Selene of Alexandria (19 page)

Theophilus had spent what few private moments they had tutoring him in the politics of the church, giving him background on each of the numerous daily visitors, drilling him in the actions Cyril must take upon his uncle's demise. Cyril listened and questioned, coming early to understand the great burden his uncle bore. Doubts plagued him. Each night he prayed for the strength and wisdom to be a worthy successor.

Last night, he dreamed he walked in the desert. His muscles aching with fatigue; his eyes gritty with dust; his body tortured by cold, thirst and hunger. He cried out in fear then saw a great light burning as if the sun had come to rest on the earth. He stumbled toward the beacon on bloody feet and collapsed at the edge of a beautiful garden. Many-colored birds trilled in trees laden with heavy fruit. Flowers opened delicate petals to infuse the air with their sweet scent. He heard water splashing in the distance and, tormented by thirst, rose to follow a path of dewy moss that soothed his cut feet.

He came to a clearing where a rough rock thrust through soft grass. He sat a moment to ease his aches. From the surrounding trees, three women approached: the first dressed in humble peasant's robes, the second as a dutiful matron, and the third in resplendent court garb. Their faces exuded a blessed light that made it difficult to distinguish their features, but Cyril knew, in the way of dreams, they were the three Mary's of Jesus' death and resurrection.

Mary Magdalene approached first, with a humble clay goblet and a loaf of bread. "Drink and eat, refresh your body, for your trials have ended." He drank deeply, letting the delicious coolness of water, sweeter than any wine, ease his parched throat. One bite of the bread filled his empty belly. Strength coursed through his blood.

The matronly Mary, mother of James, came forward, offering a wool robe rent in three pieces. Cyril recognized the sacred pallium of St. Mark of Alexandria. "Don this garment, but be aware that, while it is in parts, it offers little comfort." Cyril reached for the pieces. At his touch they knit together. He wrapped the garment around his chilled body, creating immediate warmth.

Finally, the Blessed Virgin Mary approached. He knelt before her glorious form. "Look up, my son, and see that for which you strive." He raised his eyes and beheld a curiously wrought golden crown. It resembled the ancient double crowns of the Egyptian Pharaohs, but a cross replaced the rearing snake over the brow. The Mother of God set the crown upon his head. He rose. The rough stone transformed to a golden bishop's chair, shining with an inner brilliance. He took his place upon it. The first two women knelt before him while the Blessed Virgin took her place at his right shoulder.

Cyril awoke from that dream filled with certainty and light, all doubts banished. His uncle had declared him fit, and God had given His blessing. It would not be easy, but he must marshal his resources, unify the church and take firm hold of his domain. His first goal would be to convince the men in this room of his right to the bishopric. Many had made clear their opposition during the past two weeks. Indeed, the Archdeacon's supporters occupied their own space in the room, clustering together at the foot of the bed. They were a smaller band than several weeks ago.

"Cyril?" Theophilus' cracked voice drew his nephew's immediate attention.

He reached for the skeletal hand resting on the sheets. It was cold and dry. "I am here."

The nearly translucent lids fluttered open. "I will soon join Our Father in Heaven." His eyes shut again for several fitful breaths, then reopened. The Patriarch frowned. "You know what you are to do?"

The men crowded around the bed, expectantly silent except for small rustlings of feet on carpet and the occasional rasp of indrawn breath.

"You all witness…" Theophilus stopped to gather his strength. He propped himself up on one elbow and reached his other hand to rest on his nephew's head. "…Cyril is my choice for Patriarch." His hand slipped back to the bed and he collapsed onto his cushions.

Cyril sat, tears streaming, holding his uncle's hand as the old man labored to breathe. Their gazes locked until Theophilus' eyes filmed and the old man gave a final gasp. Cyril thought his uncle's face looked more surprised than at peace. He gently closed the staring eyes.

A useless physician approached, held a silver mirror close to the Patriarch's face. When no mist formed on the cool metal, he declared the bishop dead.

Relief that his uncle's trial was over flooded Cyril's soul, while his stomach and throat twisted into hard, hurting knots of grief. He dashed the tears from his eyes. He must pull himself together, and quickly, if he were to put his plans in place. Cyril started a fervent prayer. The rest of the grieving men joined him.

When done, he looked around the room and declared. "You heard the Patriarch's wishes. I will stand for the bishopric. I ask that you confirm me now."

"That cannot be done, Reader Cyril." Paulinus smiled from the foot of the bed. "Your uncle's wishes are contrary to custom. Archdeacon Timothy is the logical successor."

Cyril, seething from the chief steward's reminder of his lowly church status, opened his mouth to reply then shut it before he could utter harsh words. Taunts would do no good. He and his uncle had hoped the Patriarch's dying wish would carry the day, but planned for its failure. Cyril's back stiffened and eyes narrowed. His dream had warned of trials.

Timothy hobbled forward on his withered leg. "I will also stand for the bishopric." He looked sorrowfully at the quiescent corpse. "But this is not the time or place for this discussion. Let us bury our friend and father, Theophilus, and take time to grieve. We can call the clergy together after the funeral to select our next Patriarch."

"I cannot allow my uncle to be buried until the succession is settled. It was his wish I take his place and I will fight for that right." He and his uncle had discussed the need for speed if Cyril's first bid for power failed. The people, unaware of the split among the churchmen, expected Timothy to succeed. If Cyril hesitated, this expectation would set like Roman concrete. Making his uncle's corpse hostage to the proceedings carried some risk, but the body would be a strong physical symbol of the Patriarch's last words.

Several men started talking at once, protesting and arguing.

"Enough!" Cyril's imposing voice cut across the din. "It is my choice to make. Let us repair to the meeting rooms." He indicated several deacons, the traditional messengers of the Patriarch. "Send word to all the presbyters and deacons. We will have a conclave and put the choice to the people as soon as possible."

To Cyril's annoyance, the deacons turned to Timothy for his approval. "He does have the right. Let the others know. Send messages to the Prefect and councilors as well. Post notices in the agora. We will convene at noon."

Everyone trooped out, some smiling at Cyril, others muttering.

"Master Cyril?" An old man who had served Theophilus for decades shuffled from the anteroom. Three other servants followed. "Would you like us to prepare the Patriarch for burial?"

"No. I wish to do this last service for my uncle. Stay in the next room. When I am done, I want you to sit with the body."

The servants bowed out. Alone, Cyril set about preparing his uncle's corpse. He lovingly washed the cooling flesh, anointing it with aromatic oil. He recalled more carefree days as he combed the old man's hair and beard, when his uncle allowed the child Cyril to climb onto his lap and cry over a bruise or cut. Finally he dressed the body in ceremonial robes and arranged the arms across the chest.

Cyril surveyed his handiwork and sighed. His uncle's soul had truly left this mortal husk. The waxy skin seemed translucent, the nails and lips pale in death. Already the face sagged, robbed of its animating spirit. Cyril prayed for his uncle's soul one last time then left candles burning at the foot and head of the body.

Cyril stood before a full-length window in his uncle's office, staring into the garden. It had been weeks since this room had seen sunlight. Now the golden rays chased each other across his face as clouds whipped across the sky. Rain would soon replace the sunshine. Mid-October weather varied wildly.

"Cyril? You should eat something before the conclave."

Cyril turned to see Teacher Hierex put a tray of cold mutton and bread on the table. Theophilus had arranged for them to meet several weeks before. Hierex, a nondescript little man of uncertain age had the uncanny ability to disappear in crowds, became one with the shadows. With his brown hair, brown eyes and common brown robes, he could be taken for a laborer except for one distinguishing feature – delicate hands. The long tapering fingers, nails pared short and buffed to a dull luster, were meant to hold precious things. Cyril visualized them wrapped around a crystal goblet, holding an orchid or stroking a silk robe. He gave himself extra penance for the feelings such thoughts aroused.

Cyril indicated the platter. "Help yourself, if you wish."

"I know you grieve for your uncle, but you must keep up your strength." The little man picked over the meat until, finding a slice to his liking; he rolled it around a piece of bread and nibbled at one end.

"I will fast until my investiture." Cyril took a seat while Hierex ate. "I've been given a sign. I should neither eat nor drink until I sit in the Bishop's chair."

Hierex stopped chewing. "What sign?"

Cyril told him his dream.

"Truly you are chosen and blessed by God." Hierex' eyes gleamed. "The people must know of this. The monks of Nitria are already preaching in the streets on your behalf."

"Good. I've met with all the presbyters and deacons in the past weeks. Many are sympathetic with my plans for leadership. We need a dramatic show from the congregation on my behalf to sway the remainder."

Hierex smiled. "All is in place. I will see to it."

They both rose. Cyril clasped his friend's shoulder. "Thank you, Hierex. You've been a strength to me during this trying time."

Phillip roared at the coarse joke one of his unkempt companions made at the serving girl's expense while surreptitiously spilling some of his beer into the sand covering the earth floor. Since the Patriarch's death the day before, he had frequented the taverns, assessing the mood of the people; looking for any likely sources of riot. With Orestes still touring the provinces, Phillip reported his suspicions directly to the captain of the guard.

He enjoyed this game of cat and prey, stalking information while impersonating someone else, going places he normally wouldn't. In Constantinople he had frequented a disreputable inn favored by entertainers, laughed at their stories of riotous adventure and improbable sexual escapades, while feeling slightly envious. Now he was living his own adventures, all too aware of the danger. He shrugged off a momentary feeling of guilt that he should be taking on more responsibilities at home with the excuse that what he did was for the greater good.

This company of ruffians was well and truly drunk. They flashed more coin than a casual inspection of their ragged clothes and broken sandals would have promised.

"If the pay is good." Phillip tossed back his remaining beer, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and shouted to the proprietor. "One more for my good friend John, here."

John reached for the new flagon, gulped deeply, then belched. "Ah! Good pay and the chance for a little plunder if you're not too greedy. The monks don't want too much larceny; just throw a little scare in 'em."

John had trouble focusing his eyes. One kept wondering off to the side giving him the look of a desert lizard. "I don't know. I just takes their orders and their money." He smiled, showing several gaps among his discolored teeth. "Do ya want the name or no?"

"Sure." Phillip patted a flat purse. "I can always use a few more coins."

"Ammonius. A crazy desert monk named Ammonius is giving out the coin. You can find him in the Serapis district in the morn."

"Thanks, my friend." Phillip kept drinking from his empty cup.

The man on John's other side seemed to become more morose than boisterous with the drink. He sat quietly, downing cup after cup, rattling something in his hand.

John turned to him. "Gessius, what're ya hiding in your palm? Some gems from that old Jewish merchant?" He laughed and forced his friend's hand open. A small pile of hard black beans spilled to the table. "What in Christ's name are you doing with those?"

Gessius looked up with red rimmed eyes. "They're my protection. Didn't you know throwing beans into the eyes of evil spirits drives away the demons?"

John laughed at his friend. "The demons already got your soul." He turned back to Phillip. "The devil take us all, because God sure don't want our sorry asses!"

Phillip shivered thinking of his family on the streets with these brigands. He would have to curb Selene's jaunts and arrange for male servants to take over Rebecca's shopping duties. Or he could accompany her himself. The thought warmed him, but he must be careful. He had fought long and hard to persuade his father to let Rebecca return to service. If Calistus suspected his sons' feelings for her, he might dismiss her again. A remarkable woman, Rebecca. She wasn't beautiful, but exuded a calmness and strength of spirit, like the eye of a storm in this chaotic time. She anchored him in a way he didn't understand.