Chapter Seven
Death by fire is certainly not a pretty sight,” said
Philo, between bites of one of the honey- sweetened cakes piled on the platter Peter had just set down on the kitchen table. “John, no doubt you’ll recall that Plotinus was of the opinion that of all material things, fire possesses the most splendor. However, if he had witnessed two such deaths in a span of three days I believe he might well have changed his mind.”
The heat from the cheerfully glowing brazier had steamed the window panes, obscuring their view of the waking city. With the rising wind came the clatter of carts and the cries of gulls. John sat across the table, sipping the cup of water that was all he customarily took in the mornings.
“But this beggar,” Philo rattled on, “for surely he must have been a beggar to die in such circumstances, what evil could he have committed to bring such wrath upon himself? The poor have so much less opportunity for evil doing, do they not? Could he perhaps have been a murderer? Yet the city must be full of rich and powerful people who have committed many crimes, crimes that would be beyond the capacity of a beggar and equally worthy of punishment.”
“The man started a fire for warmth on a chilly night and fell asleep too close to the flames. It is not uncommon.” John set down his empty cup.
“Now, you were telling me what you learned about the three dead stylites,” he went on. “There was Matthew, who braved the stone-throwing demons in an abandoned church, but what of the other two?” John had been horrified to learn of Philo’s adventure but since the deed was done it seemed best to attempt to derive some benefit from it.
“Well, John,” Philo began eagerly. “I haven’t imparted to you even half of all that I learned. Peter, I must say that these are excellent honey cakes. They remind me that Virgil said that a bee contains a particle of divine intelligence.”
Peter turned away from rearranging utensils and bowls on the kitchen shelves. “If he is correct then you must contain more than a particle of intelligence yourself, sir, because you have partaken much of the work of those intelligent creatures. These cakes are quite tasty, master. Perhaps you should try one.” The look he directed at Philo clearly added “before he eats them all.”
John declined politely. He found it difficult to face food before midday. “You ascertained the other stylites were called Gregory and Luke?”
“That is correct.” Philo studied the platter of cakes before selecting another. “Several of the pilgrims I interviewed knew of Gregory. He was reputedly a small landholder near Tyana. Then one day he was bitten by a snake and fell into a deep trance. His doctors gave him up for dead. Then-you will never guess-a miracle occurred. Isn’t that always the case in these tales? Anyhow, it seems he suddenly awoke but unfortunately he was paralyzed.”
As Philo paused in his narration to take another bite, Peter seized his opportunity. “Wasn’t Gregory the one they carried to a nest of snakes? A friend of mine has taken much comfort from his sermons. He’ll have to find solace at another pillar now.”
Philo frowned. “Your servant, who has so kindly interrupted us, is essentially correct, John. It seems that as soon as Gregory awoke he imparted to his grief-stricken family a vision he had had of a nest of snakes in a certain grove of trees outside the town and requested to be taken there. And when they came to the place they found it to be so, and once among the snakes Gregory miraculously recovered, there was much rejoicing and many hosannas, all that sort of thing. He stayed there, and as word spread he preached with amazing eloquence to multitudes of pilgrims who, of course, kept at a respectful distance although personally I suspect that was more because they could not rely upon another miracle should one of them get bitten.”
“But he who has seen the Lord is armored even against the serpent’s fangs,” Peter put in, making his religion’s mystical sign.
“I prefer your servant’s culinary efforts to his philosophy,” Philo muttered to John.
“Yet if it were not for Matthew’s token, which you administered to me yourself, I would not be here to cook for you,” Peter pointed out sharply.
Philo sniffed. “Yes, well, that was an interesting coincidence, wasn’t it? Perhaps the foulness of the medication revived you? But to resume my tale, after several years’ journey along a regular thoroughfare of vermin- infested caves and ruins, Gregory finally found his way to Constantinople, where no doubt he found himself immediately surrounded by more snakes than populate the deserts of Arabia and all equally deadly, despite possessing legs.”
John smiled thinly. “And concerning Luke?”
“He arrived here more recently than Gregory, who ascended his pillar about four years ago. I wasn’t able to learn what Luke did before he took up mortification of the flesh but I did ascertain that he began his vocation near Antioch. A man who owned extensive olive groves there awoke one morning to find that someone had erected a column during the night on his land, something of a wonder in itself if you ask me given the short time available. But in any event, the sun rose and there sat Luke, already in residence atop the column.”
“It was a great honor to the olive grove owner,” Peter protested.
“He was outraged, apparently,” snapped Philo, without deigning to look at the servant, “and no wonder. You can’t have strangers taking up residence on your property on a whim, after all. But before he was able to convince the appropriate authorities of the necessity of investigating the matter, the silver-tongued stylite-for that is what they called him, Luke of the silver tongue-had begun to attract large and potentially riotous crowds.”
“Wherever there’s a crowd of followers, there’s always the possibility of a riot,” agreed John, thinking of the crowds outside the shrine where Michael and his acolytes were encamped. “But what was the outcome?”
Peter, who had finished ordering the shelves and was now wiping the steamy window panes clean, jumped into the conversation once again. “I have heard that the olive grove owner underwent a change of heart and became one of Luke’s followers.”
“More likely the authorities made the stylite’s tenancy worthwhile to the landowner,” countered Philo. “It’s remarkable what these stylites can get away with, really it is. In fact, since neither Senator Aurelius nor anyone else in this city seems to perceive a need for my services, perhaps I should climb up one of those recently vacated columns and earn a crust by preaching to the multitudes.” He finished his honey cake. “I will admit that asceticism, in moderation, is not to be derided. It is considered a virtue by nearly all philosophies and one I try to practice myself.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Peter, whisking the platter of cakes away from Philo’s descending hand.
“Philo perched atop a column, preaching about beauty to a crowd of unwashed pilgrims? Now that’s something I’d like to see! In fact, I’d gladly pay my father to continue refusing his entreaties for aid just to witness such a spectacle. Or rather, I would suggest such payment if I could maintain a civil conversation with the august Senator Flavius Aurelius long enough to make the offer.” Anatolius ran a hand irritably through the unruly black curls of his still-damp hair as he and John emerged from the Baths of Zeuxippos. Behind them, a faint fog of steam escaped through the uncovered gymnasium in the center of the sprawling building, coiling up into a gray, leaden sky.
Anatolius shivered. “This cold is unseasonable,” he complained. “Perhaps the Christians’ god wasn’t angry at those stylites but just wanted to warm his hands.”
The sight of the Great Church facing them across the square apparently struck him as a rebuke, because he added quickly, “You truly believe this Michael could have caused their horrible deaths?”
John, who had related the results of Philo’s investigations to Anatolius, nodded. “Caused them, or, if not, has certainly sought to take advantage of them.”
“But this first message you mentioned, didn’t it predict their deaths?”
“So Justinian said. Unfortunately, I have been unable to read the letter itself, nor am I likely to, since the emperor apparently construed my request to inspect it as a direct criticism of his powers of description.”
“And once he has spoken on a matter it is closed. Not unlike my father,” Anatolius replied with a scowl. “But surely the emperor can read well enough? Why do you suppose that he overlooked some important fact or
