Chapter 90
Tears of a Saint or The 41st Martyr
The narthex of the Church of Forty Martyrs was adorned with a marble relief displaying how the Christian men of the Twelfth Legion had been exposed to the elements in the depths of winter on a pond. The snowy stone depicted men huddled together, shivering in modest loincloths as they froze to death. Poor white pawns lost in the first Constantine’s game. Chiseled lettering marked the nearby town as Sebaste in Armenia Minor. At the top of the carving, the Lord enthroned, surrounded by angels, admired their sacrifice to his Almighty Glory.
Below the relief, Pons did his best to blend in with the men of the court. He wore a fine suit of somber clothes tailored for the occasion. His beard, neatly trimmed, had grown over the past year, but still he kept to the back lest the Emperor or his henchman spot him. Others sought attention. Pons let them have it.
He arrived earlier and briefly wandered the nave, his eyes instinctively drawn up to the vaulted ceiling. Some of the adornments that Andronikos had splashed money on were lavish. An icon of the Savior, the very one that spoke with the Lord’s voice to Emperor Maurice long ago, had been readorned with jewels and was now above the altar. In the narthex opposite the marble relief of the Forty Martyrs was an icon of St. Paul, newly restored. Some long-neglected stonework had also been repaired.
Outside, the streets and the church’s exterior were lined with painted panels that depicted Andronikos, like David, forced to flee the lies of his enemies and live on the run in the wilderness. Many scenes depicted him mounted with hounds baying, hunting aurochs, boar, and deer, with the following feasts. His years of exile painted on wood - now portrayed as the wanderings of a prophet. The final one showed Andronikos in humble, yet eye-catching turquoise garb, sickle in hand, holding aloft the head of the youth who had sought to rob him of his rightful throne.
The choir began to intone as the Imperial mourning party filed in. Pons marked each one: Andronikos, and his second son Ioannes, ‘the prison conceived,’ led the procession. The man was in his twenties and carried the urn that contained the bones of his mother. The older son, Manuel, was in the field, or so Mariapitkee had said. Following came the clergy, bearing candles and chanting psalms, and high functionaries, John Ducas among the pack. To the rear, the noseless one entered dressed, as always, for a funeral.
The service could go on for hours. After that? According to Mariapitkee, Andronikos might well curl up on the floor and begin weeping. Then a meeting with the clerics and deacons? No, Pons wanted to keep his eyes on the Emperor and exit the church before him to alert Cyn atop the tetrapylon to be ready.
The hymns of the clergy blended with the psalmody of the choir. The cannon for the dead echoed for some time. Any thoughts of Andronikos being depressed and enfeebled dissipated as he thundered out a eulogy, clearly audible far in the back, which at first praised his wife, but then switched to a damnation of invaders from without, and maniacally railed against the enemy from within. Anyone who was in prison, anyone who had been obdurate, or who had criticised him was to be put to death. And all their blood relatives. The banished would be hunted down. His nephew, Issac, the rebel on Cyprus, would die. Spittle flew.
As Andronikos warmed to his theme, Pons noticed that the catspaw was withdrawing from the nave, with its hundreds of attendants, to the narthex, with its dozens. He felt exposed even though the noseless one was stepping backwards while still facing towards the altar. Should the scoundrel turn, he would surely be discovered. Pons began to edge towards the door.
Stephen Hagiocharistophrites turned.
And then the miracle happened.
* * *
From atop the tetrapylon, Cyn had perfect distance and vantage - should his target come into view. He was to pretend to clean the monument, should anyone look up and ask him as to his business. “Even on a saint’s day, I have to work.” His working-class Greek patois was coached by Nestor and Zinth. He even had a bucket and a brush. Pons thought of everything.
Some months previously, a Jewish apothecary on the Gallatin shore was given the box of poison to examine. “Expensive and a nonbeliever, si. But discrete and very knowledgeable about things medicinal. Also, he will be no friend to the Emperor.”
Pons explained what they sought.
“The venom which killed Emperor John?” Solomon asked.
“The same.”
The heads of three quarrels had been coated with a toxin, brewed from the eunuch’s ingredients.
Cyn watched the funeral party proceed down the Mese and enter the church. Brian the Saxon was among the guard, but there would be little he could do on the ground. The poison was backup should Cyn’s bolt, from on high by the angelic statue of Victory, fail to kill Andronikos outright. He would aim below the chin, at the Adam’s apple just above the clavicle notch. The arbalest was under a tarp beside his lighter crossbow, ready to be wound and loaded.
Zinth was too well known by the men of court, having sold insults to men of all political stripes, to put in an appearance as an alms seeker, so Nestor was inserted among the beggars on the steps of the church. Pons thought of everything.
“If you could get him to somehow… hold perfectly still - for a moment.” Cyn counter-coached. “He will have jewels and rings, you could cradle him as he falls, and in the confusion…”
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Some time passed, but earlier than anticipated, Pons emerged and gave a signal. Not the signal to be ready, but the signal to flee.
Something had gone wrong. Down below, Pons darted into the street crowd. Damn. This chance would not come again. Cyn signaled Nestor as the Emperor’s agent emerged from the church. The man scanned the crowd and looked to the tetrapylon.
We have been found out. Ever a soldier following orders, Cyn grabbed his crossbows and scuttled from his perch to the nearest rooftop. From there, he fairly flew west over the rooftops, jumping a two-meter gap with ease.
The meetup was at the base of the column of Arcadius, not the . Should they be followed, the forum of Arcadius was near the old walls, and just outside was the Monastery of the Holy Fool, where horses were saddled, should everything end up a mess. Pons thought of everything… except whatever had happened.
* * *
Stephen Hagiocharistophrites did not like churches. He always felt uncomfortable within the stone confines. On the streets, or in the palace, people cast their glances away from his disfigured face. In churches, the carved angels and icons of the saints stared directly at him. And they judged. He would have preferred to have stayed away altogether, but Andronikos had asked him to come.
“Attend to my eulogy. It shall provide instruction and make clear my intentions going forward.”
Although he was paid appallingly, Stephen did take comfort from the intangible benefits that came with his post. In that respect, he was lucky. He bet the Sultan of the Scythians would give all of his horses to have his way with an Empress. Stephen had gotten that for free. Indeed, as instructed. And then he choked the life out of her with a silken cord.
When it came time for the young Emperor, Stephen had selected a bowstring from the armory of his mercenary cohort, along with leather gloves to protect his hand from the digging string. However, the fingers of the glove were cut off. Stephen wanted to caress the youth as he took him - and took his life. Could anyone, alive or dead, boast of the deeds Stephen had done?
His archers were gone now, command transferred to a legate in young Manuel’s legion of reinforcements. No matter.
He made far more money in one afternoon stealing the rings off the dead fingers of Constantine Macroducas, after he instigated that wealthy noble’s public stoning, than in two years living in a camp tent as an .
Andronikos wanted him close at hand. Apartments in the palace were allotted. He had no official position; he was simply “at the Emperor’s side.”
He trailed the procession of mourners. Entering Forty Martyrs, he filed through the narthex and into the nave to the sonorous hymns of the choir. Their chants droned on interminably, while the magnificently restored icon of the Savior looked down on him. His eyes stared directly into Stephen. The Lord saw the unrepentant sinner.
The day was warm. The flames from a hundred candles added their heat. Perspiring, Stephen shuffled from the eastern aisle to the western. Still, Jesus' gaze followed.
Finally, after the requiem, the Emperor's speech raved about his enemies near and far. Stephen would be let off-leash. Good. More loot as suspected families and households were expunged.
Yet the heat stifled. Stephen edged towards the exit. Step by step.
Then the miracle occurred.
A drop of water fell directly onto his right eye. The man beside him noticed and glanced up, as did Stephen. Another drop fell and landed in his left eye. Confused and momentarily blinded, he paused to wipe his sweaty brow and clear the drops from his eyes. Others were now watching.
Stephen brought the water on the back of his hand to his lips. “,” he said aloud. Salty. A murmuring began among the onlookers. From on high, another drop fell, splattering on his cheek, then another. The Apostle of Tarsus wept.
“The saint cries,” a man murmured. This was taken up by another, “The Saint cries!” Those about him fell to their knees and crossed themselves.
Except one man, who slipped out the church door.
Stephen saw him for an instant, but it was enough. The Latin had grown a beard, but it was the man he was after.
Stephen tried to get to him, but all the congregation pressed to witness the icon.
Oh, Saint Paul, thank you for your tears. You have washed my eyes clean and shown me my enemy. Was he there, right behind me this whole time? Have I been blind? Oh, thank you, Saint Paul. “Oh, get out of my way, you!”
Outside on the church steps, the man was nowhere to be seen. He had vanished into the constant foot traffic on the Mese.
Near at hand, a porphyry font, encircled by carved serpents, had been recently moved from the garden of Bucoleon Palace and now graced the top of the church stairs. A deacon was organizing beggars for the alms giving. A cripple waved at a figure atop the tetrapylon who darted away.
Stephen paused and wiped the last of the water from the corner of his eye.
No. Not a beggar. The last time Stephen had seen him, in the stands at the , his hands had been full of silver held as escrow for the Latin. And he didn’t like the look of him then either.
Thank you, blessed saint. I now see.
The old man hobbled off. Stephen followed.
* * *
“So months of scouting and preparation and waiting… we just throw that to the wind?” Cyn had not been this angry since coming to this stinking city. “Because water drips from the ceiling of a church?”
He arrived at the Forum of Arcadius first and waited at the base of the column, pacing. The reason had better be good.
It was not. “Tell me again.”
“No, I have already explained what happened twice. The icon wept on the demon’s imp. It must mean something. I will climb the column and consult Brother Daniel.”
Cyn waited at the base as the afternoon turned to evening.
When Pons finally came down, Cyn lounged on the steps and offered a half-finished skin of wine he had had time to buy. “You were up there so long I thought you’d become a stylite yourself and were going to stay. Did your friend, who watches the world go by from on high, have any thoughts?”
“Perhaps Saint Paul wept because it was Stephen who stood before him. Before his conversion on the road to Damascus, he persecuted many Christians. Among them was Stephen, the first martyr.”
“Why would the icon not weep before any other man named Stephen. Surely he is not the first Stephen in that church? The name is not rare. This makes no sense.”
“Perhaps his doom is near.”
“Perhaps ours is. We have wasted an opportunity.”
“I know, but the imp was sure to spot me had I lingered.”
“He did spot you. He exited the church a moment after you became lost in the crowd.”
“Has Nestor put in an appearance?”
“No.”
“Let’s return to the . He and Zinth always turn up.”
* * *
Zinth turned up early the next morning.
He wept as he bade the mercenaries to follow.
They did not have to go far. Less than five hundred of the hunchbacked clubfoot’s limping paces to the base of the column in the Forum of Constantine, where the body had been dumped.
He had been tortured. That much was obvious. So much of him was missing, cut or paired away. An axe wound to the top of the skull had been his end.
Had all of the untold stories come spilling out?
Cyn felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. In the back of his jaw, his judgment teeth twinged.
the Forty Martyrs, but ya never know. Nothing of the church survives, but it was looted, along with everything else in the 4th crusade. So maybe?
everything is about him. He is a narcissist. (I hope that comes across).
