THE GOOD BISHOP PAYS THE PRICE
Martha Hubbard
The Bishop of Celestia stood on the roof-top of his residence, watching the bulging carts: exhausted, wheeled elephants creaking down to the harbour, taking their places by the imperial triremes waiting to be loaded. “Timos, that’s the last one. How many were there in all?”
“Thirty-three, my Lord.”
“Only! Do you think it’s enough?”
Timos raised his eyebrows, in that eternal gesture of negation mastered at birth by all bureaucrats. He was only a secretary – and a slave, at that; what did he know of the workings of the Emperor’s court? His master was a bishop, spiritual leader of the dusty flock clustered around the Church of the Holy Martyrs on the eastern shore of the Euxine Sea. It was the Bishop’s responsibility to ‘know’ what was required to persuade the Court of Theodosius that their claim to the disputed relic was just, fair, indisputably correct – that the blasted thing should be returned to its former resting place in the Chapel of Saint Nicholas of Heraclitus.
Bishop Probus scratched his magnificent nose. Then, because it was July and stiflingly hot, he lifted his hat and scratched thoughtfully at the greying tangled nest wound up on his head. He sometimes felt that one of the most difficult aspects of being a bishop was carrying around this itchy mass under his mitre.
“Tell me again. What did we send?”
“Everything?”
“Well, no, maybe just the most important items.”
With the universal sigh of martyred civil servants, Timos took up the first of 100 scrolls and considered where to begin. He wished Probus would read them for himself, but he couldn’t read. Although, as a boy, he had failed to master any language beyond his native Armenian, his father, General Marcus Probus, had managed, through assiduous use of family connections, to secure this sinecure in remote Eastern Anatolia for his only son.
“Six bales of red-and-azure Phrygian silk, 100 lengths of purple-dyed wool-stuffs suitable for winter cloaks, ten gold-and-silver embroidered altar cloths for which five holy sisters from the Convent of Saint Eulalia forfeited their eyesight, three caskets of saffron – hand-picked locally by children under three, especially selected for their tiny fingers, 20 prepared hides of unborn spring lamb – suitable for inscriptions, four caskets of whole black peppercorns, two caskets of cinnamon, two of whole cloves, and one of ground; in a separate vessel, two barrels of smoked sturgeon roe and three of salted carp ….”
As Timos recited the list of treasures prepared to entice the Emperor to order the return of the precious stolen relic, Probus drifted into dreams. He imagined the Abbot’s outrage when the Caesarean Guard, come especially from Constantinople for the job, would escort him and his congregation up the mountainside to that accursed monastery. That brigand’s lair wouldn’t protect the thieving Abbot and his scurrilous band, then. What Caesar declared would be effected.
It wasn’t as if it were just any old relic: not a supposed feather from the Archngel Gabriel’s wings – there were hundreds of those around – or one of the coals Diocletian had used to roast poor old Laurentious (God keep his soul), or a beaker of dust stirred up when Giorgios of Konya slaughtered the dragon. Oh, no, this was an authenticated pouch belonging to the Holy Nicholas of Myrna, which had contained gold pieces used as dowry for an impoverished young woman. It belonged in the church recently renamed in his honour. And blast those monks, anyway, for thinking they could just carry off one of his Bishopric’s finest, holiest treasures without so much as a ‘by-your-leave’ – as if he, Probus, would have consented to such a thing, anyway.
Probus drifted on cushions of reverie. It had been a hectic and expensive few weeks, ordering and assembling all those luxuries for the Emperor – even if Timos had done most of the work. When he awoke, half an hour later, Timos was just coming to the end of the 99th scroll and the ships sailing for the Holy City of the Emperors were tiny specks on the horizon. “Are you finished? I’ve just had such a wonderful dream.”
“Have you? Before you tell me, perhaps I should get some of the yellow wine we brought in last week ….”
“Some olives would go nicely with the wine. How kind you are to me.”
Most of the time, this far from the upheavals and intrigues of New Rome, life in Celestia, a Byzantine seaport city in the middle of the fifth century after the birth of Jesus Christ, was quiet and orderly. Bishop Probus had been flung into a niche that perfectly suited his talents and abilities. Possessing neither strong political nor passionate religious convictions, his genial tolerance of the swirling multiplicity of cultures and populations that called Celestia home had won him the overwhelming affection and support of his congregants.
In this, he was assisted by Timos, his clerk, scribe, friend and – ah ... er ... slave. Many years before, Probus’ father, the General, recognising his son’s limitations, had conscripted a Bulgarian village boy – grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, in fact – and brought him back to Constantinople to be young Probus’ companion, bodyguard and helpmate. Timos, possibly too smart for his own good, had attended and benefited from all the classes through which Probus slept and dreamed such pleasing dreams.
But, as some wit would one day write, the times they were a-changing. After years of regency by his sister Pulcheria, the Emperor Theodosius, now in his full majesty, had commissioned:
“... a full and proper compilation of all laws promulgated since the assertion of Christianity as the one true religion by the blessed Emperor Constantine ….”
Timos, wishing, not for the first or thousandth time – the ponderous language made his teeth hurt – that the Bishop could read for himself, was interrupted.
“Damn! Why has he wanted to go and do that?” Bishop Probus, disappointed that the missive just arrived did not contain the confirmation of his claim to the purloined relic, expressed his irritation with emperors, overlords and bureaucracy, in general.
“What’s wrong with trying to bring order to the snakes’ nest of rules and regulations that every half-wit emperor has dumped on the empire since Diocletion?”
“Careful whom you’re calling a ‘half-wit’ – one of them was my namesake.”
“I rest my case. But what’s wrong with trying to bring order out of chaos?”
“It’s not the ordering I object to; it’s the imposing of that order, afterwards, that’s going to cause the problems.”
“What problems?”
“Wait and see. This will not end well.”
“What’s happened? You’re not usually so pessimistic.”
“I had a very bad dream last night.”
“Oh ….”
Probus’ dreams were as good a barometer of portentous events as eagle droppings or the appearance of two-headed mice in the marketplace.
“I dreamt the Emperor had sent us a proclamation confirming our right to Saint Nicholas’s pouch. As we processed up the mountain to the monastery, I heard a noise like waves breaking over the seawall. Rocks, sand, great pink-and-ochre boulders began to tumble down, rumbling, bouncing and cracking. I jumped out of their path and hid in a cave ….”
“… that appeared conveniently.”
“Don’t jest! This is serious. Once the avalanche ended, a quarter of our town was buried under fallen stone.”
“That does sound ominous. Was there anything else in the dream?”
“No. I woke myself up at that point.”
“There’s nothing more in this missive. The Emperor has compiled his new Codex and wants you to announce his achievement from the pulpit this Sunday. That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Don’t count on it. Great disasters are oft-times born from grains of sand.”
As the Bishop had predicted, the unpleasant codicil was not long in arriving. A scant month after the announcement of the Codex, a phalanx of soldiers in austere trappings marched through the Porta Hesperia and clanked down the Strada Memoriam to present a papyrus signed by the emperor’s sister:
In gratified cognisance of the magnificent work created by our beloved brother, the Emperor Theodosius, Second of that name, and out of our great and abiding love for the Basileus, we, the Honourable Pulcheria, Bride of our Lord Jesus Christ ….
“Dear saints and little chickens, she goes on worse than her brother. Skip the preamble and get to the point – if there is one.”
“Let me see if I can find it. Ah ... here: I command you to search out, and consign to cleansing holy flame, all pagan, heretical or otherwise impious writings which have heretofore despoiled the minds and hearts of our innocent subjects ….”
“I told you. We’re to organise a book burning. How long before she turns that vicious mind to putting people to the ‘cleansing flame’?”
Guided by definitions in the new law code, the ‘what’ of the task was clear. Any scroll, papyrus or text, any scrap of writing not sanctioned by this code, was to be seized and burned. The ‘how’ of it was another matter.
Celestia, a metropolis, of more than eight thousand souls – give or take a slave or two – had created itself down the side of a mountain, a cascade of fading rose, ochre and sienna limpets stuck fast to a crumbling hillside of low bushes, pines and olive trees, that tumbled, without form or reason, to a curve of harbour far below. Houses carved from the soft tufa, in many cases fronted cave dwellings burrowing far back into the mountain. Streets were vertical, better suited to donkeys than heavily armed soldiers. In a few places, fora, essential places of assembly, had been carved and levelled out of the rock.
At least, thought Timos, we won’t have to carry the debris all the way down to the harbour for burning. We can dispose of it on-site. Scouring each neighbourhood for proscribed material and wrenching it from protesting owners would be a despicable job. This damned project would waste days.
Muttering to himself, stepping over Pulcheria’s scroll as if it were a dead viper, Timos exited the Bishop’s study without saying goodbye.
Watching Timos’ departing back, Probus thought, I hate being right. This is going to be a nightmare.
On Sunday, Timos read Pulcheria’s proclamation from the pulpit. Notices were posted throughout the town, giving the times on which, and locations to which, proscribed materials were to be delivered. On Monday, Timos and a small guard arrived at the first location, Plaka Ilonia. The fire materials had been prepared, but remained unlit. To one side, the commune elder, Antonios, stood with a small collection of scripts from the community center, ragged, scribbled over by many hands. He pointed to them. “Take and destroy these, if you must. It is all we have.”
“I thank you, Kyrios Antonios. This is a good beginning, but I fear it is not all. I am sorry; we must now search each home to verify that all banned texts have been sanitised.”
“Sanitised? Is this how you describe destroying the knowledge of centuries?”
“Kyrios Antonios, I don’t make the laws. I only obey them – just as you must.”
Without another word, the old man spat in the dust in front of Timos and stalked out of the plaza.
“Leave him.” Timos restrained the soldiers. “Dispose of these. Then we can begin our search.”
When the fire was burning bravely, the soldiers struggled to gather up the discarded documents and carry them to the flames. The papyri ripped, slipping from their fingers; wind pushed fragments into the air. The soldiers chasing them tripped and fell. Frustrated and embarrassed, they determined to gather up and burn every scrap. Faster and faster, angry soldiers fed resisting papers onto the fire, only to hear them moan and grumble as the flames took them. These bits were old and tired. Soon, the last fragment gave a strangled whimper and died.
“All right, then. Let’s get on with our search.”
By afternoon’s end, a larger pile of papyri, velum sheets and tablets had been assembled. Timos ordered the firing of these. The soldiers hung back, eyeing the pile of books and the silent crowd of sullen faces. “Maybe we could do this in the morning ….” the Captain suggested.
Timos gestured to the angry townsmen gathered at the edge of the square. “By morning, that lot will have disappeared everything into the mountains. We don’t go down until this is ash.”
With dragging feet and downcast eyes, weary men began the task of carrying the scripts to the leaping flames. This was not the debacle of the morning; it was worse – much worse. The texts struggled and squealed, fighting the soldiers like desperate children as they were dragged toward the pyre. On the fire, their howls of pain and anguish seemed endless, rising on choking smoke as the books gave up their lives to the flames. By the time they had finished, and the last papyrus screamed and gasped to its death, night had fallen. An ugly darkness blocked out the stars and the moon.
“That’s it for today.” Timos relieved his exhausted troops. “Tomorrow, we rotate. No one will do this more than one day in a row.” Except me, he thought to himself.
“Put a guard on all roads leading out of the city. Now the community knows we mean to do this, they will try to protect the most precious pages by hiding them in the caves above. Bring anything you recover to me.”
As Timos staggered slowly towards the Bishop’s Palace, every step was a nightmare, his hips frozen with the effort of dragging his protesting body forward.
Dismissing the house servants, he retired to his chamber. He was too exhausted to give Probus an account of the day. An hour later, when Timos had not appeared for dinner – the quiet time they spent together, sharing food, good wine and the day’s gossip, at the end of each day, was the Bishop’s favourite – Probus ordered a servant to bring a light supper to his friend’s room and went, sighing, to bed.
Timos, who had been sitting in his darkened room too tired to think or call for assistance, watched the man set out the plates and glasses. The smell from the steaming bowl made him want to retch. He watched the slave set a full flagon of wine on the table, light the candle and depart.
“Thank you, Oscar,” Timos whispered to the closing door. He reached for the flagon, filled the cup to the brim and drank it off in one swallow. Again and again, he repeated this desperate gesture until the flagon was empty. Falling onto his bed, pulling the light coverlet over his head, he mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ for his friend’s generosity. Darkness claimed him instantly.
In the morning, Timos rose and bathed before presenting himself to the Bishop. Somehow, a report would have to be delivered. And there would be tea.
The Bishop turned from contemplating the rising sun. “That bad, was it?”
“You have no idea. It was like burning babies; they cried like children.”
“That’s awful. Perhaps we should stop.”
“How can we? Pulcheria’d have us on the pyre next, if we didn’t finish.”
“True, sadly. Maybe you could take a day off and continue tomorrow?”
“No. The sooner I get this finished, the sooner I can forget about it.”
Making his way to the guards’ quarters, Timos looked up at the sky. Fat Sol, climbing relentlessly over the horizon, had dissipated any residual evening coolness. This day was promising to be hotter than the previous.
In the guards’ office, Captain Ochrid, grizzled veteran of too many years fighting the Barbarians, was waiting for him. He looked as tired as Timos. “So, did you catch anything?”
“Yes, sir, a few items. Pretty ordinary, except for ….”
“Except for what?”
“Well, there was … is a book.”
“A book? What kind of book?”
“A book kind of book. Sheets of vellum, bound with leather.”
“Okay, what’s in it?”
“I don’t know, sir. I ... the soldiers were afraid to open it. It’s over there.”
Timos looked around. “Where is it?”
“Over there, behind the desk. We covered it with a blanket.”
In the darkness of the far corner, barricaded by the commandant’s desk, several chairs and a battered campaign chest, was a striped wool cloak with a bulge in its middle. It might have been a sleeping foot-soldier – or a body. Timos strode to it and reached to pull the cover off.
“Be careful, sir.”
“Why, does it bite?” Curious now, he continued. Even in the gloom of the corner, the book glowed and rippled with violet light. Timos knelt to open the cover.
“Sir, I think we should wrap it up and burn it – right away.”
“You may be right, Ochrid,” Timos said, stroking the smooth, soft leather. “But this will take too long to be consumed. If we burn it now, we waste half the morning.”
“You are right, of course. But we don’t want to leave it here – do we? Something might happen to us – to it.”
“Exactly. You go ahead and start searching. I’ll deposit this safely in the palace. We can dispose of it later.”
Ochrid hurried off like a man pursued by wolves. Reverently, Timos rewrapped the book in a clean linen towel and tucked it into his satchel. The book clucked softly, warm against his back, as he strode back down to the palace.
Mid-morning, no one was about to question his presence or offer assistance. He passed straight to his chambers, noting with satisfaction that Oscar had been in to tidy up and remove the empty cup and flagon. No one else would enter now. Placing the parcel on his desk, Timos removed the linen to reveal a work of undulating beauty. The air around the book rippled and gleamed, inviting him to reach out and stroke ... to open the cover – just an inch ….
Come here; you know you want to, it whispered, the voice musical, soft seductive ... Timos was not bound to celibacy. He had heard voices like that before. Those experiences, while infrequent, had usually been pleasurable. “Not now,” he said. “We’ll get better acquainted when I return tonight.”
Offended by his rejection, the marvellous violet light snapped out.
“Don’t be like that. I’ll see you tonight.” The book remained dull, an inanimate, brown-leather lump.
Leaving the Residence, Timos walked towards the plaka of the ward that was to be cleansed today. Sol, now well-advanced in the sky, bounced burning swords off his head. Timos was not a spiritual or superstitious man, leaving that to the Bishop. Just now, he felt that the entire natural world was assaulting his frail, skinny body.
In the center of the plaka, Ochrid had just set fire to a mound of brush and boards. To one side, a large pile of tablets and documents waited to be burned. The soldiers standing guard eyed them with suspicion. They had been fully and gruesomely apprised of the previous day’s experiences.
“Is that it?”
“We think so,” said Ochrid. “Our citizens seem to have realised that the dictates of the Emperor’s sister must be obeyed.”
“I hope you’re right.”
”Me, too. You – men! Get that stuff disposed of straight away.”
The troops set to work, pushing, pulling and dragging the struggling manuscripts to the licking flames. As tongues of fire reached out to claim them, the doomed texts cursed and groaned, spitting angry imprecations at the fire and their tormentors. By the time all had been reduced to a pile of smouldering ashes, the detachment, mostly boys, conscripts away from home for the first time, were dizzy and pale, tears streaming down their cheeks, a few vomiting onto the dying embers.
“I think that’s it, then. Do you want us to continue searching? Maybe we missed something.”
Timos was about to agree when the sweet scent of lilacs filled his nostrils. A sinuous, velvety melody began to weave through his head. “Ah ... no, I think that’s enough for today. The miles are clearly exhausted.”
“That’s very considerate, sir.”
“Also, I’m starving – aren’t you?”
“I think we could all do with a meal and a rest.”
Leaving Ochrid to complete cleaning the plaza, Timos headed out of the square. Head held high, steps precise and measured, he presented the very image of dignity and decorum. Once out of the plaka, beyond the eyes of his men, he began to run, skipping, jumping, tumbling down the steep staircases that led to the main city below. Head burning under the sun, sweat flying from flailing limbs, Timos felt none of it – only a deep craving to be inside the cool privacy of his room and the beautiful book that lay there waiting for him.
Passing into the cloistered courtyard, he checked the sundial. Half an hour before the call to dinner. Time to spend with the creature.
Only half an hour, a voice in his head complained.
Inside his chamber, Timos stopped. “How can I touch such a being with filthy hands? Forgive me, I must wash. I cannot sully your loveliness with these.” Yes, do. Only, hurry.
Five minutes later, cleansed and in a fresh tunic, Timos stood before the book and reached out to stroke its cover. The leather seemed softer, more sensuous than before. Open me, it begged.
Hands trembling, he lifted the heavy cover. Marvellous violet light filled the room, dazzling him. Flowers and animals never seen on this earth twined around strange symbols, challenging him to parse out their meanings. He traced their shapes with his finger. Fire, feeling, desire flashed up into his brain. New knowledge, unintelligible concepts, startled his senses. “It will take a lifetime to know you, to understand you.”Oh, yes …, it whispered.
At that very inopportune instant, Oscar rapped on his door. “Master Timos, please, the Bishop is waiting for you to dine with him. What shall I say?”
“Tell him ... tell him, I am coming immediately.”
As Timos closed the book’s cover, he heard sobbing. How cruel you are to leave me so.
“I must. Bishop Probus is my master.”
At those words, the violet light flared out; the cover snapped firmly shut. Timos fell back onto his bed, so painful was his sense of loss. Nonetheless, after a few moments to straighten his clothes and his senses, he made his way to the loggia, where the Bishop was waiting.
“I was afraid I was going to have to eat alone, again.”
“No, Your Excellency. The day has been long, the sun fierce. I felt the need to bathe before joining you.”
“That was considerate. Are you all right? You look pale.”
“Just tired, sir. This is not the easiest task you have ever asked of me.”
“I can see that. Perhaps you would like me to relieve you for a few days.”
“No ... I think I should see it through to the end.”
“All right. But if you look this distraught tomorrow night, I shall set Ochrid to finishing it.”
“I wouldn’t. He looks worse than I – if you can believe it. Come, let’s have some of this cool Candian wine.”
“That should help.”
Dinner progressed, more or less as normal. Probus wanted a detailed account of the troops’ activities. At first, Timos was reluctant to describe the way the texts had screamed and cursed. But, as always, bit-by-bit, the full picture was pulled out of him. The Bishop, hands folded over a replete tummy, had an uncanny knack for pouncing on the odd aspect, using it to pull down another fact and another, until a complete story had been assembled.
“That sounds horrific. Perhaps I should order a cask of good wine sent round – what do you think?”
“I think the boys would appreciate it. But from the look of them, the only thing that would make them feel better is their mothers.”
“Poor lads, they really are so young, aren’t they?”
Timos shrugged. “That’s the system. A man doesn’t become a citizen, polities, until he’s done his duty to the state – as it was, so shall it ever be.”
“I know. Still doesn’t feel right.”
Shortly after this, Timos returned to his chambers. There, he spent a fruitless hour trying to persuade his book to open her cover. Pleadings, begging, imprecations – nothing worked. At last, angry and frustrated, he gulped down the flagon of wine Probus had sent along with him and fell again into an inebriated sleep.
The next day was worse than the previous – if that was possible. By noon, Timos was so ill – from sun, wine-sickness, from frustration and anger – that Ochrid took charge, ordering his captain back to his quarters.
“Yes, yes, you’re right. What I need is some rest. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“I’m sure of it Sir. Don’t you be worrying. I’ll see everything gets done properly.”
“There’ll be extra solidii in your pay packet – for all of you. I promise.”
Once again, released from the book burning, Timos was a beardless youth skipping to a rendezvous. He wondered if the texts they were destroying had been friends of his book.
What if she hadn’t – wouldn’t – forgive him for abandoning her last night? Nearing his room, he slowed, heart pounding in his chest. Ahead, emanating from the edges of the doorframe, the glorious violet light welcomed him back.
Locking the door carefully behind him, Timos regarded the beautiful creature reclining on her bed of white linen, glowing softly. The air was filled with glorious perfume: lilacs and violet, hyacinth and tuber-rose. Heavy, musky, it made him dizzy. Falling to his knees before his beloved, he wrapped his arms around her and rubbed his cheek against her soft leather cover. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
It’s all right. You came back. I forgive you. Now open me.
Timos obeyed, turning pages filled with remarkable beauty, glowing pictures of demons and maidens, of far-away cities never seen – only imagined – of calligraphy with strange shapes – not Greek or Latin – and runic-like inscriptions .... What could it all mean?
Hours passed. Timos felt neither hunger nor thirst. Diving deeply into the wonders on the pages, he barely heard Oscar knock, again and again. More time passed. Timos was certain that all the mysteries of the universe were contained in this extraordinary volume – if only he were strong enough, brave enough, to master them.
His Beloved led him on, her voice now not always so sweet. When he begged for a rest, she hissed that he was a weakling.
A day and night had passed. Timos had not left his room or answered any attempts to summon him. The Bishop was worried, more than worried. He knew something was very wrong. First, he questioned Ochrid, who had just completed the odious task of searching out and destroying the proscribed texts. Probus felt much pity for him, but his dinner would have to wait until he reported what he knew of Timos’ situation. The story of the book came out immediately.
“... and you say he took it with him to our residence? Did you ever see it burnt?”
“No, Your Excellency, I never saw it again.”
“That means it must be with Timos. Thank you, my good man. Go now to your justly-earned rest. Before you retire, however, send me four fresh, seasoned soldiers. We need to have a look at this book. I’m afraid Timos may need some persuading to allow access to his treasure.”
“I’ll arrange it immediately.”
While he waited for the troops, Probus pondered his next move. Rising to dress, he took out the royal purple chasuble embroidered with jet. It was worn during the darkest hours after the death of the Lord Jesus. Probus contemplated the symbolism of this. Then, placing it back into its coffer, he put on the glorious green, white and gold of Resurrection Morning. If I am to fight the Devil, I need a magic stronger than Death to defeat him.
As Probus had suspected, Timos didn’t answer his knock; only a low moaning issued through the door. “Break down the door,” he ordered the servants. “Stay out unless I call.”
Inside, he found Timos curled into a ball, gibbering, on the floor. By his side, an old book hissed and vibrated a rainbow of obscene colours. With courage available only to the truly innocent, Probus moved to the book and began to examine the strange texts.
“What are you doing?” Timos cried, “You can’t read.”
“Maybe not. But I can understand this ... abomination”
“Yes!” Timos howled. “It is that. Can you help me?”
“Possibly. We must journey together, to a place no man in this world has ever seen.”
“Where we will die,” moaned Timos.
“That is to be determined. Where are the herbs given you by that northern shaman you met years ago?”
Timos raised a limp hand, indicating a shelf above the desk.
“Come on, now. Get hold of yourself; help me. I can’t do this alone.”
Timos lit a fire in the brazier and passed the shaman’s scroll to Probus, who studied the diagram indicated by Timos and began to assemble a collection of noxious herbs in the brazier. During this, the book hissed and muttered at the two men. When all was ready – Timos protesting weakly – Probus lit the pile of aromatic plants.
Taking Timos’ hand in his, the Bishop pulled the trembling man with him to lean over the smoking fire. Together, they inhaled the bitter smoke from the herbs. The air around them grew dim; the room began to spin, faster and faster, until the evil book rose into the air and took flight, leading them towards a cave, laughing as a powerful wind pushed them into a yawning cavern. Deep below, spirits cackled from bubbling and seething flames. They were falling, helplessly, eternally falling.
The Bishop landed with a crunch on his backside. Falling back against a wall of the cave, he cracked his head. All around him, dazzling and swirling, a myriad of images shifted from shape to shape – some too vague to parse, others sickeningly clear. A dragon breathing flames of blood, with blazing wings, each feather ending in a claw, clutched the book. There were snakes – hundreds, writhing and hissing – and scorpions, rats, lizards; giant orange-and-black-striped spiders – all fearsome and poisonous, crawling towards him.
While Probus stood there, gasping, drawing ragged breaths, willing his heart to stop thudding in his chest, a monstrosity before him coalesced into a luminous purple blob with tentacles.
“Enough!” he screamed. “What do you want?”
“It is I who should be asking that of you; you have invaded my sanctuary.”
“Who are you? What are you?”
“Don’t you know it’s rude to answer one question with another? Who I am is not pertinent to this discussion. The relevant question is, I believe: ‘What do you want?’”
“I can’t answer that until I know if you are the per ... er ... entity that can satisfy my request?”
“Clever answer. Let me assure you that I am the only being that can satisfy the pilgrims who find their way here.”
“If that is true, where is Timos?”
“Your unfortunate slave?”
“My companion and friend.”
“Ah ... look to your left.”
“Timos, Timos ….” Probus tried to rush to his friend struggling on the floor of the cave.
Timos yelped and gurgled.
An unseen force more powerful than Probus’s will to aid Timos held him fast in place.
“You cannot touch him, now. He journeys to another realm,” the monster said.
Drawing a knife hidden under his dalmatica, the Bishop leaped at the monster, “You fiend. Let him go!” He sliced off a tentacle before the blade was wrenched from his hand.
“That wasn’t polite,” the creature said, licking the bleeding stump of the severed tentacle.
“Release my friend, you beast – you monster!”
“My, my. Does he mean that much to you?”
“He is the kindest, most decent, thoughtful, caring person in my life. Without him, I would be nothing.”
Lying in the dirt by the wall. Timos’ eyes, round with surprise, showed that he understood every word.
“And this is really so?”
“I swear to it on this cross that has never left my body since the day I was baptized.” Raising the heavy gold cross, Probus kissed it and held it out towards the demon.
“Ahem, we don’t think much of crosses here,” it said, backing away. “You may put it back into its nest on your chest.”
“How else may I convince you of my sincerity?”
“I believe you. You argue very convincingly for an illiterate churchman. However, I cannot be expected to give up my prize without receiving something of equal value in return,” the monster purred.
His insides turning to jelly, his belly twisting and cramping, Probus did not feel very convincing or very brave. He wanted to be home in his study, drinking camomile tea and discussing the latest madness from the Polis with Timos.
“What would you have of me?”
“Well-spoken, my good man – only that which is most precious to you.”
What an odd question, Probus thought. “The thing I hold most dear – that which sustains me through every trial and pain – my faith in the Almighty God?”
The waving tentacles shrivelled, shrinking back from the sound of those two words. “Give up your faith? You would do that to save your friend?”
“Gurgle, gurgle …,” Timos protested.
The Bishop ignored him. “For Timos, yes. I would ... try.”
“So, tell me about your faith; how would you be experiencing that, then?”
“I see God in everything. Once, when I was a lad, I saw His face in the knot of a tree trunk.”
“You didn’t tell your father that, I’ll wager.”
“Er ... no. He sees the face of God in a glittering helmet, carrying the Roman fascia.”
“Is that bad?”
“No, it makes him happy.”
“But not you?”
“People are different.” The Bishop shrugged.
“You really are a Holy Innocent.”
“There’s no need to be insulting. I have refrained from commenting on those ridiculous tentacles you are waving in my face.”
“Argh …!” squealed Timos.
“You don’t like them? Excuse me; I’ll change.”
The air around Probus vanished; a flash of light blinded him and a stink, far worse than sulphur, rose from the floor of the cave. When he could see again, before him slithered a snake – grown to monstrous size and smirking at him.
“That’s worse than the tentacles. Couldn’t you change back?”
“Sorry, you hurt its feelings. It’s gone all shy; I don’t think I can persuade that persona to return.”
“That’s too bad. This persona is really, really ugly.”
“Are you certain you want me to switch again? You only get three chances. What if my next face is worse than the first two?”
Probus hated and was more afraid of snakes than anything. He was even more afraid of them than he was of his father. Ordered by the General to kill a snake that had frightened his horse, the young Probus had picked up his sword to decapitate the beast. It had raised its sleek, green head, gold eyes glittering within iridescent scales, pink tongue flicking in and out of its mouth, and smiled. Probus had fainted. More than any other dereliction, that disaster had convinced his father that his son would never have the readies to become a soldier.
Probus clenched his sphincter muscles and stared directly at the monster, willing himself not to faint.
“Where were we?” it said. “Oh yes, you were going to give me your faith in exchange for restoring your friend’s sanity.”
“I could try, but I don’t think I’d succeed. Thing is, it’s too deeply ingrained in every part of me – not only in my mind but in all the fibres of my body, even the soles of my feet – all belong to God.” He lifted his hat. “It’s even in every strand of my hair.”
“Ew! Put that back. It’s disgusting.”
The Bishop returned his cap to his head, methodically tucking all the greasy strands under its edges. The corners of his lips curved, a tiny bit, like a new crescent moon.
“You may be right. We haven’t had much joy of faith-renouncers. If their beliefs are strong enough to make them worth having, the pesky things always seem to find a way to sneak back to their original owners.”
“There must be something else of mine worth having. I’m not a rich man, but my father … you seem to know my father.”
“Bah, earthly riches mean nothing to us. Now that I look at you more closely, I see ... There is something else, something you value and depend upon so much that you’ve stopped thinking about it.”
“What is that?”
“Arrrrrrrrr!” screamed Timos, writhing in the corner, his inchoate mouthings ever more desperate.
“Your dreams.”
The demand was so unexpected, Probus swayed, dizzy from trying to contain his fear and understand the game the monster was playing.
“Maybe you do need a less threatening persona to deal with. I can’t negotiate with an unconscious supplicant,” the beast said, before shifting once again. Before Probus now stood a singular, ancient man. His skin was jaundiced; bruised purple bags hung below each goiterous eye. What remained of his hair – grey-white, unwashed and smelling of mould – was plastered across the top of his ash-grey scalp. He stank of decay and resentment – like the deepest pit of a neglected cistern.
“That’s better, ‘” the apparition croaked.
“Marginally.”
“So, your dreams, your ability to have and remember the lands you traverse when asleep … Are you willing to part with them to save your friend?”
“If that’s what is required to reclaim Timos from this nightmare, I will do it.”
“So be it.” The ancient creature reached out a horrible, slime-yellow hand, wet and slick like a dying man’s sputum. It plucked at his hair and caressed his cheek.
Determined not to disgrace himself, Probus held his breath and his body rigid, eyes fixed on Timos against the wall, while the monster explored the crevices of his face and head, alighting at last in his ears. Probus felt the tentacle fingers probing his ear canals, pushing deeper into his brain. The pain of it increased and increased, but he found himself powerless to move or scream, as a burning fluid washed out of him and into a jar the demon was holding. What a pretty shade of azure, he thought, just before he fainted.
He woke – if you would call tumbling around in a maelstrom of whirling dust, shrieking ghouls and giant, cawing, glittering black birds – wakefulness. Falling through the murk, he was aware of Timos clutching his arm, like a drowning man determined to not lose the life-saving ring he had caught. The wretched, evil birds dove and slashed at their eyes and faces, howling and spitting. Probus knew that if he let go of Timos’ hand, his friend would be lost to him forever.
“Hold tighter, Timos. We can do this.”
“I’m trying, I’m trying,” a hoarse cry came back to him.
A part of his mind registered that if Timos could speak, he must be improving. Filling his lungs with air, Aaron Probus, drawing on courage he never knew he possessed, shouted with all his strength at the birds and the whirling clouds, “Damn you all to Hell! You will not take my friend.”
The cyclone revolved faster and faster; an inferno of dust, flying branches, rocks, stones, sand, and bits of dying sea creatures pushed them forward. The howling voices began to recede; the bombarding birds gave up pursuit, until he and Timos were expelled in a heap on the floor of Timos’ chamber.
“You look better,” Probus said, picking himself off a floor for the second time that day.
“Thanks to you. How are you?” asked Timos, regarding the Bishop as if he were afraid the good man would dissolve into a pile of ash at the slightest breeze.
“All right, I think. Do you remember where we have been and the promise I made?” Probus said, shaking his head.
“I remember everything. You shouldn’t have done that – you know – agreed to give up your dreams.”
“What good would my dreams be to me if I didn’t have you to tell them to?”
Timos made a face. Sometimes, there was no arguing with the Bishop’s logic. “So, how are you, really?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure – lighter, I think,” Probus said, tapping his head. “Ask me in the morning.”
Note: The city of Celestia no longer exists – if, indeed, it ever did. The descriptions and geographical errata are consistent with the Eastern shore of the Black Sea, in the area now known as the Republic of Georgia.
Martha Hubbard left New York City in the early 80s and spent nearly twenty years roaming around Europe. In 1997, she washed up on an island off the north coast of Estonia, where she has been teaching English to Culinary and Service students ever since. She has written a first novel, which was rubbish. The Good Bishop stories will be the second novel.
The author speaks: The middle of the fifth century was a time of powerful and far-reaching transitions. Christianity had ‘won’ its battle with the pagans. The Roman Empire in the West was a shambles, supplanted in the East by the glittering metropolis, Constantinople. Far from the intrigues of the capitol, on the Eastern shore of the Euxine Sea, Bishop Probus and his scribe, Timos, explore what it means to be human, to be a friend and to live a life infused by faith – even if not one sanctioned by the authorities.