Stephen Lawhead: Byzantium

Failing my meditations, I set my mind to pray instead. I began by asking forgiveness for my wayward thoughts. Very soon, however, I was thinking of meeting the emperor-how I should address him, what I might say to him, whether I should kiss his ring, or kneel…any of a thousand different things other than the prayer I had begun.

Since I could neither sleep nor pray, I decided to go out into the hills. The solitude and exertion, I thought, might calm my restless spirit and bring me to a more tranquil mind. I rose at once and left my cell. Quickly crossing the yard, I made my way to the gate, passed by the guest lodge and out. Continuing along the path outside the wall, I descended the shallow ditch and made my way up the opposite side, then turned onto the hill path. The once-bright day had faded under a dull sky, but the wind remained fresh and I relished the bitter bite of the cold air on my face as I walked, my breath coming in steamy puffs. The path rose steadily and soon I ascended the heights above the abbey and began making my way along the hilltop.

I walked a long time, letting my footsteps take me where they would. It was a joy to feel the fresh wind on my face while I filled my soul with the green beauty of those beloved hills. I came at last to the edge of the great wood. Not daring to enter that dark domain alone, I turned and started back the way I had come-but my mind roamed far, far ahead on unknown paths.

Thoughts of alien lands and exotic customs filled my head, and I imagined what it would be like to tread foreign soil, to taste foreign food, to hear foreign tongues speaking words I had never heard before. Even as, in my mind's eye, I clearly saw myself striding boldly through unfamiliar fields, standing before the Pope, or kneeling before the emperor, I could hardly believe that the man I saw was me.

In all, it was a pleasant enough, if frivolous, exercise, and it occupied me until I reached my favourite perch: a rocky outcrop just below the crest of the hill overlooking the monastery and the broad valley with its dark river beyond. In the windshadow of the rocks, I sat down on the grassy turf as the monastery bell tolled sext.

Though it was only midday, the late winter sun was already low, bathing the valley in a soft, misty light. The abbey was as I had known it from my earliest memory-unchanged and unchanging: like its oratory and scriptorium, a place of solitude and safety, where not even time, the Great Ravager, dared intrude.

Cenannus na Rig, they call it: Kells of the Kings. In an earlier time it had served as a royal fortress-a hillfort set within protecting rings of earth and timber. But the kings long ago abandoned the stronghold in favour of Tara. Thus, while the ancient seat of Eire's monarchs boasted a sovereign presence once more, Cenannus' ditches and walls protected a monastery, and the folk of several nearby settlements as well.

I had come to the abbey as a boy. It was my father's wish that I should become a priest. Cainnech was a king and I his second son. As it was deemed auspicious for the clan to have a priest of noble blood, I was sent for fosterage, not to a noble house, but to the monastery.

I was only five summers old when I was bundled together with the length of cloth my mother had woven for me and brought to Kells. The cloth was for my cloak when I took holy vows. I wore it now, even though it was grey and the other monks wore brown, for I was a prince of my clan. Even so, any claim I might have made to the throne ended in my tenth summer when my father and brother, along with most of the clan, were killed in a battle with the Danemen at Dubh Llyn near Atha Cliath.

Upon their deaths, the kingship then passed to a man of another tribe, a cousin of my father. The day they buried my father, I buried all hope of ever taking my place as priest and counsellor to a king; nor would I become a sovereign myself as some priests had done. Not for me the world of kingcraft and courtly concerns. At first I was bitterly disappointed, I confess. Yet, as time passed, I grew to love the life of the monastery, where every hand was busy from dawn to dusk, and all moved in precise rhythm with the cycle of labour, prayer, and study.

I devoted myself to learning, and at the end of twelve summers achieved the scriptorium, pledging myself to the vocation of a scribe-though some small part of me still yearned to embrace a larger life.

This is why, when word of the bishop's undertaking was first proclaimed among us that frosty winter's night, I determined to show myself worthy of joining such a pilgrimage. And I had succeeded, praise God! Most fortunate of men, I was going to Byzantium. Oh, the very thought delighted me; I hugged myself, rocking back and forth on the grass, and chuckling at my good fortune.

Looking down from my place on the hill, I saw the monks streaming from the chapel, returning to their work: some to the kitchens to prepare the midday meal; some to the scriptorium; some to the workshops and stores; some to the fields and woodpiles. Even though I had been granted a day of idleness, it was good to see others about their chores. I turned my eyes to the world beyond the monastery.

In the glen below the ringwall, the Blackwater ran. Across the river cattle grazed on the hillside, noses to the frosty ground, tails to the wind. And beyond, empty hills, clothed in the dusky green of winter, rose in gentle swells to the east. A smudge of smoke spreading on the wind marked the nearest settlement. Along the horizon, just below the leaden clouds, a line of palest blue appeared.

I watched as this swath of colour widened, deepening to a brilliant bird's-egg blue. In the abbey below, the kitchen bell announced dinner. I watched the brothers make their way to the refectory for their meal; but, content in my own company, I made no move to join them. Bread and broth did not excite my appetite; I feasted instead on the beauty of the day-made much the sweeter by my success.

After a while, the sun wore through the covering of cloud, and light like pale honey spread over the hilltop, warm where it touched me. I leaned back against the cold rock, closed my eyes, and turned my face to the sun, letting the thin warmth thaw my ears and cheeks. I dozed…

"Aidan!"

The shout, though indistinct and still far away, roused me. Opening my eyes, I saw a very large figure toiling up the hill, calling as he came. "Aidan!"

Dugal, the tallest man among us by far, approached rapidly, mounting the hillside with great bounding strides. A warrior before coming to Cenannus, he wore the woadstained tattoos of his clan: a leaping salmon on his right arm, and a spiral disc on his left. Upon taking vows, he had added a cross over his heart.

For strength and dexterity, he was rarely bettered: he could crush walnuts in his fist; he could toss three knives at once and keep them spinning in the air as long as he liked; I had once seen him lift a horse. By training a warrior, by inclination a monk, he was in many ways a most uncommon Christian.

I had never seen him fight, but the criss-crossed scars on his arms argued for his valour in combat. As a monk, however…well, let it be said that no other Latin speaker I knew could hurl a spear half so far as Dugal mac Caran. Of all the brothers, he was my best friend.

"Mo anam!" he exclaimed, stumping up to tower over me. "That is a fair climb on a cold day. I had forgotten it was so high." He looked around, a smile spreading slowly over his face. "Ah, but it is a fine sight to be seeing."

"Welcome, Dugal. Sit and rest yourself."

He dropped down beside me with his back to the rock, and we gazed out across the valley together. Neither of us spoke for a time, content just to soak up the small warmth the sun offered. "When you did not come to table, Ruadh sent me to find you. I knew you would be here."