The Bones of the Earth (The Dark Age) Page 32

  Tomas and all the other novices were laughing, laughing hard.

  Chapter 23: Deeper knowledge

  “Which is more important, Brother, Christ’s divine nature or his human nature?” Lepidus asked to impress the teacher with his rhetorical ability. The question surprised Javor—his ears were still sore from Father Peter’s screaming lecture on the same topic.

  A squinting older monk named Jacobbeas, who looked as if he was about to topple over at any moment, led the class.

  “Both are essential,” Brother Jacobbeas answered in a nasal whine. He passed a shaking hand over thin white tonsured hair and sneezed loudly. “The two natures of Christ, Divine and human, are united. According to the Fourth Ecumenical Council, held in Chalcedon—I visited there once, when I was a young monk, just out of the novitiate. It’s a pleasant place, wonderful for ecumenical councils, you know. The air and the landscape combine…” Javor lost the thread of Brother Jacobbeas’ response. Lepidus loved to ask that kind of question, one that prompted endless debate down twisting logical corridors of ever narrower questions. Javor sighed. Was Christ completely human or completely divine? “Yes.” What difference does it make?

  “But Brother Jacobbeas, aren’t the Words of Our Lord more important than just how divine He is?” asked Fuscus, also trying to impress the Brother.

  Brother Jacobbeas explained the Church’s orthodox view. Javor looked out the window at the last leaves falling from the trees. He had heard this all so many times before: the heresies of Monophysitism and Nestorianism, of Arianism and others, the divine nature of Christ, the singularity of the Church. Hypostasis versus hypostases. He had to memorize the lessons, for every so often Father Peter would come in and ask snap questions about the great debates of the major councils. I never thought I would prefer working at cutting straw to listening to someone talk.

  Austinus, the Comes or head of the Order, wanted to hear more about Javor’s journey to Constantinople. He summoned Javor to his council chamber where Javor had first discovered them; it now looked comfortable, with fire burning in braziers and bowls of food set on tables. Even the guards looked relaxed.

  “You have learned quickly, Javor,” Austinus began in their first meeting. “I am impressed with the speed with which you are learning to read and write, as well as in history and mathematics.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “I am no priest, not in the same sense as Father Peter. So, while I am happy that you are learning the Orthodox Christian faith, remember that I told you that there is a deeper and higher knowledge, but it is a knowledge that is only available to a select few who are able to accept it.” What does that mean?

  “Before I go on, I must warn you: everything that I am about to say is in the strictest confidence. Even the fact that we are having this conversation is to remain only between you and me. And by no means ever mention this room to anyone, either outside the Abbey or within it. Its existence is secret, known only to a few—and those few do not include Father Peter or Father Albertus, almost all the monks and certainly any of the novices. Do you understand?” Javor nodded.

  “The faith that you are learning, the faith so earnestly embraced by the people of the Empire, is fine for the simple people. But some require a deeper knowledge, for the official scriptures of the Hebrews and the Christians contain a great many mysteries and contradictions. A select few are able to perceive those contradictions and shortcomings, and of those, even fewer can take in the higher knowledge—in Greek, gnosis. Obviously, Javor, you are one of those select few.”

  Javor helped himself to a small cake and topped it with honey. “Because of what I have seen already, and which is not mentioned in any of your Bible?”

  Austinus nodded. “Partly. But also, Javor, you have a mind that is open and critical. The Church, as exemplified by Father Peter, extols the virtues of blind, uncritical faith in the Word as given them by their parish priest. However, there is a need for that critical, open, questioning search for the true light of knowledge. You have that kind of mind, Javor, and although many make fun of your humble, barbarian origins in the wilds far beyond the frontiers of civilization—yes, I have heard the sniggers of the ignorant who live even within these walls—you are sophisticated enough to understand that there is a deeper truth that answers the mysteries and contradictions of the official faith, and the need for circumspection about its very existence.”

  These Romans just love to hear their own voices. “I’m sorry, what’s ‘circumspection’?”

  Austinus chuckled. “I only mean, Javor, that this conversation must remain between thee and me.”

  “Ah.”

  “Indeed. Father Peter is a true believer, and we need him in the Abbey. We, who seek the higher gnosis, all must present ourselves as Orthodox Christians. We come from many different faiths, different traditions: I was indeed raised as a Christian; Malleus comes from Egypt and followed the Coptic tradition; Mother Tiana comes from far Scythia, and was a priestess to a goddess of that tradition; Philip was a Jew from Palestine.” The place names were vague to Javor—he had only heard them once or twice in masses and lessons. “But we put on the appearance of Christians in order to function in Rome. So we need a number of Father Peters to distract the attention of the very powerful Church fathers in Constantinople who seek to destroy the Gnostics.”

  “What? Why do they want to do that?”

  “Politics,” Austinus shrugged. “The official Faith has been a powerful instrument of social control since Constantine’s time, and indeed, long before that, when the Pontiff of earlier religions was also a powerful politician in the ancient Roman Republic.”

  “Rome was a republic?”

  “A long, long time ago. A natural phase of a state’s development, before it had become as large as it is now and republican organization would be unworkable. But I digress. The point here is, as seekers and keepers of truth that is deeper and more complex than the masses can understand, we must also be secretive.”

  “Okay. But what is that truth?”

  “All in good time, Javor. You must learn the basics, first. And to preserve our secret, you must appear just as another novice. You must learn the Christian faith, and you must display it, too. And you must remember, repeat what I have told you to absolutely no one, not even here within the Abbey, for only a very few, a select few, are privy to this knowledge—or even to the concept that there is a deeper knowledge.”

  Javor did not sleep well that night, wondering about Austinus’ words. Knowledge that is secret from Father Peter. Whom could he trust? Not Father Peter, that was plain. What about Nikos? He was Austinus’ messenger—surely he was part of the inner circle? No, he wasn’t in the room with us. He may not know anything.

  Even in the Abbey, he was alone.

  Javor’s physical and military training began the next day when Malleus called him away from kitchen chores.

  “You fight hard, but you have no technique or disciple,” he sneered. “It’s time for you to learn to fight like a Roman Equite!”

  He took Javor to a large open chamber in a secret part of the Abbey. Weapons hung on every wall: swords, spears, shields, cudgels and other equipment that Javor didn’t recognize, as well as various types of wooden and metal frames. On the floor were other apparati that he couldn’t begin to guess at. And in the midst of it all were Malleus and Philip, wearing tight trousers, thin, tight shirts and thick socks. Strips of cloth were wound around their hands to form pads over their knuckles.

  “I know how to fight,” said Javor. He was glad to be excused from cleaning the stable, but he didn’t want to duel with Malleus again, or with Philip.

  “Really?” Philip asked. He stepped up to Javor and punched him hard in the arm, then jumped away.

  “Ow!” Javor was more shocked than hurt.

  Why didn’t you warn me about that, you stupid amulet? But the amulet was still.

  “Go ahead, hit him back,” Malleus ordered. Javor shook his head, so Philip p
ranced closer again, feinted, hit his other arm and danced away again.

  “See, barbarian boy? You can’t fight back against a trained Initiate. Brother Philip is an Adept,” Malleus said. “If you’re lucky, over time you may learn a little of what he knows. But now, you’re completely vulnerable to any Equite or Legionnaire worth his salt. So let’s begin your training.”

  “Training” was a new word for Javor, but he soon learned that it meant gruelling movement. For the next hour, Javor did things he had never imagined before: push-ups and sit-ups, chin-ups and squats. Malleus threw a piece of iron at Javor, who caught it but nearly dropped it immediately because it was so heavy. “Put it down and pick it up again,” Malleus ordered. Javor hesitated—it seemed a pointless order. “Do it!” Malleus screamed.

  By the end of the hour, Javor was sweatier than he could ever remember being. Every muscle ached. Malleus wasn’t satisfied, though. “You’re soft, boy. We have to harden you.” He sent Javor to wash up in the Abbey’s bath, which wasn’t nearly as luxurious as the one that Valgus had maintained in the fort.

  Javor’s physical training continued three times a week. He exercised and increased his strength under the critical eye of Brother Philip and the screaming voice of Malleus. They brought out wooden swords to train him in advanced fencing, and eventually substituted them for steel. On and on it went, and Javor didn’t notice the progress he was making. Eventually, he came to enjoy the sessions, the physicality of it, the movements and the success he was having. And the frustration on Malleus’ face when he couldn’t land a blow on Javor’s body.

  Javor learned the concept of the seven-day week quickly, regimented as they were by regular High Masses. At least two evenings a week, Nikos would fetch him for different kinds of lessons. He would sit shivering in a dark room at the top of a tower in the Abbey with Austinus, Philip and occasionally Malleus, learning about what they called “deeper mysteries” that were not part of mass.

  They started with books that Father Peter had never mentioned: the gospels of Philip, another apostle; and a gospel of Thomas; and one whose author shocked him—Mary Magdalene.

  With the clear starry nights as a backdrop, Philip would talk about the Creator as not the benevolent father figure of the Orthodox or Monophysite Christians, but as something less, called a Demiurge. At times this being seemed more like the Christians’ devil, filled with hatred and jealousy and many other human flaws. Yet, said Philip, all evidence indicated the Demiurge was the being that created the world.

  What evidence? Javor did not want to offend his hosts, but he was losing patience with the opposing mystical arguments from Father Peter and the Church and the secret Gnostics.

  Philip talked about an overarching Supreme God from whom came the Pleroma, the Light that filled the Universe. He explained that the Pleroma “emanated,” creating Aeons, which Javor took to be some kind of gods or spirit beings with names like nous, logos, phronêsis and dunamis.

  “No, not gods, Javor,” Austinus explained patiently. “They are whole worlds, ruled by principles of intellect, the Word—that’s logos—prudence, and power.

  “And the most important is wisdom, or Sophia, that which emanated, ultimately—”

  “Sophia! I know her!” Javor exclaimed.

  Austinus smiled. “Yes, many feel they have encountered wisdom in others …”

  “No, no, I actually met Sophia, in Constantia. Photius knew her …” his voice trailed off; he hadn’t mentioned his visit to Constantia. “He, uh, called her ‘Paleologus.’”

  Photius. He could picture the old man, horribly wounded on the mountainside.

  “Constantia? What were you doing in Constantia? And when?” Philip demanded. Austinus was looking at him closely, too, his face grim.

  “Photius told me to find ‘Paleologia,’ in Constantia, who would direct me to the Order. I didn’t know she was a woman, though.”

  “Paleologus,” Philip nodded. “‘Old wisdom.’ Who could that have been?”

  “You remember what Photius was like?” Malleus said. “That old scoundrel had a love affair with a barbarian woman, Sandra, who had the audacity to call herself ‘Sophia.’”

  “Oh, yes.” Philip nodded. “What happened to her?”

  “She vanished years ago,” said Austinus. “Shame, really: she was very wise, very sensitive.”

  “How did you get to Constantia, Javor?” Philip asked.

  Javor took a deep breath. “After Photius died, the soldiers helped me to reach Drobeta, and I took a boat down the Danuvius to Constantia.” He told them how he found Sophia in a little wooden shack hanging on rotting piles over the harbour, how she had examined his dagger and told him it could protect him. He did not mention his amulet. “And she said that Photius had chosen the wrong side,” he recalled. “She said ‘Sky has turned on Earth,’ and that the gods were fighting a war.”

  “Did she really still believe in gods?” Philip asked Austinus, who shrugged. “What else did she tell you?” he said to Javor.

  Javor closed his eyes and shuddered as he recalled the night on the harbour. “She said that my great-grandfather’s dagger was the only thing that could protect me.” Reluctantly, he told them about the wind that tore the shack apart, about how Sophia sent him away. “She told me to run to Constantinople, to stay away from—from ‘them.’ I don’t know who she meant. She said she would delay them until I could escape, but she wouldn’t come with me.” He slumped. “I think they killed her.”

  Austinus was leaning close. “Think carefully, son. Did she give ‘them’ a name at any point?”

  Javor thought hard. “‘Archons,’” he said. “She called them ‘Archons.’”

  Austinus gasped and sat up straight. Philip jumped to his feet.

  “What is an Archon?”

  “Powers or spirits, emanations of the Demiurge,” Austinus said—which did not explain anything to Javor. “The Christians mistakenly think they’re angels or demons.”

  “If Javor is correct, dark forces are moving aggressively,” Philip said. “Did Sandra’s chthonic allies turn on her?”

  “Archons are not necessarily chthonic, Philip,” Austinus answered. “But I fear that a powerful ally of ours has been destroyed.”

  Javor was weeping. “I’m sorry,” he sniffed, trying to dry his eyes. It was futile. He felt crushed by guilt. “I led them to her.”

  “What do you mean, son?”

  “They were following me!” he sobbed, hiding his face in shame. “From Ghastog’s cave, they followed me, and I led them to her, to Sophia.”

  Austinus put his arm over Javor’s shoulder. “Now, son, don’t blame yourself. Sandra—Sophia—was a powerful mystic who dealt with, even tempted these forces all her life. She lived a long time, longer even than Photius. You couldn’t have known what would happen.”

  “I should have known! I should have known I would lead those … things … wherever I went.” He jumped up. “Maybe they’ve followed me here! I’ve put you all in danger!”

  Austinus tried to make soothing motions. “Do not worry, Javor. We are safe, here. We are protected by the proximity and the blessing of the Church, which is a powerful solar aeon.” He gave Javor another cup of wine. Javor felt a little calmer.

  Austinus murmured to Philip. “Bring Spiridon here. He was right. We need to confer and we need to send out agents to gather intelligence in the North.” Philip nodded grimly and disappeared out the door. “Nikos, take care of Javor. Give him what he needs and make sure he finds his bed.”

  Javor barely noticed Nikos taking him back to his cell through his tears.

  Chapter 24: Initiation

  After breakfast, Javor’s chore was to shovel the manure out of the stable . It was a job he was used to, but still hated. It was smelly and dirty, and often as not, a cow or a pig would give him more to shovel just as he thought he was finished.

  But this morning, the load seemed lighter than usual. “What’s the matter, cows? Don’t feel like shittin
g today?” He swept a little stray dirt out the back door and stood straight to enjoy the feeling of late autumn sunlight on his face.

  First, he felt the weight, then the wetness covering his head, shoulders, arms, the liquid immediately soaking his clothes and his hair. Then he smelled it and heard the laughter from the loft above him. “Right on him! Perfect!” It was Fuscus and Timotheos. Horrified, Javor opened his eyes to see his arms and body covered in animal shit. He dodged and looked up, catching a glimpse of Fuscus and Timotheos leaving the loft door.

  All around, novices and monks pointed and laughed. Javor tried to shake off some of the manure, and the others laughed harder.

  “That is not a Christian thing to do! You up there!” Brother Theodor marched across the yard. He had an oddly high-pitched voice. “Brother Javor, are you all right?”

  “I will be if I can get this shit off of me.” He pulled off his robes and stood in just trousers in the cool autumn air.

  “Go and get cleaned up. I will deal with these ... pranksters,” said Brother Theodor.

  Javor walked across the yard to the novices’ quarters, the smell of cow dung thick in his nostrils. But worse was the shame.

  The novices and monks were surprised the next day when Brother Theodor called Javor aside.

  During the midday meal, Brother Theodor walked in his smooth, calm way down the rows of tables directly to Javor. The murmured conversation allowed in the Abbey ceased. Brother Theodor was almost never seen, especially in the refectorium.

  He stopped behind Javor and placed a small, elegant hand on his shoulder. “See me in the Abbott’s chamber after the meal,” he said in his smooth, musical voice.

  Theodor left, and all the novices stared at Javor. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “No one has ever been called up by Brother Theodor,” Flaccus said.

  Javor finished his lunch quickly—something he almost never did—and as he left the hall, he passed Timotheos and Fuscus sitting together. Fuscus looked right at him and laughed aloud. On a sudden impulse, Javor leaned forward and slammed their heads together. Fuscus fell off his bench, howling.