God would save them from Rome only if their faith were perfect, and it was Constantine’s mission to do everything heavenly possible to see that it was.
A few days later, Michael retaliated. The vacant throne of the patriarch of Byzantium was given not to the eunuch Constantine, but to a whole man, John Beccus.
The servant who brought Constantine the news was white-faced, as if he carried word of death. He stood in front of Constantine, eyes lowered, his breath loud in the room.
Constantine wanted to scream at the man, but that would expose his pain like his own nakedness, incomplete, marred by circumstance outside his mastery. He had been doubly castrated, robbed of the office that was rightfully his by virtue, faith, and the will to fight. John Beccus was for the union with Rome, a coward and a traitor to his Church.
“Go!” Constantine’s voice was rasping from a throat raw with pain.
The servant stared at him and then fled.
When his footsteps had ceased to sound on the stones, Constantine let out a howl of fury and humiliation. Hatred was like fire in his soul. He could have torn John Beccus apart if he had laid hands on him at this moment. A whole man, an insult to Constantine’s existence. As if organs made the soul! A man was his passions of the heart, his dreams, the things he longed for, the fears he had overcome, the wholeness of his sacrifice, not of his body.
Was a man better because he could put his seed into a woman? Beasts of the field could do that. Was a man holier because he had that power and abstained from using it?
Constantine could take a knife and slice Beccus’s testicles: see the blood flow, as it had from his own body as a boy; see the agony, the terror of bleeding to death! Then watch him clutch at what was left of his manhood with a horror at his loss that would never leave him as long as he existed. They would be equal then. See who could lead the Church and save it from Rome!
But it was only a dream, like other images in the night. He could not do it. His power was in the love and the belief of the people. They must never see his hatred. It was weakness. It was sin.
Could the Holy Virgin read his heart? His face burned scarlet with shame. Slowly he knelt, tears wet on his face.
Beccus was wrong! He was a liar, a time server, a seeker after favor and office and his own power. How could a good man pretend to approve that?
Constantine asked himself whether he was a good man. He could make himself be, and he must.
He rose to his feet to begin: now, today. There was no time to waste. He would show John Beccus, he would show them all. The people loved him, his faith, his mercy, his humility and courage, his will to fight.
In the uncounted days that followed, he worked until exhaustion overcame him, taking no thought or care for his own needs. He answered every call he could, walking miles from one house to another to hear confessions of the dying and give them absolution. Families wept with gratitude for such peace of heart. He left with aching legs and blistered feet, but soaring spirits in the certainty that he was loved, and for his sake an ever increasing number of people would remain loyal to the true Church.
He celebrated the Mass so often, he felt sometimes as if he were doing it in his sleep, the words reciting themselves. But the eager faces were all the reward he wanted, the humble, grateful hearts. When he lay down, exhausted, it was often on the floor of wherever he was when night came, and he thought nothing of it. He rose at daybreak and ate what the wretched could spare him.
It was very late one night when he was listening to the confession of a bull-chested man, something of a local leader and a bully, that he began to feel ill.
“I beat him,” the man said quietly, his eyes meeting Constantine’s uncertainly, clouded with fear. “I broke some of his bones.”
“Did he…,” Constantine began, and then found he could not draw his breath. His heart was beating so loudly, he thought the man kneeling before him must hear it also. He was dizzy. He tried to speak again, but he could hear nothing but a roaring in his ears, and the moment after he was plunging into oblivion, for all he knew death itself.
He awoke in his own house, his head pounding, his stomach sick and cramped with pain. His servant Manuel stood beside the bed.
“Let me send for a physician,” he begged. “We have prayed, but it is not enough.”
“No,” Constantine said quickly, but even his voice was weak. His stomach knotted again, and he was afraid he was going to be sick.
He tried to get up to relieve himself urgently, but the pain doubled him over. He called for Manuel to help him. Twenty minutes later, drenched in sweat and so weak that he could not stand without help, he collapsed on the bed and allowed Manuel to pull the covers over him. Now suddenly he was cold, but at least he could lie still.
Manual asked again for permission to send for a physician, and again Constantine refused. Sleep would cure him.
Constantine lay still, his belly quiet. But the fear gripped his heart like an iron clamp, twisting inside him. He dared not lie down in the dark when the light spiraled away from him, his skin slick with sweat again and yet his limbs ice cold.
“Manuel!” His voice was shrill, almost hysterical.
Manuel appeared, candle in his hand, his face tight with fear.
“Get Anastasius for me,” Constantine conceded at last. “Tell him it is urgent.” The pain shot through his belly again. “But first assist me.” He must relieve himself again, quickly. He must have help. He also thought he was about to be sick. Anastasius was another eunuch and would not pity his mutilation or be repelled by it. He had had a whole physician once and seen the prurient revulsion in the man’s eyes. Never again; he’d rather die.
Anastasius would have only understanding. He too was lost, uncertain, carrying a burden somewhere inside him that was too heavy. Constantine had seen it in his face in unguarded moments. One day he would learn what it was.
Yes, send for Anastasius. Quickly.
Fifteen
ANNA COULD SEE FROM THE SERVANT’S MANNER AND THE high pitch of his voice that he was seriously alarmed. But quite apart from that, she knew that Constantine, a proud and private man, would not have sent for her were the matter not grave.
“How does the illness show itself?” she asked. “Where is the pain?”
“I don’t know. Please come.”
“I want to know what to bring with me,” Anna explained. “It would be far better than having to return for it.”
“Oh.” Now the man understood. “In his abdomen. He does not eat or drink, relieves himself often, and yet the pain does not go.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other impatiently.
As quickly as she could, she packed in a small case all the herbs she thought mostly likely to help. She also took a few Eastern herbs from Shachar and from al-Qadir, whose names she would not tell Constantine.
She informed Simonis where she was going, then followed the man out into the street and down the hill as rapidly as she could walk.
She was ushered straight into the bedchamber where Constantine was lying, his night tunic tangled and soaked with sweat and his skin a pasty gray.
“I’m sorry you feel so ill,” she said quietly. “When did it begin?” She was startled to see the fear in his sunken eyes, naked and out of control.
“Last night,” he answered. “I was listening to confession and suddenly the room went black.”
She touched his brow with her hand. It was cool and clammy. She could smell the sharp, stale odor of sweat and sour body waste. She found his pulse. It was strong, but racing.