Mary Reed: Two for Joy

As his master had explained it, since he had been to the shrine in his official capacity on two very public recent visits, it was entirely possible that he might be recognized if he tried to question pilgrims or acolytes himself. And it was necessary that they find out as much as possible about Michael-especially about his origins.

Peter had ventured the opinion that everyone in Constantinople knew about Michael. After all, everyone in the city had talked about nobody else for days.

“Perhaps we only think we know about him and his followers,” John had remarked, going on to tell Peter about Philo’s cryptic message.

The servant was appalled. Why would his master risk his life because of some nonsensical letter? It was just as likely to have been some odd game the man had been playing, like the one with the board and carved pieces.

But Peter, always dutiful, had done his best, not that it had taken much craft to learn about Sarcerdus Rufus.

Peter, or rather the pilgrim he was supposed to be, had traveled a long way to pay his respects? Well, hadn’t he heard Sarcerdus Rufus had traveled even further? Was Peter prepared to pour a stream of silver out for Michael’s charitable works? Praiseworthy indeed, but everyone knew Sarcerdus Rufus had pledged a river of gold.

As to where this paragon of far traveling and generous virtue was to be found, Sarcerdus Rufus was staying with the acolytes and a number of pilgrims at a nearby villa.

Unfortunately, John now insisted Peter must interview Sarcerdus Rufus. Fortunately, the villa was not far down the road.

The villa’s gate was guarded by a group of burly men who, Peter thought, did not look much like acolytes. The man who stepped forward to block his path had certainly not received the scar bisecting his face from poring over scripture.

The man studied Peter, a well-dressed elderly man looking very fatigued. His tall, stooped attendant-his servant, Peter explained upon requesting admittance-stood a pace or two behind, intently studying the stony ground.

“You aren’t likely to be granted an audience with Michael very soon,” the guard warned Peter.

“Indeed that is not surprising, but I was advised I should bring my offering here for safekeeping,” he replied. “Perhaps I might entrust a small portion of it to you immediately?”

“We do have procedures, of course,” acknowledged the guard as his hand, missing two fingers, rose toward the glint of the follis Peter offered. No doubt everyone knew that Sarcerdus Rufus had given a larger bribe, but to Peter’s relief the guard didn’t mention this fact and simply stood aside.

“You are welcome here, good sirs,” he said, waving them into the villa grounds.

Stepping through the arched gateway, Peter found himself surprised by the expanse of the gardens surrounding the dwelling. Even a cursory glance around revealed a guest house, stables, and outbuildings, all solidly built of cream colored stone and roofed with red tiles and set amidst decorative groves and fountains.

The Michaelite presence was obvious from numerous groups of people conversing as they strolled around. As Peter and John drifted among them, they passed by a fountain with a basin a woman was using to wash clothing. A ragged tunic hung drying over the shoulders of the fountain’s verdigrised statue of Neptune. Rivulets of water flowed in endless streams from the conch shells held by the god’s attendants.

Here and there children played outside small tents pitched beside decorative ponds. It was a peaceful scene.

The third pilgrim they consulted nodded enthusiastically and gestured toward a small building amid a stand of oak trees.

“He’ll be at the baths,” he said. “You can’t mistake him.”

When he entered the building’s caldarium Peter saw what the pilgrim had meant. Sitting in lonely majesty in the pool, Sarcerdus Rufus was the leanest man Peter had ever seen. His appearance was not improved by a head that had been shaved in the style favored by the pilgrims. His body was as hairless as a cod fish. He looked, Peter thought, like a skeleton, an animated saint’s relic.

Peter greeted the man and then trotted out the story he and John had concocted. He could sense his master standing silently behind him. It was discomfiting to be taking his place, playing his role in life. The whole venture was madness, he told himself.

“Of course, I’m always glad to tell my tale to a fellow pilgrim. Please feel free to join me. And perhaps your servant could bring refreshments?” Peter was startled by the booming voice that echoed like thunder around the marble chamber. How could an emaciated husk produce such an enormous noise?

Peter turned toward John, unsure whether he would be able to feign ordering him to carry out such a task, but his master was already slinking off in a most embarrassingly cringing manner. John was a much better actor than he could ever be, Peter thought.

In short time, Peter had stripped and lowered himself gingerly into the small pool. He was happy enough to bathe. Hesitantly he asked concerning the stories he had heard about the man sitting opposite him.

“Yes, yes, they are all true.” Sarcerdus nodded vigorously and leaned forward, causing hot water to slop in waves against Peter’s chest. “I journeyed here from very far off, from beyond the eastern end of the Euxine Sea. Months it took, and it’ll take months to soak off the dust of the journey.” He rubbed a finger along the bridge of his nose, which was as prominent as that of a shriveled Egyptian mummy. “But such is the lot of the pilgrim. Now, what business did you say you were in, Peter?”

“I provisioned the emperor’s armies.” And so he had, he thought, reminding himself of the years he had spent as a camp cook.

“Ah, of course, of course. Then you will be quite a wealthy man?”

“I fear I cannot match Sarcerdus Rufus in that regard, by all I have heard,” Peter replied truthfully enough.

The other man laughed much too loudly. “Nor do you need to, my friend, unless you are among those who feel any price is justified if it guarantees deliverance from the evil place!”

“But surely a devout person like yourself need not fear such a destination?” Peter did not have to mimic surprise.

“I wasn’t thinking of going there, but rather of deliverance from it. It may shock you to hear that, in fact, I have spent most of my life amidst the very fires of Hell.”

Peter expressed astonishment.

Sarcerdus smiled with delight at the prospect of telling his story once again. “Have you ever journeyed beyond Lazica, into the border regions?” he began. “A rhetorical question, I suppose, for few do. It’s an area always in upheaval and it’s such a long trip from anywhere civilized that the traveler can’t be certain whether he’ll arrive at his destination to find it an outpost of the empire or a recently annexed part of Persia.”

He splashed some of the seething water onto his face and rubbed vigorously at his nose.

“Now, I’m a Roman myself,” he went on. “My ancestors were captured by Shapur along with Emperor Valerian. I’m quite certain I am related to the latter, by the way, but that’s another story. Anyhow, my family settled out there. Our neighbors were happy enough to let us practice our own religion and we were even happier to make a few nomismata off them.”

Peter nodded wordlessly, trying to give the impression of being a man of the world and thus fully conversant with such situations.

“At any rate, since you haven’t been to those parts,” Sarcerdus Rufus went on, “I shall describe the area. I wish you could see it! There are places there where fire has burned endlessly throughout all of human memory. Mountains that smolder and give off a sulfurous stench like the pits of Hell. You would not dare set foot on them for the blistering heat, Peter, even if you had been brave enough to venture past the lakes of burning pitch boiling and bubbling at their feet.”