splashed by a sea of sufficient depth to risk a dive. In the shadow of the friendly masonry he stripped off everything save a loin cloth, wherein was carefully knotted a purse of Kasia’s providing. A glance towards the battlements revealed no unfriendly scrutiny. Fergal therefore slipped quietly down into the cool, blue water.

His heart gave a mighty bound as his strong limbs carried him onward through a once accustomed element. Immediately he dived—coming to the surface as slightly and as infrequently as possible. The strong, southward current of the Bosphorus was his friend. With little effort he was hurried away from the seawalls and out into the Marmora. He continued thus, drifting and diving until well beyond range of detection from the walls. From discovery by boats, he had, thanks to the mandate from the palace, absolutely nothing to dread. At last he raised himself boldly in the water, shook the brine from his eyes and looked about him. Constantinople rose behind in an imposing mass of domes and battlements. The current would have borne him steadily southward, but he could see the shores of Asia almost beckoning “hasten hither!”

The manly delight of being master of his fate possessed the Celt. He spat forth the bitter water, and shook his fist towards the receding Palace. “Ei! ‘Magnificence This’ or ‘Sublimity That’ whoever you may be who’ve cooked this thing,” he cried recklessly, “order your sentries and forbid your boats. You have not halted the fish in the sea or paralyzed the limbs of a son of Armorica!”

Then with his most powerful stroke he turned and sent himself across dark ripples towards Chalcedon.

* * * * * * *

Around the commandant’s residence in the cantonments at Nicomedia the sentries were exchanging their “All’s well!” ere changing guard for the eighth hour of the night, when Leo was awakened with a start from his slumber. A seasoned soldier, he had long since trained himself to drop asleep under most untoward circumstances and to awaken and arise almost instantly. Peter was now stumbling into his chamber.

“Fergal is here, little despotes,” announced the old bodyguard.

The Strategos leaped from his hard camp bed and threw a chlamys about him. “My mother——” he began.

“The despoina is well,” replied Peter coolly, “but the family of Kallinikos is in sore danger.”

“Angels and apostles!” swore the general. “Have Fergal in.”

The Celt staggered across the threshold. Even under Peter’s feeble rush-light he had an astonishing aspect. He was half naked. His body was crusted with sweat and grime. He caught at the door-curtain to steady himself.

“When did you leave Constantinople?” demanded Leo instantly.

“Shortly before evening. The departure of boats was forbidden, so I had to delay till the light was waning and they couldn’t spot a swimmer readily from the walls.”

“Mother of God!” gasped the astonished Peter, his jaw dropping. “You swam?”

“He says so,” rejoined his master with better poise, “and I believe him. Now go on.”

“The current carried me well down towards the Isles of the Princes. It was some fight to make the mainland. When I reached Chrysopolis the market was closed and I needed a garment and a horse. It took more time to buy the one and hire the other. Then I was off. My beast foundered after ten miles to Pantichion. Got another that took me on to Karta. Then had to change twice again. When nearing Nikomedia two footpads tried to stop me. Never mind the story. They won’t stop other travellers, but there was more delay. Got here and of course the gates had been closed for many hours. The watch sent down a javelin at me when I clamoured for admission. He had good aim, but I won’t go to heaven yet!”

“Ai, woe!” broke out Peter again; “his shoulder’s bloody—see!”

“Merely a scratch from the barb,” continued the messenger. “Well, it took my finest talking, and about all the rest of the gold Mistress Kasia gave me first to get inside the gate, and then to procure a boy to lead me hither through this black, strange town. Last of all, the sentries here at the barracks almost speared me when I demanded to rouse your Lordship, but—here I am.”

Leo had waited calmly during the whole of this panting recital. Now he seated himself upon the bed, and merely commanded: “Take that stool and get breath. Peter, find him some wine and food. Now if you’re ready, tell what brings you to Nicomedia.”

In straightforward detail Fergal related all that had happened since his chance meeting with Neokles. Ere he had finished, the Strategos’ jaw had become hard. “You say the monks of many convents seemed excited against Kallinikos, and that this cook had been especially sent by his master to lead the Brethren of St. Diomed to the house of the lecturer?”

“Even so, despotes.”

“You also say that this order to stop the passage of boats from Constantinople was issued immediately after Kallinikos’ arrest. Were there the slightest other signs that a conspiracy had been really discovered at the Palace? Forum rumours? Concentrations of troops? Closing of public buildings?”

“None that I observed, Serenity.”

“Peter,” demanded Leo, as his bodyguard returned with a hastily piled platter and a silver flagon, “you have good ears for gossip; when before had this deacon Evagrios such zeal for pure religion that he would hunt out a harmless greybeard like Kallinikos as a wizard?”

“He could discover it if good solidi or pledge of patronage helped his piety.”

“But the motive?” cried the Strategos incredulously. “The old man had professional rivals, but they had no pelf to scatter or patronage to promise.” Then suddenly he smote his head, “It cannot be—be that! The eunuch would not have the vile audacity——”

“I do not understand you, despotes,” spoke Fergal, looking up from ravenous mouthfuls.

“No matter. I need not explain.” The Strategos was throwing on his clothes as for a hard journey. “How’s the wind?”

The Celt assured him the breeze was from the eastward and the night was fair, whereat his master ordered Peter to make no ceremony, but rouse Basil and bring him with speed.

“I bless the Saints, Armorican,” remarked the Strategos deliberately, tightening his buckles, “that your parents were ducks or dolphins. Yesterday I sent a rebuke to the Chief of the Fire-signal Service for permitting the great beacons to be used for so insignificant a raid as that which sent me over to Asia. But at dawn I’ve promised to go with the Protostrator Helios, on his pressing request, upon a three-day hunt by Lake Sophron. If there’s been a plot to keep me from Constantinople and to stop news from the city”—his teeth closed hard—“they’ll recall soon, I’m named the Lion!”

After that the sleeping barracks woke to life. Basil appeared, rubbing his eyes and muttering questions, but transforming himself into a demon of activity when his friend and superior spread his problem.

“A barge and crew?” quoth the sailor, “and to be in Constantinople at noon? A shrewd pull, but thanked be the Trinity, the ‘Manger of Bethlehem’ lads are its equal. Spare rowers with the easterly breeze will do the trick. And if those black crows caw too loudly at the Patriarch’s hall, remember my marines.” ...

... And so it was that two hours after Fergal entered Nicomedia on horseback he was leaving it on the stern seat of a long barge, his patron deep in conference with Basil. The Celt was still grimy, bruised, bleeding even, and utterly weary. But he was happy. The shadow-veiled Marmora again was opening ahead, and thirty good oars were a-flying.