Tim Severin - King's Man

The catalogue of marvels outside the city walls was just as wide ranging. Here were the marks of the White Christ's knees as he knelt to pray, the stone receiving the impression as if it had been molten wax. There was the same fig tree from which a traitor by the name of Judas had hanged himself; earlier the guide had showed us the iron chain he had used for the suicide. On the Mount of Olives were more marks in the rock. This time they were footprints left behind when the White Christ was taken up to the place which was the equivalent of Valholl for his followers. Remembering my conversation with Pelagia back in Constantinople, I asked if I could see the cave where her namesake had lived, disguised as a eunuch. Without hesitation I was led to a small, dank grotto on the side of the mountain. I peered inside, but not for long. Someone had been using it as an animal pen. It smelled of goat.

The more I saw, the more baffled I became that the faith of the White Christ was so successful. Everything associated with it seemed so ordinary. I asked myself how people could believe in such obvious fictions as the suicide's fig tree, and I put the question to Harald, picking a moment when he seemed to be in good humour, because I wanted to know if he was susceptible to the White Christ's teaching.

He turned that great predatory look upon me, the sea eagle's stare, and said, 'Thorgils, you miss the point. It is not the physical things that matter: not the lance nor the sponge nor any of the other things we have been shown. The strength lies in the ideas the Christians preach. They offer hope to the ordinary people. That is their reward.'

'And for someone who is above the ordinary, my lord?' I ventured to ask.

Harald thought for a moment and then said, 'There is something there, too. Have you not noticed how obedient the Christians are to their one God. They talk about following him, and no other. That is what any ruler would want of his subjects.'

I was still thinking about Harold's reply as we collected our horses from the inn's stable and rode out of the city behind Cosmas, our guide. We left through the eastern gate, and Cosmas asked me to warn Harald and the others that some of the people we would meet along our road could prove unfriendly. The most hostile were Samaritans. They had a horror of unbelievers, whether Christian or Jew. If we wished to buy anything from a Samaritan we would have to place the coins in a bowl of water because they would receive nothing direct from our hands, considering us unclean. And after we left, they would burn straw over the hoof prints left by our horses to purify all traces of us.

I suspect that our guide was secretly pleased when, close to the river, we did encounter a group of them. The Samaritans behaved exactly as predicted, blocking our path, spitting and cursing, shaking their fists arid working themselves into a frenzy of hatred. Then they searched the roadside for stones which they began to hurl at us, very accurately. At that stage Harald and the Varangians were provoked into action. They spurred their small horses into a canter and charged at their tormentors, smacking them with the flat of their swords and scattering the shrieking zealots, who fled up the hillside, surprised at such brisk treatment.

The countryside became even more desolate than before. After crossing the plateau, our road descended through a steep-sided gorge where the only building was a distant monastery clinging to the rock face like a swallow's nest. A few monks still lived there, our guide told us, because the semi-derelict building was so difficult to access that the Saracens left it alone. Emerging from the gorge we found ourselves riding through a wilderness of sand and scrub completely devoid of people, except for a single party of nomads who had set up iJieir brown tents among the dunes. They were burning thorn bushes for their campfire, and had tethered their animals. I had previously seen such creatures in the imperial menagerie — camels — and I wondered that these beasts, which attracted so much attention in Constantinople, were regarded here as no more unusual than an ass or donkey.

We camped on the outskirts of a ruined town. The place had been completely levelled four years earlier by a great earthquake, and the sight of the tumbled ruins prompted Cosmas to claim that, long ago, its defences had similarly collapsed when an army of besiegers had played trumpets and marched around the walls, calling on their God to aid them.

'The din probably woke up Loki, and he squirmed in his bonds,' muttered Halldor sarcastically. He was finding the guide's stories more and more outrageous.

It was another disappointment when we reached the river which we had been promised would be a marvel to behold. It was no larger than the streams beside which I had played as a child in Greenland. A muddy creek, it ran through reed beds, and the water when we tasted it was gritty and unpleasant. Yet this was the river, the guide assured us, in which the White Christ had been immersed, affirming his faith. The guide showed us a set of stone steps leading down from the bank. Several of the steps were missing, others were unstable, and there was a half-rotten rope to serve as a handhold. The steps, he said, were where the faithful had come in former times to imitate the example of the White Christ.

As if on cue — indeed I suspected that Cosmas may have arranged it — a ragged priest of the White Christ appeared from a small shelter of reeds nearby. He offered to conduct just such a ceremony for a small fee, promising that anyone who did so would store up 'riches in heaven'. I translated his offer, and to my consternation Harald accepted. He removed his clothes, piled them on the river bank and, wearing only a loose gown, descended the steps and waded in. There Harald allowed the priest to splash water over him and chant a prayer. I was dismayed. Until that moment I was sure that I could sway Harald towards the Elder Faith.

Halldor saw my expression. 'Don't take it too seriously, Thorgils,' he said, 'When you've known Harald as long as I have, you'll understand that the only riches he is interested in are those on this earth. He will do anything that will help him gain them, even if it means taking a dip in a muddy river. Right now, he's probably thinking that the White Christ is fortunate to have him as a recruit'

My consternation lasted all the way back to Aelia, as the Greeks called the Holy City, and it took Trdat's air of suppressed excitement to dispel my disappointment. The architect was positively quivering with happy anticipation.

'You can't guess what occurred in your absence, ' he said as he welcomed me. 'It's unheard of, at least since my grandfather's time.'

'What's unheard of? You look as though you've found a fortune,' I said.

'Better than that. While you were away, I went back to the site of the Anastasis to check some details on my drawings, and an elderly Saracen came over to see what I was doing. He was very distinguished looking and well dressed. Of course I showed him my work, made gestures trying to explain what I was doing, and so forth. It turned out that he spoke a few words of Armenian and enough Greek to tell me that he is one of the dignitaries responsible for the upkeep of the Holy of Holies, the Golden Dome. He has invited me to visit the place if I promise to be discreet. Can you imagine! No Christian has been allowed to look inside the Dome and see its wonders for years.'

'Don't talk to me about the wonders of local religion,' I said. 'I've been disappointed enough in the last few days.'

'Come on, Thorgils. This is an opportunity that won't come again. Of course you must accompany me to visit the Dome. My visit is scheduled for tomorrow.'

A servant collected us when the last echoes of the Saracens' prayer call had died away, and I had to admit a sense of excitement as Trdat and I, both wearing Saracen gowns, set off. Ahead of us the great shining Dome glowed in the early morning sunshine, seeming to float above the rooftops of the city. At an outer gate to the sacred area the servant asked us to change our footwear, providing us with slippers, then brought us across a broad platform paved with granite slabs to where Trdat's acquaintance was already waiting. Trdat introduced me as his architectural assistant and then, even before our host could speak, the protomaistor had grabbed my arm and was blurting out 'the Tower of the Winds!' To my surprise he was not staring at the magnificent building soaring up ahead of us, but at a much smaller structure built beside it.