Mary Reed - Two for Joy

Aurelius’ gaze moved to the glittering waters of the Golden Horn and the city beyond. He too wished he were back there, if only to be spared the painful jolting of this seemingly endless ride.

“For all our sakes, I hope you’re right, John,” he said. “Yet despite my own religious inclinations I do wish the man possessed the powers he claims because the miracle he claimed for me would be exceedingly welcome, to say the least. But as to your investigation, didn’t you mention Felix was continuing in your absence? Certainly he is a capable and trustworthy man. Perhaps he will have some information for you by the time we arrive back.”

“True enough, Aurelius. As you say, investigations are proceeding in good hands.”

Philo was questioning yet another of the pilgrims among the crowd milling around the base of the column which had until recently been home to Matthew the Pure.

“Why, I was standing here on this very spot, as the Lord is my witness,” declared the pilgrim, a middle-aged man with weather-reddened skin, an unkempt beard and a cast in one eye. It seemed to Philo that the grubby traveler had looked flattered to be asked for assistance by such an obviously learned gentleman as he.

“I’d just arrived,” the pilgrim went on, “having come all the way from Galatia. At least when I get home I shall certainly have a story to tell, no doubt about that. But I never heard Matthew preach!” he added petulantly.

“Just as well,” declared a nearby crooked-nosed man leaning heavily on a stick. “You have seen proof of what Matthew’s words were worth, which is to say nothing at all. He was consumed from within by his own evil, just as Michael said!” He began to quote scripture.

Philo sighed. These pilgrims, he had learned, were extremely eloquent on the subject of their beliefs but not overly forthcoming when it came to facts. Nevertheless, it was barely the ninth hour of the day and he had already visited the other two columns whose occupants had died so horribly. He was now completing his self-appointed task in the forum he and John had been passing through at the time of the deaths. He had certainly earned the coins Felix had paid him, he thought smugly. It had not been difficult to convince the gruff excubitor captain that John had recommended that his old mentor assist in the investigation and for only minimal remuneration. Certainly, given the success of his questioning, John would forgive him the small lie.

“Could you tell me what precisely you observed?” Philo asked the Galatian pilgrim, interrupting the nearby man’s droning recitation of sacred verses.

“Just what everyone’s been saying. He was consumed by fire from within. One moment he was looking down over the railing, spreading his arms in benediction, the next he was on fire. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“You mean you think you saw, but you’re half blind,” put in a stout, clean-shaven man who had joined the growing cluster of curious spectators around Philo and his informant. “But what I heard was that a fiery hand reached down out of the clouds.”

“Nonsense!” someone at the back of the group shouted. “I was right here at the time. The flames came out of his fingertips and ran up his arms.”

“The fingertips of what?” inquired another voice. “Matthew’s hand or the hand from the clouds?”

It was no different here than at the other columns. Everyone had seen it happen or had heard in detail about the event, but no one could agree on any of the particulars. Perhaps it was not surprising, thought Philo. He had himself observed no more than anyone else since Matthew had already been on fire when he looked up.

“Do you know anything about Matthew’s life?” Philo changed his line of questioning by contriving to appear a garrulous old gossip.

The pilgrim he addressed inclined his head slightly. “Why, I believe he was from Cappodacia,” he began vaguely. “What he did before he began to preach I couldn’t say. But I did hear that before he journeyed here, he lived in an abandoned church on the road to Pergamom. A cousin of mine lives nearby and he told me about this church. Years ago, it was invaded by demons, so it seems, but Matthew entered it anyway and dared to spend that night and many subsequent nights. For weeks, it seems, the foul beings pelted the church with stones that appeared out of thin air, but finally he vanquished those ghastly beings.” The pilgrim paused thoughtfully and a look of pain crossed his weathered features. “Yet it would seem he was actually having commerce with demons all the while. My wife will be sorely disappointed when she hears about that and I shudder to think what my cousin will say.”

Several of those standing near Philo became engaged in arguments about the origin of the fire, the nature of the stylite and the exact wording of the scriptural verses recently recited. Philo shook his head. These Christians, he thought, could never agree upon anything.

Leaving them to their arguments, Philo paced thoughtfully around the granite column. It was the tallest of the three he had visited. This afternoon there were no baskets of offerings at its base, he noticed. The pilgrims had apparently gathered there out of curiosity or perhaps to share their stories, or possibly because they had undertaken long and arduous journeys with this destination in mind and wanted to rest for a while before returning to their distant homes with an astonishing tale to tell. Philo glanced around idly, not certain what it was that he sought.

The Galatian pilgrim had become embroiled in a loud dispute with the crooked-nosed man who had now apparently lost his need of the stick on which he had been leaning, considering how vigorously he was shaking it at his opponent.

“You question Michael?” shouted the stick waver. “Stand back, sir,” he cautioned Philo, “for this evil one is about to erupt into flames. Move away for your own safety!”

“I was merely wondering about Michael’s choice of sinners to strike down,” countered the florid man hastily. “Matthew’s secret heart may have been blackened with sin, but no-one can dispute that he suffered exposure upon his pillar, while some of his so-called brethren dwell in comfortable huts atop theirs. And,” he added with a sniff of outrage, “Eutropius, as is well known, crawls through a trap door into the hollow of his pillar when darkness falls, there to spend the night well protected from unkind weather.”

“Calumny!” raged the other. “Eutropius has braved the elements day and night these fifteen years!”

“It’s merely thirteen-“

“Stand back, sir!” his opponent addressed Philo. “Guard your fine robe! Can’t you see sparks beginning to emerge from this vile creature’s ears?”

The philosopher could bear no more. He, a man who had spent his life debating the nature of beauty and order, was now cast adrift in a city where zealots came to blows to claim for their particular religious champions the most disgusting cases of extreme physical mortification. It was intolerable.

Still, hawkers in the streets did cook the most succulent piping hot peas, he reminded himself, having just noticed one such vendor on the opposite side of the forum.

After filling his stomach while hardly emptying his purse, Philo decided to abandon his investigation and turn his steps homeward. It was not a long walk to John’s house. He had merely to go past the Church of the Holy Wisdom, a building that was certainly magnificent but, according to John, was not yet consecrated, then by the Baths of Zeuxippos, skirt the wall of the Hippodrome and so into the palace grounds. He would be back in plenty of time for the evening meal. Perhaps Peter had prepared duck again.

Two hours later with the sun already grazing the roofs of the surrounding tenements, Philo was forced to admit to himself that he was lost. He had vainly tried to orient himself by the relentlessly dropping sun, but the streets and alleys he followed obstinately refused to lead him in the proper direction.