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time, thank you."
"You would decline the patriarchal summons?" the priest said, shocked.
"Your precious patriarch doesn't know my name," Gaius Philippus retorted. His
eyes narrowed. "So why would he invite me? Hmm did the Emperor put him up to
it?"
The priest spread his hands helplessly. Marcus said, "Gavras thinks well of
you."
"Soldiers know soldiers," Gaius Philippus shrugged. He tucked the parchment
roll into his belt-pouch. "Maybe I'd better go."
Putting his own invitation away, Scaurus asked the priest, "A liturgy of
rejoicing? In aid of what?"
"Of Phos' mercy on us all," the man replied, taking him literally. "Now
forgive me, I pray; I have others yet to find." He was gone before Marcus
could reframe his question.
The tribune muttered a mild curse, then glanced around to gauge the shadows.
It could not be later than noon, he decided; at least two hours until the
service began. That gave him time to bathe and then put on his dress cape and
helmet, sweltering though they were. He ran a hand over his cheek, then
sighed. A shave would not be amiss, either. Sighing as well, Gaius Philippus
joined him at his ablutions.
Rubbing freshly scraped faces, the Romans handed their tokens of admission to
a priest at the top of the High Temple's stairs and made their way into the
building. The High Temple dominated Videssos' skyline, but its heavy form and
plain stuccoed exterior, as always, failed to impress Scaurus, whose tastes
were formed in a different school. As he did not worship Phos, he seldom
entered the Temple and sometimes forgot how glorious it was inside. Whenever
he did go in, he felt transported to another, purer, world,
Like all of Phos' shrines, the High Temple was built round a circular worship
area surmounted by a dome, with rows of benches north, south, east, and west.
But here, genius and limitless resources had refined the simple, basic plan.
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All the separate richnesses benches of highly polished hardwoods, moss-agate
columns, endless gold and silver foil to reflect light into every corner,
walls that imitated Phos' sky in facings of semiprecious stones somehow failed
to compete with one another, but were blended by the artisans' skill into a
unified and magnificent whole.
And all that magnificence served to lead the eye upward to contemplate the
Temple's great central dome, which itself seemed more a product of wizardry
than architecture. Liberated by pendentives from the support of columns, it
looked to be upheld only by the shafts of sunlight piercing its manywindowed
base. Even to Marcus the stubborn non-believer, it seemed a bit of Phos'
heaven suspended above the earth.
"Now here is a home fit for a god," Gaius Philippus muttered under his breath.
He had never been in the High Temple before; hardened as he was, he could not
keep awe from his voice.
Phos himself looked down on his worshipers from the interior of the dome;
gold-backed glass tesserae sparkled now here, now there in an ever-shifting
play of light. Stern in judgment, the Videssian god's eyes seemed to see into
the furthest recesses of the Temple and into the soul of every man within.
From that gaze, from the verdict inscribed in the book the god held, there
could be no appeal. Nowhere had Scaurus seen such an uncomprising image of
harsh, righteous purpose.
No Videssian, no matter how cynical, sat easy under that Phos' eyes. To an
outlander seeing them for the first time, they could be overwhelming. Utprand
Dagober's son stiffened to attention and began a salute, as to any great
leader, before he stopped in confusion. "Don't blame him a bit," Gaius
Philippus said. Marcus nodded. No one tittered at the Namdalener; here the
proud imperials, too, were humble.
Fair face crimsoning, Utprand found a seat. His foxskin jacket and snug
trousers set him apart from the Videssians around him. Their flowing robes of
multicolored silks, their high-knotted brocaded fabrics, their velvets and
snowy linens served to complement the High Temple's splendor. Jewels and gold
and silver threadwork gleamed as they moved.
"Exaltation!" A choir of boys in robes of blue samite came down the aisles and
grouped themselves round the central altar. "Exaltation!" Their pure, unbroken
voices filled the space under the great dome with joyous music. "Exaltation!
Exaltation!" Even Phos' awesome image seemed to take on a more benign aspect
as his young votaries sang his praises. "Exaltation!"
Censer-swinging priests followed the chorus toward the worship area; the sweet
fragrances of balsam, frankincense, cedar oil, myrrh, and storax filled the
air. Behind the priests came Balsamon. The congregation rose to honor the
patriarch. And behind Balsamon was Thorisin Gavras in full imperial regalia.
Along with everyone else, Marcus and Gaius Philippus bowed to the Avtokrator.
The tribune tried to keep the surprise from his face; on his previous visits
to the High Temple, the Emperor had taken no part in its services, but watched
from a small private room set high in the building's eastern wall.
Balsamon steadied himself, resting a hand on the back of the patriarchal
throne. Its ivory panels, cut in delicate reliefs, must have delighted the
connoisseur in him. After resting for a moment, he lifted his hands to the
Phos in the dome, offering his god the Videssians' creed: "We bless thee,
Phos, Lord with the right and good mind, by thy grace our protector, watchful
beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor."
The congregation followed him in the prayer, then chorused its "Amens." Marcus
heard Utprand, Soteric, and a few other Namdalener officers append the extra
clause they added to the creed: "On this we stake our very souls."
As always, some Videssians frowned at the addition, but Balsamon gave them no
chance to ponder it. "We are met today in gladness and celebration!" he
shouted. "Sing, and let the good god hear your rejoicing!" His quavery tenor
launched into a hymn; the choir followed him an instant later. They swept the
worshippers along with them. Taron Leimmokheir's tuneless bass rose loud above
the rest; the devout admiral, his eyes closed, rocked from side to side in his
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seat as he sang.
The liturgy of rejoicing was not commonly held. The Videssian notables, civil
and military alike, threw themselves into the ceremony with such gusto that
the interior of the High Temple took on a festival air. Their enthusiasm was
contagious; Scaurus stood and clapped with his neighbors and followed their
songs as best he could. Most, though, were in the archaic dialect preserved [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]