Byzantium

  Byzantium

  STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD

  For Sven and Margareta

  Contents

  Map of Europe and Asia Minor

  Map of Byzantium

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part Two

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Part Three

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Part Four

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Part Five

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Praise

  Books by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  MAP of Europe and Asia Minor

  Map of Europe and Asia Minor

  Map of Byzantium

  PART ONE

  God be with thee on every hill,

  Jesu be with thee in every pass,

  Spirit be with thee on every stream,

  Headland, ridge, and field;

  Each sea and land, each moor and meadow,

  Each lying down, each rising up,

  In wave trough, on billow crest,

  Each step of the journey thou goest.

  1

  I saw Byzantium in a dream, and knew that I would die there. That vast city seemed to me a living thing: a great golden lion, or a crested serpent coiled upon a rock, beautiful and deadly. With trembling steps I walked alone to embrace the beast, fear turning my bones to water. I heard no sound save the beating of my own heart and the slow, hissing breath of the creature. As I drew near, the half-lidded eye opened, and the beast awoke. The fearful head rose; the mouth gaped open. A sound like the howl of wind across a winter sky tore the heavens and shook the earth, and a blast of foul breath struck me, withering the very flesh.

  I stumbled on, gagging, gasping, unable to resist; for I was compelled by a force beyond my power. I watched in horror as the terrible beast roared. The head swung up and swiftly, swiftly down—like lightning, like the plunge of an eagle upon its prey. I felt the dread jaws close on me as I stood screaming.

  Then I awoke; but my waking brought neither joy nor relief. For I rose not to life, but to the terrible certainty of death. I was to die, and the golden towers of Byzantium would be my tomb.

  And yet, before the dream—some time before it—I had gazed upon a very different prospect. Such rich opportunity does not come to every man, and I considered myself blessed beyond measure by my good fortune. How not? It was an honour rare to one so young, and well I knew it. Not that I could easily forget, for I was reminded at every turn by my brother monks, many of whom regarded me with ill-disguised envy. Of the younger priests, I was considered the most able and learned, and therefore most likely to attain the honour we all sought.

  The dream, however, poisoned my happiness; I knew my life would end in agony and fear. This the dream had shown me, and I was not fool enough to doubt it. I knew—with the confidence of fire-tested conviction—that what I dreamed would be. Sure, I am one of those wretched souls who see the future in dreams, and my dreams are never wrong.

  Word of the bishop’s plan had reached us just after the Christ Mass. “Eleven monks will be selected,” Abbot Fraoch informed us that night at table. “Five monks from Hy, and three each from Lindisfarne and Cenannus.” The selection, he said, must be made before Eastertide.

  Then our good abb spread his arms to include all gathered in the refectory. “Brothers, it is God’s pleasure to honour us in this way. Above all else, let us put aside jealousy and prideful contention, and let each one seek the Holy King’s direction in the days to come.”

  This we did, each in his own way. In truth, I was no less ardent than the most zealous among us. Three were to be chosen, and I wanted to be one of them. So, through the dark months of winter, I strove to make myself worthy before God and my brothers. First to rise and last to sleep, I worked with unstinting diligence, giving myself to those tasks which naturally came my way, and then going out of my way to take on the chores of others.

  If any were in prayer, I prayed with them. If any were at labour, I laboured with them. Whether in the fields, or the cookhouse, the oratory, or the scriptorium, I was there, earnest and eager, doing all in my power to lighten others’ burdens and prove myself worthy. My zeal would not be quenched. My devotion was second to none.

  When I could not think of any chore to do, I took a penance upon myself—as severe as I could devise—to chastise myself and drive out the demons of idleness and sloth, pride, envy, spite, and any others that might stand in my way. With a true and contrite heart, I did humble my willful spirit.

  Then, one night…

  I stood in the swift-running stream of the Blackwater, clutching a wooden bowl tight between shivering hands. Mist curled in slow eddies over the surface of the river, softly spectral in the pale light of a new moon. When my flesh began to grow numb, I dipped the bowl into the icy water and poured it over my shoulders and back. My inward organs shuddered with the shock of the cold water on naked skin. It was all I could do to keep my teeth from clashing, and my jaws ached with the effort. I could no longer feel my legs or feet.

  Ice formed in the still places among the rocks at the river’s edge and in my wet hair. My breath hung in clouds about my head. High above, the stars shone as flame-points of silvery light, solid as the iron-hard winter ground and silent as the night around me.

  Again, and yet again, I poured the freezing water over my body, enforcing the virtue of the penance I had chosen. “Kyrie eleison…” I gasped. “Lord, have mercy!”

  In this way, I held my vigil, and would have maintained it thus if I had not been distracted by the appearance of two brother monks bearing torches. I heard someone approaching and turned my stiff neck to see them clambering down the steep riverbank, holding their torches high.

  “Aidan! Aidan!” one
of them called. It was Tuam, the bursar, with young Dda, the cook’s helper. The two slid to a halt on the bank and stood for a moment, peering out over the moving water. “We have been looking for you.”

  “You have found me,” I replied through clenched teeth.

  “You are to come out of there,” Tuam said.

  “When I have finished.”

  “Abbot has summoned everyone.” The bursar stooped, picked up my cloak, and held it out to me.

  “How did you know I was here?” I asked, wading towards the bank.

  “Ruadh knew,” Dda answered, offering his hand to help me climb the slippery bank. “He told us where to find you.”

  I held up frozen hands to them and each took one and pulled me from the water. I reached to pick up my mantle, but my fingers were numb and shaking so badly I could not grasp it. Tuam quickly spread my cloak over my shoulders. “I thank you, brother,” I murmured, pulling the cloak around me.

  “Can you walk?” Tuam asked.

  “Where are we going?” I wondered, shivering violently.

  “To the cave,” Dda replied, a glint of mystery in his eye. I gathered the rest of my clothes, clutching them to my chest, and they started away.

  I followed, but my feet were numb and my legs shook so badly that I stumbled and fell three times before Tuam and Dda came to my aid; supporting me between them, we made our way along the river path.

  The monks of Cenannus na Ríg did not always meet in the cave. Indeed, only on the most important occasions was it so—and then rarely were we all together. Though my companions would say nothing more, I discerned from their secretive manner that something extraordinary was to happen. In this, I was not wrong.

  As Tuam had said, everyone had been called and all were assembled by the time we reached the sanctorum speluncae. We entered quickly and took our places with the others. Still shaking, I drew on my mantle and cloak, dressing as quickly as my fumbling hands allowed.

  Observing our arrival, the abbot stepped forward and raised his hand in blessing. “We watch, we fast, we study,” Abbot Fraoch said, his voice a rasping croak in the domed chamber of the cave. “And this night we pray.” He paused, a shepherd pleased at the gathering of his flock. “Brothers, we pray God’s guidance and blessing on the choice before us, for this night the Célé Dé will be chosen.” He paused—as if searching us one last time. “May God’s mind be in us, and may God’s wisdom be made manifest among us. Amen!”

  All those gathered replied, “Amen! So be it!”

  So, it has come at last, I thought, and my heart quickened. The waiting is at an end; this night the decision will be made.

  “Brothers, to prayer!” With that Abbot Fraoch sank to the floor, prostrating himself before the little stone altar.

  No more was said; no more needed saying. Indeed, we had leeched all meaning from the words long ago through endless discussion and debate. Thus, having watched and fasted and studied through the dark months, we now sought the blessing of the heavenly throne. We lay down upon the bare rock floor of the cave and abandoned ourselves to prayer. The air in the cave was dense with the warmth of so many bodies, and thick with the smoke and scent of the candles. I knelt, doubled over upon myself, arms extended and head touching the stone floor, listening as the whispered invocations filled the cave with a familiar drone.

  Gradually, the murmuring abated and after a time a silence deep and calm as the gravemound returned to the cave. But for the soft flaring of the candles as they fluttered, and the slow, regular breathing of the monks, not a sound could be heard. We might have been the last men on earth; we might have been the dead of another age awaiting our return to life.

  I prayed as fervently as ever I have in my life. I sought wisdom and guidance, and my seeking was sincere, I swear it! I prayed:

  King of the Mysteries, who wast and art,

  Before the elements, before the ages,

  King eternal, comely in aspect,

  who reigns for ever, grant me three things:

  Keenness to discern your will,

  Wisdom to understand it,

  Courage to follow where it leads.

  This I prayed, and meant it every word. Then I prayed that the honour I sought would be delivered into my hand. Even so, I was astonished when, after a lengthy span, I heard footsteps pause near me and felt a touch on my shoulder, and heard the abbot call my name, saying, “Rise, Aidan, and stand.”

  I lifted my head slowly. The candles had burned low; the night was far spent. Abbot Fraoch gazed down upon me, nodded gravely, and I stood. He passed on, moving among the prostrate bodies. I watched him as he stepped this way and that. In a little while, he stopped before Brocmal, touched him, and bade him stand. Brocmal rose and looked around; he saw me and inclined his head, as if in approval. The abbot continued on, walking with slow, almost aimless steps, over and around the praying monks until he came to Brother Libir. He knelt, touched Libir, and told him to stand up on his feet.

  And there we were: we three, quietly observing one another—Brocmal and Libir in gratitude and pleasure, and myself in amazement. I was chosen! The thing I sought above all else had been granted me; I could scarce believe my good fortune. I stood trembling with triumph and delight.

  “Rise brothers,” Fraoch croaked, “look upon God’s chosen ones.” Then he called us by name: “Brocmal…Libir…and Aidan, come forth.” He summoned us and we took our places beside him. The other monks looked on. “Brothers, these three will undertake the pilgrimage on our behalf. May the High King of Heaven be exalted!”

  Sixty pairs of eyes blinked at us in mingled surprise and, for some, disappointment. I could almost hear what they were thinking. Brocmal, yes, of course; he was a master of all learning and bookwise craft. Libir, yes, a thousand times yes! Renowned for his wisdom and quiet zeal, Libir’s patience and piety were already legendary throughout Éire. But Aidan mac Cainnech? It must be a mistake—the disbelief on their faces was not difficult to read. More than one monk wondered why he had been passed over for me.

  But Abbot Fraoch seemed more than pleased with the choices. “Let us now thank God and all the saints for this most satisfactory conclusion to our long deliberations.”

  He led us in a simple prayer of thanksgiving, and then dismissed us to our duties. We left the cave, stooping low as we crawled from the narrow passage, and stepped into the dawnlight of a brisk, windswept day. Moving into the pale rose-red light, it seemed to me that we were corpses reborn. Having passed an eternity under the earth, we now awakened, rose, and quit the grave to walk the world once more. For me, it seemed a world vastly changed—new-made and potent with promise: Byzantium awaited, and I was among the chosen to undertake the journey. White Martyrdom they call it, and so it is.

  2

  We walked along the Blackwater and sang a hymn to the new day, reaching the gates of the abbey as the rising sun touched the belltower. After prime we assembled in the hall to break fast. I sat at the long table, much aware of my new prominence. Brother Enan, who read the Psalms for morning meal, could not contain his elation at the fact that our community was, as he put it, “to send our most revered members to help bear the great book across the seas to the Holy Emperor.” Enan asked a special prayer of thanksgiving for the three chosen ones—a request the abbot granted. Then, in a mood of reckless jubilation, he read the Magnificat.

  Listening to the cadence of those well-known words, I thought: Yes! This is how it is! This is how it feels to be chosen, to be called of God for a great undertaking: My soul praises the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant. Yes!

  It was, as Abbot Fraoch maintained—and everyone else agreed—a great honour for us all. Truly, it was an honour I had sought as ardently as any of the others. Now it was mine, and I could scarcely credit my good fortune. Listening to Enan pray thanks to God for this exalted boon of a blessing, my heart soared within me. I was humbled, pleased, and proud—all three at once—
and it made me giddy; I felt I must laugh out loud, or burst.

  Once, during the meal, I raised my bowl to my lips and happened to glance down the long refectory table to see a fair few of the brothers watching me. The thought that they should find in me something worthy of remark roused in me a flush of guilty pride. Thus, I ate my broth and barley bread and, for the sake of my well-meaning brothers, tried not to appear too delighted, lest I appear haughty in their sight and thereby give offence.

  When the meal finished, Abbot Fraoch summoned me with a gesture. I bent near to hear him. “I expect you will have much to consider, Aidan,” he whispered. Having lost his voice to a Sea Wolf’s blade years ago, our abbot’s utterances were never more than dry whispers and raspy croaks.