Mary Reed: Two for Joy

“Well enough, Peter. Yet I must say that while the palace is certainly a place of luxury, lately there seem to suddenly be many dark corners. I’m grateful that my work keeps me outside in the sunlight, even on colder days.”

Peter nodded. “There is indeed much darkness in the city,” he agreed sadly, “and not always during the hours of night. Now, before you go back to digging and pruning and such like, sit down and take some wine.”

“Why, Peter, can it be that you have taken to imbibing in your old age?” Hypatia asked affectionately, pulling a stool to the table.

Peter smiled again. “I would be offended beyond belief if we had not worked together for the Lady Anna, rest her soul, and I had the measure of your frivolous speech! No, this will be just a splash, for the humor’s sake. Gaius prescribed it for a tonic as needed and the master insists that I follow his instructions.”

He measured out two small libations.

Hypatia pushed her dark hair away from her face. “And has your kitchen lately been invaded by that young man Anatolius?” she asked with too careless inquisitiveness.

“Anatolius? He is often here, yes, although I sometimes wonder whether he visits to speak with the Lord Chamberlain or to steal my stuffed dates. And why do you inquire?”

The young woman blushed. “Oh, I was just curious. I sometimes see him passing by when I am working in the flower beds.”

“Ah.” Peter’s thoughtful monosyllable had subtle shadings.

“But,” she rushed on, “never mind about court dandies like Anatolius. Everyone is abuzz about these Michaelites.”

“The emperor sent the master off to visit them,” Peter said. “I must say that I do not think he would normally care to mingle over much with such people, a rabble by all I hear, despite their being led by a holy man. But then he must do his master’s bidding, just as we must obey ours.”

Hypatia took a sip of wine and asked for Peter’s thoughts about the situation.

Peter paused to compose his reply. Elderly cooks were not often asked to explain matters of religion, much to his disappointment, and he was happy to have the opportunity to expound his theories.

“I know you worship the gods of Egypt, Hypatia, and so perhaps the finer points of theology do not intrude upon your reflections,” he began, quickly adding, “and I see you are valiantly trying to conceal your amusement at an old man’s words. However, the beliefs of these Michaelites are rather unsettling, to say the least. Their deity, it would seem, is comprised of four parts, one entirely human. It’s not so long since that they would have been immediately executed for daring to even breathe such a thing.” His voice trembled slightly at the very thought.

“But,” he went on, fortifying himself against such rank heresies with a sip of wine, “as to that, they say that this Michael has promised to rid the city of all unbelievers and that those houses about which decent men do not speak will be shuttered, and much else besides.”

Hypatia commented that if this band of believers was able to achieve such lofty goals, they would have done what all of Justinian’s laws had not yet been able to accomplish.

“True enough. Yet they seem to have had supernatural assistance. It is chilly in here, don’t you think? Or perhaps I notice it more as I get older.”

Peter got up stiffly and stirred the nearly dormant brazier back to life. “I only hope the Michaelites do not stir up a greater conflagration than this,” he murmured.

“The merchant who sold me this honey said there was much disquiet expressed at the inn he patronizes,” replied Hypatia. “When inns are awash with such talk you can be certain the streets will soon be equally flooded with trouble. And like you, he mentioned the supernatural. Do you know anything more about that?”

Peter sat down again. “Well, Hypatia, the evening before last,” he began, “and I assure you that this is the perfect truth, I saw a fiery angel descending from the heavens. The master insists it was merely one of those unfortunate stylites who were struck by lightning, but that is not what I saw. And like you, I speak to people in the market place so I know that others trembled before the same vision.”

Hypatia looked thoughtful rather than surprised. “And this angel, do you think he has arrived to battle on the side of Michael or to defend the city against him?”

“As to that,” said Peter, “time will tell.” He stared into the flames leaping above the brazier. A few moments before the kitchen had seemed cold, now it felt suffocatingly hot.

“That’s true enough. But meantime perhaps you should try some of the honey, Peter? It’s said Hippocrates recommended it for a variety of ailments as well as for making sweet confections, for bees distill whatever may be in the plants they visit. I’ve heard of soldiers poisoned by bees who feasted on rhododendron. But don’t worry, those who labored to make this honey for you dined only upon the best wheat!”

Peter could not resist dipping his finger into the honey. “This makes for a better potion than wine,” he said, lifting his finger to his lips. “But now tell me, how do their keepers persuade the bees to feed only on wheat or clover?”

“Oh, it’s quite simple, really. The hives are placed in the middle of a wheat field or a patch of heather or other flowers, depending which flavor is desired. Bees do not stray far from their homes and so will only visit flowers within a certain area around them.”

Peter smiled. “Perhaps we should all take note of the ways of the industrious bee, then, and if at all possible seek not to stray too far afield. If we settle our hearts in the midst of righteousness and remain close to home, then we will never taste evil.”

He was discomfited to see that Hypatia was suppressing a giggle.

“I’m sorry,” she said, patting his hand affectionately. “But truly, when you’ve had perhaps a sip or two too much wine you could pass for a churchman.”

The crowds bustling through the bright sunlight and long morning shadows striping the colonnaded Mese were being regaled with a sight which, unlike the dining habits of bees, would soon be the subject of hundreds of excited conversations.

A mounted company of heavily armed imperial guards, twenty strong, was clattering along the wide street at a steady pace. In the midst of the contingent rode two men of obvious importance, one a silver-haired aristocrat with tightly drawn lips, the other a lean, somber looking man who might have been mistaken for an ascetic except for his elegant robes and the richly embroidered mantle lying over his shoulders. Passersby stopped to stare, as they might have paused to listen to distant thunder, while hoping that the storm surely being heralded would break over someone else’s head.

John was aware of the faces gaping at him. A private man, their attention made him uncomfortable. He knew, however, that both route and escort were designed precisely to gain such attention. The emperor could have ordered his envoys ferried across the narrow mouth of the Golden Horn from where it was but a short ride to Saint Michael’s shrine beside the Bosporos. But, John guessed, Justinian’s agents were already spreading word of this diplomatic mission far and wide and before long, all over the city, people would be exclaiming that indeed it was true, the most pious of emperors had accorded Michael the respect due such a man. Hadn’t they seen with their own eyes the lofty officials dispatched to visit him as Justinian’s emissaries?

As to whether this display of magnanimity would serve to placate the restless populace as much as Justinian apparently imagined or would simply encourage further support for the heretics, John could not say.