The Blue and the Green twice lay crumpled on the ground under those scaffolds. Hours later the men floated in the cistern from which John had pulled the Blue.
Had dying three times sufficiently punished them for their transgressions?
The strange coppery light gave the scene the same appearance of unreality John had noticed earlier as he stared across the water from the ridge by Hippolytus’ burnt house. It lacked only suffering figures to turn it into a painting of Christian martyrs.
Beyond the scaffolds a stony path led through tall, brown weeds and squat thorn bushes. The path ended behind the monastery, a long, box-like structure, that might have housed government bureaucrats rather than holy men.
Between John and the monastery lay a patch of flat ground which served as a garden in warmer seasons, to judge from the wooden frames, sagging trellises, and tilted stakes festooned with blackened vines. A man in a brown tunic knelt beside a rosemary bush, one of several green highlights in the otherwise drab expanse of earth.
He looked up at the sound of John’s boots crunching across dried, discarded stalks. He might have been a sailor from whose gaunt face the sea had weathered all signs of age.
“I must speak to the head of the monastery,” John said.
“You are. I am the abbot of Saint Conon’s.” He put a few sprigs of greenery into the basket at his side. “The way the wind howls across us here we’re fortunate to have plenty of hardy herbs. Every plant has its seasons, though.”
John almost expected him to add that there was a lesson in that, but he didn’t. Instead he got to his feet and brushed the dirt off the front of his clothing. “If you seek refuge, we would not turn you away. But we are far too crowded to offer any degree of comfort. To the body at any rate.”
“I am here on the emperor’s business,” John told him.
“What could the monks of Saint Conon’s possibly have to do with the emperor’s business?”
“A few days ago you interfered with it.”
“Ah. You are speaking of those hanged men.”
“There are grumblings at court. Some accuse you of involvement with the emperor’s opponents.”
The abbot’s leathery face showed no reaction. “A serious accusation. Totally untrue. But what proof could I offer? Should I invite you to search the monastery to see that none of Justinian’s enemies are hiding there?”
“Proof of any entanglement will come out eventually, when the insurrection is defeated and the plotters are arrested and questioned. I am giving you the chance to make the emperor’s task easier. As you know, he is a devout man. If you are willing to give him useful information, I am sure he will not look so harshly on your past transgressions.”
“So I should confess to you and expect forgiveness from the emperor?” The abbot smiled faintly. “Alas, I have nothing to confess.”
“Why did you rescue the hanged men? Are you so concerned with earthly matters?”
“You don’t know the story of Saint Conon, do you? He was an Isaurian. When the Christians there were persecuted he was tortured for refusing to sacrifice to pagan gods. They say he was stabbed with knives. When the population heard, they took up arms and rescued him from his tormentors. He wished to suffer martyrdom but instead he lived for two more years. Given the history of our saint how could we stand by and watch the terrible spectacle down there?” The abbot nodded in the direction of the gallows clearly visible from where he and John stood.
“You are telling me you were acting in the tradition of your order,” John said.
“And out of human compassion. The palace is only a short boat ride from where we are standing, but it might as well be another world. Don’t suppose all people are villains and cynics just because those who reside at the palace are. The monks of Saint Conon’s serve the Lord. Believe me, there is not a constant undercurrent of intrigue between us and our Lord. We are simple people.” He pushed a stray green sprig back into his basket. “I admit too, that a few of us thought we were witnessing a miracle. Only the hand of God could grasp the hangman’s rope, twice, to save two men. We were being called upon to reenact Saint Conon’s story.”
“Did God’s hand clear a path to the gallows for the rescuers? Did it brush aside the imperial guards, lift your monks, and the condemned men into a boat and push it safely out into the water?”
“I believe so. His hand was the crowd which greatly outnumbered the guards and felt the same compassion and awe that we did. They made it plain that we were to be left untouched.”
John remembered that Kosmas, the executioner, had said much the same thing, that the restive spectators had assisted in the rescue.
“But what was the point in saving the lives of those men?” John asked. “Wasn’t it merely putting off the Lord’s judgment?”
A gust of wind made the dead vines clinging to stakes and trellises wave like pennants and brought tears to John’s eyes. The abbot did not invite John inside. Instead, he turned his face into the wind.
“You aren’t a Christian,” the abbot said.
John could not conceal his surprise.
“I can tell by the way the name of the Lord passes your lips,” the abbot explained. “Don’t worry, it does not distress me. Before I found my calling I traveled. I’ve been everywhere from Egypt to Bretania. Even Isauria. I stood on the spot where Saint Conon’s blessed blood was spilled. The Lord is everywhere, but people see Him in accordance with their own natures. Or so I believe. I would not confide that to the Patriarch.”
They were looking across the Golden Horn toward the city. Even from a distance they could make out huge swathes of burned out buildings. Pillars of smoke climbed into the sky.
“You can’t believe the Lord is over there?” John said. “Surely the city is more like the pits of hell.”
“Perhaps. If that is the way you are inclined to see it. People concoct their beliefs to cure what ails them. A pinch of earth from subterranean Hades. A few drops of fiery torment from the gospels. And why not mix in some demons, since pagans and Christians both believe in them?”
“You don’t believe in hell?”
“Hell is not a place. When we die we enter into the presence of the Lord. Those who love the Lord are joyful to be eternally in His presence. For those who hate the Lord, His presence is an eternal torment. But it doesn’t really matter how people picture these things. They are beyond human understanding anyway.”
“People can understand fire and demons easily enough.”
“Can they? Did you know that Saint Conon could command demons? Demons are part of creation too. They are perfectly able to serve the Lord. In fact-”
John cut the abbot off. “I don’t have time to discuss theology.”
“No. Of course not. You might want to return when you do have time.”
“You have nothing to tell me?”
The abbot met John’s steady gaze. “Rest assured, the monks of Saint Conon’s are not involved in any plot against the emperor.”
As the two men spoke a crow dropped out of the wind and alighted on one of the garden trellises. Several companions flapped down to join it. The black glass beads of their eyes seemed to stare at John and the abbot. It wasn’t hard to imagine they had been dispatched as spies by some demonic master.
“Eight crows,” John said. “When I was in Bretania the peasants had a fortune-telling rhyme. One crow meant sorrow. Two was for joy. But it only went up to seven-for a secret. Perhaps eight crows foretell nothing. That many are devoid of sense, like a mob.”
The abbot laughed softly. “Superstitious beliefs are even more varied than religious ones. During my own stay in that dreary land I learned a different rhyme from an old village woman who performed auguries. She said that seven was for heaven and eight for hell.”
“So those eight black harbingers are foretelling hell.” John looked away from the crows and toward the burning city. “That is more an observation than a prognostication.”