Читать книгу The Beauty of the Purple - William Stearns Davis - Страница 7

Table of Contents

AT THE SACRED PALACE

The water clock in his courtyard had just discharged three balls upon a silver slab, marking the third hour of the morning, when Leo set forth for the palace. He wore a new gilt helmet set with a few good opals. His dalmatic of green brocade trailed very low. In token of his rank he carried a slender red lance, with a golden pomegranate upon the butt, while from the head streamed a purple banderole. The four archers ran at dog trot ahead of his high-stepping bay, and Peter and three other servitors, including Fergal, fed, clothed and happy, followed in the rear.

The Celt found his master and humbler companions little enough inclined to loiter that he might gape at the ensuing wonders, yet even they might have lingered to gaze upon the noblest quarters of Constantinople. The route from the Golden Horn to the War Department had led through some of the least select regions of the capital, but now must be traversed those fora and high avenues which made New Rome the Wonder of the World. Not Old Rome herself in the spacious days of Hadrian could have spread out plazas and palaces more magnificent.

Striking boldly along a few inferior lanes, the company entered an ample thoroughfare lined with huge residences, whose columned fronts indicated increasing degrees of magnificence. The ways now were thronged with servitors of all ages and sexes wearing the striking liveries of the great Senatorial[16] houses, mingled with guardsmen off duty and private gentlemen taking in the sights. These last were clad in heavy embroidered and fringed garments, with a bravery of jewels on shoes, belt and turbaned cap, and carefully curled hair and beard. Behind all persons of consequence walked at least one servant bearing a folding stool, and often a second with a ready umbrella. Of the numberless women, some were brilliantly gowned and coquettishly veiled, others were wrapped in sober mantles, and still others were in the long black gowns of nuns or the grey of real or avowed “Spiritual Sisters” attached to the Church.

Next followed the black cloaks and high caps of monks, the crimson robes of a professional lawyer, the blue of a physician, or even the saffron of Kallinikos’ colleagues at the University. Everywhere swung sedans and litters; everywhere dashed silver-plated carriages, each drawn by four mettlesome horses yoked abreast. The rattling of wheels, the incessant shoutings “Way for his Nobility!” the constant greetings of dignified personages, the careful genuflections, the ceremonious adieus—these smote Fergal with utter bewilderment.

But now Leo’s party reached the monarch of avenues—the Mesē. Clear across Constantinople ran this High Street, more than four miles from the Golden Gate by the Propontis to the Brazen Gate which gave entrance to the imperial palace. The spatharios entered just before the street broadened into the Forum of Constantine, a noble plaza paved with fine marble, its area scattered with numerous lofty statues pillaged from ancient Greece and Italy. In the centre soared a porphyry column one hundred and twenty feet in height, the whole crowned by a majestic golden statue of Constantine the Great himself. Quitting this forum, the Mesē ran eastward, flanked on either side by a majestic double portico for foot-passengers, while carriages and chariots could speed between. Off from the porticoes opened the shops of those silversmiths and bankers whose treasure barbarian kings and Moslem kalifs vainly had envied. To the left, as the party advanced, could be seen the long tiers of arches of the Hippodrome, while to the right were the stately Courts of Justice with their porches already sprinkled with clients and pleaders.

And now yet another area opened. The course lay across the northern end of the stateliest forum of them all—the Augustæum. To the left loomed the colossal mass and far uplifted dome of Hagia Sophia; to the right extended the great square itself, lined with a dozen public buildings, each unique in the world. The Golden Milestone set under a triumphal arch, the enormous Baths of Xeuxippos, the Palace of the Patriarch, and the Hall of the Senate were only the most conspicuous. On every hand one beheld statues, bronze and marble, rearing quadrigas, equestrian warriors, hero-tall emperors, or Winged Victories and nobly-poised goddesses of departed paganism. The sunlight ran over broad designs of jewel-like mosaics set into the walls and over the portals of nearly all the buildings, while under and around all this splendour, surged and resurged the multitudes on pleasure or business bent, that Greek-speaking “Roman People” who were keeping alive the flame of civilization when Old Rome was nigh to sinking into a venerable ruin, and when Paris and London were clusters of smoky cabins upon their swamps by the Seine and Thames....

... Saluting an occasional acquaintance, Leo led his party directly across the Augustæum to its eastern limits. There came now to view a long battlemented wall capable of resolute defence, before which rose an advanced portal crowned with a lofty coppered dome upheld by eight tall arches. The arches themselves were sealed by enormous bronze gates of exquisite relief work, and the ceiling within the dome was set with elaborate mosaic tableaus portraying the conquests of Belisarius. All that was not of bronze or mosaic was of rarely-veined marble. This structure was the “Chalke,” the great entrance to the “Sacred Palace.”

Leo reined. A personage wearing a blue tunic with red facings, with white hose and a very heavy gold necklet, stepped forward from among the golden-mailed sentinels who were pacing before the portal. He was a lieutenant of the Protectors, one of the personal guards of majesty.

“Most Serene Leo—you are expected.” His salaam was profound.

“I am only a ‘Valiant Excellency,’ ” corrected the other.

The noble guardsman answered with a deprecatory sweep of the hand. “No matter. I have orders to conduct you to the Most Sublime Master of the Palace. Follow me immediately.”

Leo tossed the bridle to Peter, leaped to the pavement, and followed the Protector into the magnificent courtyard behind the Chalke, leaving his followers to spend an idle hour.

* * * * * * *

In a room high in the upper stories of the great Daphne, an enormous conglomeration of public halls, ministerial offices and official apartments, three personages were deep in conference.

The windows before the trio commanded a magnificent view. At their feet spread the great park of the palace grounds dotted with pillared pavilions, the domes and vaulted roofs of the Monastery of the Virgin which lay within the imperial compound, the rank foliage of the horticultural gardens, and the isolated Bukoleon palace close to the seaside; beyond these reached the sparkling Bosphorus, alive now with caiques and tawny sails. Farther still rose the white houses of Chrysopolis, and farthest of all the snowy outline of the summit of Asiatic Olympus.

The three present cared for none of these things. Ceremony had been cast aside. They sat on heavily-cushioned armchairs around an elaborately carved and gilded table piled with tablets and parchments. All were patricians, as could be told by their gowns of lustrous white silk sewed with large purple squares over the knees, by their red girdles and their black shoes. All were past fifty. The beards of two fell to a venerable length, but the face of the third was absolutely smooth, fat and with projecting fish-like eyes, while the boyish tremolo of his voice seemed to belie the carefully pomaded grey hairs upon his forehead. At his belt dangled a large bunch of golden keys, evidently a token of high office. All Constantinople knew that here was Paul the Eunuch, Master of the Palace, the most powerful official in the Empire.

One of his companions, the Logothete of the Civil Service, Niketas, was speaking:

“I grant the situation is bad, but why take alarm? The Saracens can hardly come in greater force than they did forty years ago in Constantine IV’s day. Then they raged vainly against the walls, tried to make a pirate lair over at Cyzicus and to harry Thrace, found they had bitten on iron and slunk away. They know this now. They are not fools at Damascus. Their wild fanatics will win paradise more comfortably and will have more worldly booty to enjoy first, by pushing their present conquests in Spain.”

“A mistake,” rejoined his colleague, Theokistos, the arch-secretary. “Those accursed Hagarines know their business. Eighty years ago we lost Syria and Egypt just by saying ‘What’s the danger from those camel-drivers from the desert?’ We’ve proof the Kalif has plenty of agents in Constantinople, not to say spies in your own chancellery and mine to tell him how since the fall of Tiberius Aspimar we’ve merely slaughtered one another: how the Slavs and Bulgars have ravaged Macedonia: how the army is——”

“Don’t thresh out old straw,” enjoined Paul, rubbing his fleshy fingers. “Niketas can nurse his hopes, but even he will grant that it will be more pleasant to keep our honours and our palaces here than to be haled off as slaves to Damascus or Kufa, or else (the Panagia forefend!),” he crossed himself hastily, “be forced to change our most holy religion.”

“We are agreed,” resumed Theokistos, “that no chances must be run. The army must be reorganized drastically by a single competent hand. The present Majestic Clemency is—well, let me say, too happily devoted to the pleasures of the banquet and the Hippodrome to interfere with our administration. There is a grave peril in promoting to very high command any son of a great house. A premium would be put on conspiracies most deplorable for his Clemency——”

“And for ourselves!” completed Paul with a high-pitched laugh.

“Therefore,” the arch-secretary summed up, rather pedantically, “it behooves us to advance to a most responsible military post some individual who, although possessing the confidence of the troops and the essential technical knowledge, shall nevertheless be of such humble social origin as to make him no easy aspirant for the throne, and who shall be entirely beholden to us and our faction for his honours and therefore be responsive to our wishes.”

“In other words,” resumed the Master of the Palace, pithily, “we propose to promote Leo the Spatharios, ordinarily called Leo the Isaurian, to the rank of Strategos and general War Minister.”

Niketas combed his beard. “I had expected this,” he said slowly, “and I give consent. Nevertheless, take care: the fellow is clever. Underneath his tact, modesty and affected simplicity of life I suspect a deep design. Remember the old fable—King Log was bad, but King Stork proved worse.”

“But we are not frogs,” responded Paul dryly, reaching to the table and taking thence a mass of soft wax, ready for seals. “Fear nothing. I can mould him like this!”—-rolling out the substance between his palms. “Consider his history: A Protector only by the crazy whim of Justinian; without family, or worse rather, loaded with a mother whom he must hide in the background because she’s simply a boorish peasant. He’s so engrossed with his cavalry tactics and fortification systems that he will not take the trouble to marry—which he might do now to great advantage. Our favour will dazzle him. If we give him a free hand at the War Department and a reasonable appropriation we can control him absolutely.”

“Unless some one teaches him ambition,” spoke Niketas.

“Our enemies may do that,” added Theokistos.

“I think I understand human nature, my dear Logothete,” remarked Paul composedly; “I have already read this Leo’s character. He is one of those men who can best be ruled—by a woman. It will be our care to find him a suitable wife. After that we will have to dread—nothing. Ha!”

“So be it,” assented Niketas. “Let us proceed with him. I understand the Emperor is so busy arranging a feast in the Hall of the Nineteen Couches that he’s in a mood now to sign anything to avoid trouble. Have the patent drafted immediately.”

“We will meet again in the Presence,” remarked Theokistos, rising and with Niketas disappearing through a small door. The eunuch tinkled a golden bell, and through a larger door a handsome boy appeared.

“Bring in the Spatharios,” he commanded.

Leo entered, saluted the Master of the Palace, then stood at military attention.

“You are curious to know why you are summoned to the Consistory to-day?” inquired Paul.

“That is but natural, your Sublimity.”

The eunuch stood up in his stiff robes, smiling unctuously:

“I cannot anticipate the official announcement. Nevertheless, I may say that his Sacred Clemency has been induced to think well of you. A heavy responsibility with corresponding honours is about to be laid upon your shoulders.”

The soldier started and flushed slightly, then murmured a few words of gratitude.

“I am not here,” pursued Paul, in insinuating tones, “to discuss your new duties. I am merely the minister who in a humble degree, a very humble degree, brought home to the Most August Basileus your fitness. Your well-known discretion will teach you to respect the wishes of your patrons. The hands that can exalt can also abase, and ambition (especially for one of modest birth) should always rest its feet on solid ground.”

“Your Sublimity will always find me heedful of your suggestions.”

“You understand therefore my friendly caution.” The eunuch took a step nearer; his squeaking tones became confidential: “You understand that since the fall of Justinian the imperial government is somewhat imitating the custom of those Western Franks, whose king indeed retains his outlandish honours, but whose actual power seems largely committed to a faithful deputy, called, I believe, ‘The Mayor of the Palace.’ This you quite realize?”

Again Leo bowed his assent. Paul with affected familiarity came nearer and laid his thick hand upon the young man’s shoulder.

“So far as an official: now I will speak—ah! let us say as a scrutinizing uncle intent on your welfare. Your allowances will be increased to match your honours. A word then of advice. They say you have a mother—a worthy soul; the Saints bless her! a very worthy soul, full of good works”—the eunuch’s voice broke in a sniffle—“but for courtly society, alas! unfitted. Find her some comfortable villa, say at Perinthos on the Marmora, or elsewhere not too near, and provide for her handsomely. Then consider well that you are still unmarried, and how the advantage of an exalted alliance can advance you. Count Maurice Dukas has the noblest palace on the Mesē. He has also a daughter—ahem! I need not continue. The Count has assisted me faithfully. I can open the matter to him whenever you desire.”

Leo’s flush deepened, Paul assumed with satisfaction.

“I am treasuring your Sublimity’s words,” answered the soldier awkwardly. “Of course you do not press for an immediate reply.”

“Of course,” smiled the eunuch; “only consider well.”

A clarion pealed down the corridors of the vast palace. Paul gathered his robes about him. “The Consistory in an hour. I have much to do.” He swept out, while the officer saluted again, then stood for a long interval buried in his own thoughts.

* * * * * * *

The “Purple Hall” of audience occupied another wing of that vast complex of structures grouped around the Daphne and Chalke. Its vestibule was a majestic apartment in itself. Pillars, pavement, walls and vaulting were a sheen of many-coloured marbles and mosaics, with purple tints predominating. When Leo entered, the long alabaster seats extending down either side of a lengthy promenade were lined with high officials, all in their state dalmatics and wearing medals of honour, waiting their turn to be admitted to “Kiss the Purple,” a ceremony necessary before departing on a public mission, or laying down official duties, and also for merely testifying a loyal respect for the Emperor. Many were ahead of Leo and his wait promised to be long. Beside him sat an old acquaintance, a commissioner reporting on the aqueducts of Adrianople. The latter had just heard the abundant gossip concerning Leo’s exploits at the harbour, and congratulated his friend vigorously.

“And the damsel you saved,” laughed on the functionary, “a lady Arion, with you the succouring dolphin, they say is the musical daughter of preposterous old Kallinikos the lecturer?”

“Musical?” queried Leo. “I heard nothing of that.”

“Why, yes. I was formerly much at my sister’s house near the Forum of Theodosius. Kallinikos lives close by; many is the evening I’ve sat dreaming of heaven while that girl would sit all unconscious at her window and play her little organ. My sister says she is still a merry, modest lass, but I can never think of her as anything but cousin to St. Gabriel.”

“And her father?”

“As you of course know, the most learned and pathetically useless man in all Constantinople. Now he lectures on pagan philosophy, now on abstract physics, now on Homer and now on geography. Rumour says that he shuts himself up with dark experiments, seeking the ring of Gyges which makes invisible, and the philosopher’s stone. Many idle young men crowd his hall, fascinated by his flow of absolutely unpractical erudition. I heard that some of his colleagues were jealous of his vast knowledge, and, more serious still, that various fanatical monks have talked of accusing him as a wizard. But I consider him absolutely harmless.”

“Very likely,” remarked Leo. “See, the Lombard ambassadors are being brought in.”

Three tall blond men, with long unkempt beards, ill-fitting blue robes and wearing heavy gold necklets, were being marched towards the silver door of the throne room, by a squad of ushers and interpreters. Their astonishment and absolute lack of ease was patent, and at sight of a splendid official emerging from the Presence, one of them began bowing and scraping.

“Alas! the poor envoys,” laughed the commissioner, “they have saluted a mere Protostrator. What will they do when overwhelmed by the sight of the Basileus? They’ll sign away half their master’s sorry kingdom.”

“This pomp and ceremonial has its value, therefore sensible men endure it,” responded Leo; “for some barbarians it takes the place of our overblunted swords and spears. Would to God it could avail as much against the Saracens.”

The envoys were not admitted immediately, however. Policy in fact required that they should be kept standing long on the threshold, while one and another favoured servant of autocracy passed in before them.

The silver doors reopened. A “silentiary”[17] in white and scarlet tunic with yellow crosses on the shoulders announced in clear voice:

“Flavius Leo.”

“It is not yet my turn,” murmured the officer.

“Flavius Leo,” was repeated loudly.

The soldier rose and passed through the portal. Once inside, obedient to rigid ceremonial, he cast himself on his knees, bowed almost to the pavement and then only arose partially, his hand shading his eyes as if to shut out the effulgence shining from the throne.

In physical fact the audience chamber seemed dimly lighted. Overhead in a soaring dome were gleaming vague labyrinths of mosaics. Through small, high-set windows a pale illumination fell across the circular chamber. When etiquette permitted Leo to look about him, he perceived sitting immovable as statues some twenty white-robed patricians in ivory-armed chairs of state. Standing grouped behind them were about twice as many other dignitaries of slightly lesser glory—clad in green, blue or purple dalmatics. On either wing of this arrogant hierarchy stood also a decade of rigid Protectors in golden armour holding gilded swords.

But no visitor to this awful assemblage could suffer his gaze to wander far. Straight ahead across the wide hall rose a silver ciborium, a small dome in itself, supported by four pillars of like metal raising the canopy high enough to disclose a motionless figure sitting upon a chair encrusted with ivory, jewels and gold. In the half-light none could distinguish the features, but there was assuredly a face encased between a deep purple robe and a ponderous diadem. The latter was studded with enormous pearls and had four great lappets of pearls which fell, two over either ear, downward to the shoulders. Purple were the shoes, purple and gold the belt. In the left hand of this dumb figure was a globe (also of gold and gems) of the size of a large apple, surmounted by a cross. Here was the successor of the first Augustus and of the first Constantine!

“Flavius Leo!” announced the silentiary.

The officer continued kneeling a long instant until there was a slight rustle and murmur from the figure on the throne.

“Arise, Flavius Leo!” commanded the herald.

The officer rose and stood mute and steadfast.

One of the hitherto motionless patricians suddenly stood erect. He held up a parchment codicil, engrossed with purple ink and dangling a ponderous seal: then read with loud voice:

“Alexios Bardanes Philippicus, Cæsar, Augustus, and Christ-loving Basileus of the Romans, to all dominions and provinces, officials and subjects: Know ye that in our paternal care for the universal welfare we have sought out a man most expert, valiant and faithful, to set him over the Thracian theme of our army and to become our war-minister. Let Flavius Leo, hitherto Spatharios, be exalted to the rank of Strategos. Let our Count of the Sacred Largesses pay him an allowance annually of four hundred pounds of gold. Let his kindred partake of his nobility——”

and so through many clauses.

When the chancellor ceased, the newly-created Strategos cast himself again upon the tessellated pavement, and remained with head bowed as if overwhelmed by the greatness of the new honours, until a hollow voice proceeded from the throne: “Draw near.”

Leo ascended the three porphyry steps leading to the ciborium. As he did this, the seated figure bent forward and with a stiff gesture extended to him a ponderous fold of the purple robe. Leo kissed it, then retired slowly backward. Simultaneously two silentiaries stepped to his side, deftly detached his green dalmatic and substituted another of brilliant red, while a trumpet pealed a silvery blast. “Hail! All hail to the Strategos of Thrace!” burst as a kind of chant from the assembled company, when the two chamberlains led the fortunate man to his new station at the right of the throne, close to the seat of the Master of the Palace.

Thus the audience proceeded. The doors were reopened: a sub-governor was permitted to kneel at the throne and touch his lips to the purple, then take his station in the hierarchy, and finally the Lombard embassy was admitted....

... At length the Master of the Palace rose from his seat of honour, and shook the golden keys held in his upraised hand. The remainder of the company dropped on its knees and fixed its gaze devoutly upon the monarch. Instantly unseen hands drew close the curtain about the imperial canopy. The throne was hidden; then, amid a dead hush, the creaking of a mechanism sounded faintly. The curtains flew back. Behold! Throne and Basileus had vanished.

All ceremony forthwith abandoned, the entire company rushed around Leo. Custom as well as friendship demanded profuse congratulations. “Strategos! Strategos! Hail to his new Serenity!” Loudest and warmest were the rejoicings of Count Maurice Dukas.

They brought Leo home with pompous procession, a great concourse of civil magnates and army officers followed by a shouting, cheering mob sweeping up the Mesē. When the gates of the little house by the War Department closed behind him, the new general ran into the embrace of Kasia, and rapturously kissed on both cheeks “The most Serene and Illustrious Strategissa who has made me all I am....”

... Meantime Paul and Theokistos were conversing at the Palace.

“Well,” queried the latter, “the plunge is taken. We have made him great for lack of any agent better. You have talked with him. Will he prove pliable?”

“Pliable?” echoed the eunuch. “By the Trinity, yes! Of course he said little, but he received my proposals about thinking of the Dukas marriage like a lamb. And once married to that Theophano”—the eunuch gave a wheezy chuckle—“my negro boy Amasis won’t belong to us more utterly!”