Killingford: The Hieromonk's Tale, Book Two Read online

  Metropolitan Timotheos lifted his brows in response.

  “According to Fra Jánisar,” he said, “the man acted under a compulsion. If another forced him to fall upon his sword, this was murder, and the blame falls on the perpetrator, not on Feognóst. I believe we should give him the benefit of the doubt, and honor him for his service to the king. Let him be buried with his family.”

  Philoxenos Gôritzos, Metropolitan of Bolémiagrad, agreed: “We must always act as Christians, not only in name, but in deed. If there is any doubt regarding the way in which he died, we should let God decide.”

  However, Zôïlos apo Prousês, Archbishop of Velyaminó, said: “I disagree. A public suicide cannot be excused or amended. Thousands of his soldiers saw him do it. To allow him to be interred in hallowed ground is to tell the world that we will acquiesce to the demands of the state if enough pressure is put upon us. No! A thousand times, I say, no!”

  But he was outvoted by Eudoxios Metropolitan of Susafön, and by the Metropolitans and Archbishops Angelarios, Hierônymos, Nestorios, Iôsêph, and Konôn, while Kyriakos and Mêtrophanês sided with Ismaêl.

  Finally, the patriarch spoke in his quavering voice.

  “My brothers,” he said, “we can add little to this debate, other than to voice our own dismay at what is happening to our belovèd land. This is Satan’s work”—they all murmured their agreement—“and we must take every step necessary to purge this evil from our council halls. Therefore, we propose that the king be requested to allow the Protopresbyter Varlaám to exorcise his court and councilors, and also the generals and officers who will soon be leading our soldiers against the papist-loving Walküri. May we hear your voices united in support of this initiative?”

  They all agreed, without dissent, and deputized Metropolitan Timotheos to approach the War Council with the suggestion.

  “As far as Lord Feognóst is concerned,” Avraäm said, “we propose that he be buried conditionally with his relatives, with the language of the service subtly altered to take into account the unique circumstances of his passing. We do not wish to offend the king, nor do we wish to divide the nation at the time of its great enterprise. We have spoken: let it be recorded,” he ordered Varlaám.

  “Are there any other matters to be brought before this gathering?” he asked.

  “Most Holy Patriarch,” Timotheos stated, “I again raise the issue of the vacant bishopric of Söpróny in Gärrewestfählen, and propose that the Archpriest Athanasios Hokhanêmsos would be a most suitable candidate to fill that position.”

  Metropolitan Ismaêl smiled his crooked smile, showing several teeth yellowed and furrowed like the well-worn fangs of some wild beast.

  “We have heard this one before, brethren,” he said, “and I for one do not wish to hear of it again. The career of this Athanasios has been focused exclusively on the Megalê Scholê, and while this is an honorable position, to be sure, which none of us should scorn, nonetheless it has provided insufficient experience for the administration of an episcopal see. I propose the Archpriest Samouêl Kontarês, who has managed his several parish assignments with great skill during the last fifteen years.”

  After much discussion, Ismaêl’s candidate was elected, by a vote of seven to five, several of Timotheos’s supporters being swayed by the evident competence of Kontarês, who was promptly confirmed in his new office by the patriarch. The consecration of the new bishop was scheduled for a week hence. Then the synod quietly adjourned.

  But Timotheos remained behind to discuss matters with his mentor.

  “I’m very sorry, Timósha,” the older man said, looking every bit his eighty years, “you have not made a friend today.”

  “Ismaêl was never a friend, holy father,” the metropolitan said, “and I’d rather have his enmity displayed openly in the pasture than hidden somewhere in the vale. I didn’t really expect to win the appointment for Afanásy. I’m merely laying the foundation for the future.”

  “My son, my son,” the patriarch said, clucking his tongue, “your deviousness will be your undoing one day. These men are not as stupid as you sometimes think, and they resent being manipulated, particularly old Ismaêl, even though I know and he knows that you thereby accomplish some ultimate great good for the church. But falter just once, Timósha, and they’ll turn on you, particularly after I’m gone. How will you come to sit in this chair by acting so foolishly?”

  “I don’t want to sit in that chair, father,” the cleric said.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Avraäm said. “Do you think that I ever did? Do you think that I craved the power and the glory of leading the church? I refused the honor at first, did you know that? No, I see by your reaction that you didn’t.

  “Well, twice I turned them down, and I was determined to avoid the burden altogether, if necessary by returning to the cloister. Then Ismaêl, yes, that very one, he came to me privily and said that I must accept for the good of the church, that there was no one else who could assume the reins at that place and at that time without causing a division in the ranks. And so I was persuaded to relent. I think he regrets his advice now, yes I do.

  “But that’s the way that God works, my dear Timósha. You think that you can oppose what He wants, and then, poof!, suddenly things are turned upside down, and you’re acting on His behalf, just as our poor metropolitan did. Well, my time here is nearly done.”

  “No, no, father,” the metropolitan said, “you’ll be guiding us for years yet to come.”

  “Don’t humor me,” the octagenarian said. “I’ve been patriarch for a great many cycles now, as you well know, and I’ve been subject throughout that entire period to king and prince and metropolitan, all trying to get the ‘old man’ to do what they want.

  “I attempt very hard to see things as they are. I know that I’m dying, at the very time when we are facing the worse crisis to affect our people in a generation, and I also know that you understand this full well, and have already begun calculating the considerations and consequences thereof. But you forget, Timotheos, that however much you plan, you can never comprehend or circumvent God’s plan for you, or for this Church, or for this land. I know that you mean well, but there’s an arrogance yet in you that must be tamed if you’re to rule wisely.”

  “But you just said, father,” the prelate said, “that God will dispose of all of our prideful prognostications.”

  “Don’t play the sophist with me, Timósha,” Avraäm said, “it doesn’t become you. You will be patriarch, I can see this in my dreams, oh thank the Lord for them, and they’re true dreams, I’m convinced, but the how and the why and the when, I do not know. I’m comforted, however, by this knowledge as I approach the limits of my tenure here, because I know that in the end you’ll do the right thing, that you’ll follow the pathways that I laid down for you so many years ago, that you’ll be a credit both to this office and to the Holy Church.”

  “I’d still like to find a decent position for Afanásy,” Timotheos said.

  The patriarch just laughed, long and hard.

  “Oh, foolish, foolish man, oh you with so great a mind and so little faith.” He chuckled. “Father Athanasios will also be patriarch, this too I have seen, and nothing that you or he can do will alter that fact.”

  “Afanásy?” the younger priest said, astonished by the information.

  “Afanásy,” the old man said. “You go on playing your games, Father Timotheos, you play them as much as you want, but there is only one game in the sight of the Lord, and you, both of you, will have to decide in due course how you will respond to the love that He entrusts unto you, when you have the guidance of the Holy Church as your sole responsibility.

  “But do not despair. For as much as He grants you the authority, so too will He give you the strength that you will need to face the perils yet to come. I will not be there, except in spirit, always that, but He is eternal. He will support you. He will guide you. He will not fail you.

 
“Alas, I am but a frail vessel, and I must now take my rest. I apologize, my old friend, for scaring you in this way, but you have become, at times, rather overcomplacent and overcomfortable with your position, and a man needs to reflect every so often upon the true and vital things of his existence.

  “Now let me bless you before I go. May the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ watch over you, comfort you, and give you direction, throughout all of the days of your life. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Timotheos said. “God go with you, father.”

  “He is always there if you let Him enter your heart, Timósha. Find a way to lead us home to Him, my son. And pray for me. Pray for us all.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “WE ARE ALIVE!”

  The next two weeks were spent in frenzied activity, as the great expedition to Pommerelia began taking shape outside of Paltyrrha. The rain continued off and on in desultory fashion, occasionally ceasing long enough for the sun to lay a crust on top of the ever-present mud, but the men became used to the bad conditions, and even began joking about them.

  By the first day of May, the Feast of Saint Stachys the Stigmatized, eleven thousand soldiers had gathered at Katonaí Field west of the city, with the Arrhéni, Kórynthi, Luristáni, Vorónali, and Velyaminóli contingents still to arrive. Four thousand more troops were already encamped around Myláßgorod, their destination to the west, and another five thousand at Bolémiagrad. Contrary to almost everyone’s expectations except the king’s, the enterprise was moving forward very rapidly.

  The king had picked the first of May as the official leavetaking of the army for many good reasons, primary among them being the fact that this was traditionally the beginning of the warm season in Kórynthia, and the end of the monsoon rains. With the onset of the milder weather, the men could see the evidence around them of things sprouting everywhere, a sure sign of renewal. The optimism generated by all this greenery and the lessening storms had offset the depression following Lord Feognóst’s public suicide, an event that still hadn’t been adequately explained by the king’s physicians, plus the announcement the week before of the passing of the son of Prince Pankratz. Prince Alexander had perished of the creeping colick at the age of just six months.

  But nothing of an unusual nature had occurred in the interim, save a tremor two evenings before that had jolted most everyone from their sound sleep, but had passed so quickly that many could not even identify what it was. Earthquakes were common in Paltyrrha, and anyone over the age of twenty-five remembered all too well the great quake of 1188, which had leveled part of the city.

  The leaders of the expedition gathered at the hour of tritê at Saint Konstantín’s Cathedral in the center of the town, there to receive the official blessing of the Thrice Holy Patriarch Avraäm IV. After the shaky old primate had celebrated mass, given his benediction, sprinkled them with holy water, and distributed the consecrated bread and wine that represented in sacramental form the body and blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ, he and half of his synod prepared to embark with the king’s army, for it was only fitting, he was heard to utter, that they suffer the same risks as the others.

  “God will protect us,” he insisted, “He will watch over us all.”

  From the Cathedral they marched as one body to Tighrishály Palace, where the Princess Arrhiána and Prince Andruin, the newly named Regents of the Kingdom in Kipriyán’s absence, were waiting for them, together with the womenfolk and children of the royal family and the high councilors of state. Many were the tears and the huzzahs that were exchanged that day, and many the promises made of great victories and happy returns. Such are the gentle lies that loved ones tell each other, that they may sleep more soundly at night.

  King Kyprianos kissed his son and daughter on each cheek, and gave them their sashes of office. Metropolitan Ismaêl, the ranking member of the Holy Synod, was appointed Locum Tenens of the Holy Church by the patriarch.

  Prince Ezzö and his eldest grandson, Prince Pankratz, the real commander of the northern army, then made their farewells; later that day they would transit to their camp near Bolémiagrad, where they would lead the northern Kórynthi army into Einwegflasche. King Humfried V kissed his father and eldest son gently, and was actually seen to brush away a tear from his eye as he bid them “adieu.” Many at court had begun to comment that the Old Pretender Ezzö was starting to fail in his mind, especially since the unfortunate passing of his son Adolphos the previous winter. Still, he made a formidable presence on this most auspicious occasion, dressed in shiny armor with plumes a-flying, and carefully seated upright in his saddle.

  Finally, they were ready to begin at about the hour of hektê, which is called sext in the west. The king, in heavy battle armor, was helped onto his new stallion, a mighty gray called Szürke, signaling his Elite Guard and chief officers to follow suit. As the command to mount rang out, the dark clouds parted briefly, allowing a slender shaft of sunlight to bathe the monarch in its reflected glow. A brilliant flash of gold ricocheted from the king’s crown, blinding the onlookers, and causing awed comments all around. The Guard spontaneously saluted their monarch with their kiliçs raised on high. God had officially smiled on the expedition.

  They began moving out, but as they started to pass through Saint Konstantín’s Square, in front of the great onion-domed cathedral of the same name, suddenly an earthquake rocked the capital once again, rattling windows and nerves alike. While they paused, looking at each other and trying to gauge the strength of the temblor, a second, more severe jolt struck, cracking the statue of King Tamás at the center of the square. The bronze horse on which the dead king was mounted almost seemed to trot free from its moorings, causing the entire structure to slide sideways towards the royal party. King Kipriyán spurred Szürke just in time to avoid being impaled by the outstretched sword of Tamás, who crumbled into pieces when he finally hit the ground. Inside, as they could all see, the statue was rotten clean through with pale green rust.

  “Is anyone hurt?” Kipriyán yelled over the din. “Report!”

  A few moments later, after consulting with his aides, Prince Arkády spurred his horse into motion, broke free from the chaos, and rode quickly to his father from the other side. He glanced rapidly to his right, then to his left, trying to gauge some estimate of any additional damage they might have suffered.

  “Sire,” he said, as he wheeled to a stop beside Kipriyán, “several men were cut by flying débris, and one horse went lame when he slipped on the rubble. Princess Arrhiána is sending physicians to treat the wounded, as well as workers to begin the clean-up.”

  The king examined the expectant faces peering up at him, waiting for some direction.

  “The Walküri have done their worst,” he shouted to the gathered throng, brandishing his sword and waving it over his head, “and they have utterly failed. Look around you. We are alive, we are well, we are strong, we are victorious! Let the jihad commence! Vive la Corynthe!” he added, using the Gallic dialect which was then the fashion of the nobility at court.

  Raucous cheers rattled the eaves of the buildings surrounding the square, even more than the temblor had, and the spirits of the officers and their men, so low a few moments earlier, soared high above the dome of Saint Konstantín’s. Certain of victory, assured of God’s good will, King Kipriyán and his army marched west out of Paltyrrha, exiting at the Gate of Saint Ignatios, and being joined shortly thereafter by the thousands of soldiers waiting for them at Katonaí Field. Even trampling through the sticky mud, they made a grand sight, ranged row by row in perfect order, their spears reaching up into the sky to prod the very angels themselves into action.

  The enterprise was finally launched!

  CHAPTER SIX

  “DON’T FORGET TO TURN THE OTHER CHEEK!”

  Three miles west of the city of Paltyrrha, the Archpriest Athanasios was trying very hard to find a comfortable position for his numb posterior and aching thighs. The raggedy gray donkey called Dyskolos had certainly lived up to his name,
being difficult, poky, and not at all inclined to obey a man of the cloth. Without any warning, he would suddenly speed up to a bone-jarring trot, bypassing all the men marching in line, who would encourage the evil beast with catcalls, insults, and laughter, and occasionally with jabs of their sharp spears. Then the beast would jerk to a complete stop, allowing the jeering foot soldiers to catch up and pass them again, while Athanasios, legs pumping and arms waving, angrily tried to spur the tyrant forward.

  It had been a frustrating afternoon for the priest, inexperienced rider that he was, but he attempted to pass the time as profitably as he could by saying his daily prayers, and beseeching God’s benign intervention with their dangerous mission. But time and again he found himself distracted by having to attend to the reins, as he held on to his precarious seat.

  On his fifth or sixth such run, Dyskolos tried a new maneuver, and succeeded in abruptly bucking Athanasios off over his head, straight into a large mud puddle. The startled priest found himself flat on his back and soaked through, struggling to regain his wind as he stared up at the vacuous face of his obstinate mount. Dyskolos smiled back with bared yellow teeth, having finally rid himself of his unwelcome burden. Then, floppy ears laid back, he stretched out his scrawny neck and shook his head, flinging foam into the priest’s face and jingling his bridle jauntily, and braying raucously a few times in unconcealed triumph.

  Several soldiers of the Kosnicki Brigade, who were marching right next to them, almost fell over, they were laughing so hard.

  “Now, father,” one of them yelled, “don’t forget to turn the other cheek!”

  There were more hoots and guffaws.

  “An ass in time saves nine!” another quipped.

  The troops behind them began to bunch up as they watched the welcome spectacle of a cleric finally receiving his comeuppance.

  Athanasios climbed shakily to his feet, then gazed down at his ruined cloak, his cheeks burning with the shame. He hated being humiliated like this. From the time he was a child, he had disliked being made the brunt of public ridicule or scorn.