Theodore E-Book

Christopher Harris

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Theodore, described as the heretical memoirs of a gay priest, was seventh in The Guardian's Top Ten Paperback Originals.

Das E-Book wird angeboten von und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:

Leseprobe

In memory of Jonathan Inglis 1951–1997

Dedalus Original Fiction in Paperback

THEODORE

Christopher Harris was born in London in 1951. After studying art he had a vast array of different jobs before returning to university to take a degree in biology and teach science. He now lives in Birmingham with his wife, a university lecturer, and writes full–time.

Christopher Harris is the author of the acclaimed Byzantine trilogy: Theodore (2000), False Ambassador (2001), and Memoirs of a Byzantine Eunuch (2002).

In Mappamundi (2009) he continues the story of Thomas Deerham, begun in False Ambassador, taking Thomas to the New World.

Christopher Harris is currently writing a novel about Pelagius, a British heretic.

CONTENTS

Title

Dedication

Dedalus Original Fiction in Paperback

Translator’s note

Map

1 Canterbury

2 Tarsus

3 Cappadocia

4 Basil

5 War

6 Doubts

7 The Khazars

8 Nineveh

9 Antioch

10 Yarmuk

11 The Single Will

12 The succession

13 The monastery

14 Hadrian

15 Rome

16 The plague

17 England

18 Wilfrid and Dagobert

19 Miracles

20 Wilfrid’s revenge

Postscript

Copyright

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

Theodore’s manuscript was found where one would expect to find it, in Canterbury. The precise circumstances of its discovery, if that is the right word, cannot be gone into here, even though my inability to produce the original for inspection has led some to doubt its authenticity. How, it has been asked, could such an important document, which throws much needed light on one of England’s obscurest periods, have lain unnoticed for over a thousand years? The answer, I think, is that it was not overlooked, but suppressed, some time in the last three hundred years.

There are several possible reasons for this. Theodore was a Byzantine Greek, whose achievements, if acknowledged, might seem to undermine the supposedly home grown nature of the English Church. He was also born a heretic, and never entirely shook off his Dualist world view. But it seems most likely that those who suppressed the manuscript found it difficult to accept that the real founder of the Church in England was a homosexual. Theodore, as he makes clear, had a long, though intermittent, relationship with his fellow monk and pupil Hadrian. That friendship brought Theodore to England, and gave him strength to overcome the difficulties he faced in his unlooked–for vocation.

Let me set out my reasons for believing that Theodore’s manuscript is authentic. It is a square, fat codex written in Greek, in the right sort of ink, on parchment appropriate to the late 7th century, with heavily damaged covers that obviously date from several centuries later. The script is not the decorative uncials of bibles and hagiographies, but a tiny minuscule, of the sort used by clerks and tradesmen. This, though apparently an anachronism, is a point in its favour. A faker, who might have preferred Latin, would surely have used the familiar and decorative script of religious and literary works, and could hardly have resisted adding some of the elaborate decorations for which English scriptoria were famous. Theodore tells us that he worked as a clerk, had no skill as an illustrator, and disliked the scriptorium. He also disliked the exaggerated, pseudo–classical literary style of his time, preferring the everyday Greek of anecdote and conversation, of which there are few other examples from this period. Some passages of the book are written in Old English, and Hadrian’s postscript is in Latin, with a strong North African flavour, much like the Latin of St Augustine of Hippo. This mixture of languages and styles would defeat the most dextrous of fakers, and I myself had to seek help with the Anglo–Saxon passages. Only the fact that my collaborator has begged for anonymity prevents me from thanking her now.

If we accept the manuscript itself as genuine, can we rely on Theodore’s account of his own life? That question could be asked of any autobiography or memoir, and is especially pertinent where few corroborative materials are available. What Theodore tells us about his appointment and subsequent career as Archbishop of Canterbury is confirmed by, though it could equally be derived from, Bede. But Bede tells us nothing of Theodore’s early life, beyond the place and year of his birth. Theodore lived for a long time, travelled widely, and claimed a part, though an unobtrusive one, in many important events. Unfortunately, he lived at a time of which we know very little, in places since devastated by war and disaster. There are no Byzantine sources for his life, and the history of his times is sketchy, often derived from non–Greek materials. The epic poems of George the Pisidian, still extant, though not much admired, do not mention the secretary who helped compose them. A few details of Theodore’s life are given by Anglo–Saxon historians or chroniclers, but they add little to what is told by Bede, and may, in any case, be wrong. If some medieval hagiographer wrote a Life of Saint Theodore, it has not survived, leaving its subject in deeper obscurity than his predecessor St Augustine of Canterbury, or his rival St Wilfrid.

Is it likely, one might ask, that Theodore was as ubiquitous and resourceful as he claims, and yet was unknown until chosen by the Pope as Archbishop? I think it is. It seems to me entirely plausible that Theodore lived and worked in the manner he describes, respected by his superiors, but prevented by his personality from achieving prominence in a society that valued conformity and orthodoxy. Even Bede admits that Theodore was not the first choice for the job at which he later excelled. We may doubt some of the details of what Theodore tells us, and it may be that, like some other writers, he exaggerated his own importance. But there is no need to reject the whole of his story because some of it is unsupported by firm evidence.

In fact, some evidence does survive. There is, for example, Bede’s reference to a Life and Sufferings of St Anastasius, a Persian who was martyred after he converted from Zoroastrianism. Theodore knew the cult of Anastasius in Syria, carried the saint’s bones to Italy, and may have taken the Life to England. However, in view of what Bede says of the Life’s imperfect style, we cannot attribute its authorship to Theodore.

Theodore also tells us that, while resident at the monastery of Saint Anastasius, near Naples, he wrote a book advocating (wrongly, as we now know) the authenticity of the writings of pseudo–Dionysius the Areopagite. This book was lost when Theodore left the monastery for Rome, and no copy of it is extant. But the great 9th century bibliophile Photios, in his famous library list, describes a pamphlet asserting the genuineness of pseudo–Dionysius by a writer, otherwise unknown, called Theodore. This, I think, is conclusive proof that Theodore’s account of his early life can be accepted as reliable.

Christopher Harris

1999

1

CANTERBURY

A.D. 680

“Theodore?”

It was Hadrian. He left the door open as he stepped in, allowing bright light from the courtyard to flood into the room. I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

“Are you awake?” he asked. Hadrian’s words, or perhaps the tone with which he said them, reminded me of the time we first shared a bed, nearly thirty years earlier, on the pretext, not entirely false, of studying Plato’s Symposium.

“Of course I am awake,” I said. “I may be old, but I don’t sleep all day. I was thinking.”

“In the dark? With your eyes closed?” He stood just inside the doorway.

“I find it helps.”

I got up from my bed and took a few careful steps towards him. Beyond the doorway I could see cracked paving, mottled with dry moss and lichen. The afternoon sun cast strong shadows among the pillars that edged the empty courtyard. Elsewhere, in cool rooms, lessons were being taught, and books read or copied. Perhaps some of the monks, like me, slept quietly between prayers. But they would wake, and their work would be done. There was no need for harsh discipline or self–mortification. There was barbarism enough outside. The monastery was a small, enclosed space, that Hadrian had made civilised, giving us a refuge from which he could spread learning and I could govern the Church. It had been our home for fifteen years. Sometimes, in the still heat of summer, when the stones feel warm even at night, it is possible to imagine oneself back in the South. But only in the summer. In the winter, when the moss is green and the stones are slippery and wet, I know that I have come to the world’s misty northern edge.

I should have some rosemary, lavender and thyme planted. Even in winter, their scent would remind me of the Mediterranean.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” Hadrian said. He knew very well that I had been asleep. “But I have just heard. Wilfrid is back.”

The expression on his dark face, lit from behind, was impossible to make out.

“In Canterbury?” I asked. It was not good news.

“No. He has landed at Rochester.”

“That’s close enough.”

“He wouldn’t dare come here,” Hadrian said. “He knows he lied about you.”

“He probably believes every word he said. Liars usually do.”

“Even he couldn’t believe that it was your idea to send Dagobert back to France.”

“Did he say that?”

“He swore it on the holiest of his relics.”

“His retinue must look like a funeral procession with all the saints’ bones he collected in Rome.”

“Whether it was with bones or oaths, he must have impressed the Franks.” Hadrian paused for a moment, then took my arm and helped me into a chair.

“The Franks let him go,” he said. “They wouldn’t let me go.”

“It was a long time ago. Can you not forget?”

“No.”

“I didn’t like leaving you,” I said.

“But you did.”

“I had no choice. And I spent most of that winter worrying about you.”

“Did you really worry about me?” He drew up a stool and sat beside me.

“Of course,” I said, taking his hand. “Nothing I have ever done has caused me more pain than leaving you behind in France. I knew you were ill, but not how to cure you. Despite my reputation, my medical knowledge is limited. I don’t know how to cure a man overcome by melancholy.”

“You once told me that you cured the Emperor’s melancholy.”

I had forgotten I had told him that.

“I was lucky,” I said. “His melancholy had a cause, which I correctly guessed. But I did not know the cause of your melancholy.”

“Cause? Must everything have a cause?”

“Of course it must.”

“A cause that you can see?”

“Not see, perhaps, but infer.”

“Then what do you infer about my illness?”

I was surprised by his question. Hadrian had never been keen to discuss his illness and the changes it had made in him. I thought for a moment before answering.

“I infer that it was caused by some shame or failure. As soon as you came to Rome, I saw that you had changed. But I didn’t know what was wrong. I should have asked you then, not left it until it was too late. By proposing me as Archbishop, you made sure I had no time to think about anything else. And then there were our difficulties in France. You were quite ill when we reached Sens. You were almost raving.”

“It was a fever,” he said firmly.

“It was more than that. You said we were being punished for what we had done.”

“Did I say that? Surely not.”

“You did. And when I rode on to Paris without you I felt doubly guilty.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Hadrian let go of my hand.

“Then what changed you?”

He stood, and walked over to the window, then slipped the wooden peg from its slot, opened the shutter and looked out. From the chapel, I could hear inexpert chant. Hadrian waited for a while, thinking or listening, before returning and giving me an answer.

“It was when they made me Abbot, I suppose.”

“Were you unwilling?”

“No. It was an honour. At the time I thought it was entirely deserved. But not everyone agreed. There was a party that thought me too young.”

“Was that all?”

“Perhaps they disapproved of our friendship.”

“Did they say so?”

“It was not what they said, but what they did.” He cupped his face in his hands. For a moment I thought he was going to cry, but he rubbed his forehead, gently pressing with the tips of his fingers, then lowered his hands and looked at me calmly. His face, once as smooth and brown as a nut, had sagged and wrinkled like a bletted medlar. His hair was grey. But his dark eyes were still bright with the intelligence that had impressed me when we first met. That, at least, had not changed. He drew breath, but before he could speak, the doorway darkened and he turned to see who was there.

“Archbishop?” It was Titillus, my secretary. “And Father Abbot,” he said, seeing Hadrian. “Are you busy?”

“Is it important?”

“I have just heard that Wilfrid is back.”

“I know. Hadrian has just told me.”

“I am sorry. But I thought you ought to know. He has been spreading more lies about you.”

“Hadrian has told me.”

“But it’s so unfair,” he said, hesitating in the doorway. His yellow hair stood like corn–stubble round his tonsure. “I saw the results of his lies in Rome,” he said. “Everyone there believes him humble, innocent and virtuous. They think you are capricious and corrupt. Now he will spread the same lies in England.”

“He is better known here. He will not be believed so quickly.”

I turned back to Hadrian, but his expression had changed. I could see that he would reveal nothing more. Titillus was still waiting uncertainly. I thought his trip to Rome had cured him of his youthful awkwardness.

“Sir?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Why should Wilfrid be allowed to get away with his wickedness?” His face was flushed and indignant.

“Titillus, I am touched by your concern, but remember, you are only a clerk. You should not speak ill of a bishop.”

“I am sorry, Sir. If I have done wrong, then you must give me a penance. But I was only speaking the truth. I saw how Wilfrid behaved in Rome. Thanks to him there is a judgement against you in the Papal archives, and all France and Italy believe you to be a liar and a schemer. He is sure to make more trouble now.”

“I don’t think it is quite as bad as that,” I said, though it probably was. Hadrian had picked up a wax tablet from the table, and was reading some notes I had scribbled on it.

“Archbishop?” Titillus tentatively took a couple of steps into the room.

“Yes?”

“You must tell your side of the story.”

“I already have. I wrote to His Holiness, but he didn’t believe me.”

“You must tell how you advanced Wilfrid, and how he betrayed you. You must tell of all your deeds as Archbishop. Then everyone will be able to judge between you and him.”

“It might be more dignified to stay silent.”

“But you have often talked of your life.” Titillus stepped forward again and gripped his tunic with both hands, steadying himself before continuing. “You have seen such a lot. Now that I have seen Rome, I know that there are more wonders there than you told me of. You have spoken of the East, and of Constantinople and Antioch. They must be full of wonders too.”

“If you want a tale full of wonders, listen to your English bards.”

“Pagan wonders perhaps, but they mostly sing of battles.”

“I have seen battles, as well as what you call wonders.”

“I know. I have heard you talk of the war against the Persians.”

“That was a long time ago.”

Titillus paused, aware, perhaps, that he had said more than he intended. Then he gripped his tunic again and said: “You must write it in a book. The story of your life.”

“Who writes his own life?”

“Saint Augustine did,” said Hadrian, looking up from the tablet, which he had absent–mindedly rubbed smooth. He knew how much I disliked the Confessions.

“Most men wait until they are dead, then let others write their lives. If they are worthy.”

“But Sir,” said Titillus “The lives of saints are written by men who knew them. Who can know the whole of your life when you are dead?”

“I am no saint. I am far from perfect. And I am very tired. I think I would like to be left alone.”

Titillus looked disappointed, but he left, stumbling clumsily over the uneven paving as he tried to walk respectfully backwards. Hadrian led me to the bed.

“Shall I stay?” he asked.

“No. I will rest.”

I lay on the bed, not sleeping, but brooding.

Though Titillus sometimes seemed awkward, he was no fool. In his clumsy way he had planted a powerful idea in my mind. However, knowing little of literature, he did not know how novel it was. Few men have written of their own lives, and those who have, have had some ulterior purpose. Caesar wrote to justify his actions, but revealed little of his character. Was that what Titillus expected me to do? Saint Augustine wrote to glorify himself, not God. His Confessions are boasts. Those who catalogue their sins in public wish the world to know that they have virtue to spare.

A long time ago in Constantinople, while staying in the house of a rich man, I saw myself in a mirror for the first time. Of course, I had seen my reflection before, but distorted in the rippled water of the washing bowl. When I held up that disc of polished silver I saw myself clearly, as others did. I met my own gaze, as only lovers do. I looked, curiously, wondering what my reflection revealed. But it revealed nothing. In a way, I was as much a stranger to myself as anyone else seen for the first time.

Yet Titillus was right. No one is better qualified to describe my thoughts and actions than I am, and if others are better qualified to describe the times I have lived through, none has done so. But is my life worth remembering? If I have brought orthodoxy and learning to England, the English will be orthodox and learned after my death, whether they remember me or not. But Wilfrid claims the credit for what I have done, and he will make sure he is remembered. He will make himself seem better than me.

Before the Pope sent me here to govern the English Church, I wandered, driven by events, distracted by books, deceived by ideas, shamed by inopportune lusts. It is not much to boast of. If my life is of any interest, it is for what I have seen, not for what I have done.

I lay uneasily, wavering between pride and modesty. If I told my story, it would have to be done without boasting or complaining. The facts might inform, if I told them plainly. I might even set an example, by avoiding the archaisms, extravagant metaphors, forced similes and irrelevant allusions to Homer that disfigure so many of the writings of this decayed age.

By the time I rose for Vespers, I knew that I would do it. I would write the story of my life.

2

TARSUS

A.D. 602–618

I was born in 602, though dates were not reckoned that way then. I learned to count years from the Incarnation of Our Lord from a monk in Rome, a Persian, of all things, who claimed to have invented the system. It seems better, to me, than counting from the Creation, or the Flood, or the foundation of Rome, or the accession of some emperor or other.

My own incarnation cannot have been a cause of rejoicing for my parents, whose heresy taught them that to propagate the human race is to propagate evil. Yes, my parents were heretics. I cannot tell my story without revealing that. They were Dualists, members of an eastern sect hated and persecuted by Christians. They died for their beliefs, leaving me to be claimed by the Church. Had they known what I would become, they would have been appalled. But I have not forgotten them, or what they believed. Perhaps there is still something of the heretic in me. If so, it is not an aspect of myself that I treasure. It is a flaw in my character, a disability. It nags at me, like the ghostly pain of a missing limb, reminding me what I once was, and might have been. It is a shifting, shapeless doubt, which undermines faith and prevents commitment. Yet, despite my doubts, and my origins, I have become an upholder of orthodoxy.

My earliest memories are of fire and flour. I played among great jars of flour that were filled and emptied several times a day. Everything was covered in flour, though my father always fussed about it. He said that if it was left to build up we would soon be invaded by vermin. I liked to help with the sweeping, but only so I could beat the floor and raise great clouds of flour, which covered me as well as everything else. I was usually beaten for that, and tried to hide in the empty jars, or climb into the kneading troughs. I liked to poke fingers into the salt pots, empty the water jars, or rearrange the piles of wood that stood ready to fire the oven. The most interesting jar was that containing the leaven, a lump of fermented dough, kept ready to start the next batch. It seemed to grow as I watched, and gave off a peculiar sour smell. I was fascinated by the mites and weevils that thrived in odd corners despite our sweeping. Their colonies seemed like miniature worlds, reflecting the one I could see beyond the counter at the front of the long, narrow shop. Whenever the oven was opened, its red mouth drew my attention, and I stopped to stare into it. The patterns of the flames also suggested another world, amorphous and changing, into which the door led.

My father’s shop, which he shared with my uncle, was in a row with all the other bakers. Each had a speciality: round loaves, raised loaves, barley bread, rye bread, poppy seed rolls, cakes or sweet pastries. Some made flat breads flavoured with olives, cheese, onion or garlic. These were bought to be eaten in the street as snacks. The street was always busy. Everyone eats bread, rich or poor, and they need it at all times of the day. Every community has a place where gossip and rumour are exchanged. In the country it is the village well, but in Tarsus it was the street of the bakers. When I was bored, or had been beaten too often, I liked to explore the other shops. There, the pots and jars contained different, more interesting ingredients. I particularly liked the cake and pastry shops, whose pots contained honey, nuts, dried fruit and spices. I could often cadge samples, and wandered about eating handfuls of almonds or raisins. Beyond the bakers were the makers of sweetmeats, full of much imagined treats, but I was never allowed in their shops.

At the back of the shops was a yard where the milling was done, and donkeys trudged in circles all day, turning quern–stones. They must have been docile to do the work, but they seemed huge and savage beasts to me, always threatening to lash out with sharp hooves or teeth. The slaves who drove the donkeys seemed equally fearsome, and sometimes did lash out, if I got in the way. The mill was operated by the bakers’ guild, which also owned the shops. Each baker paid dues, which covered the rent of the shop as well as guild membership. The guild supervised training, deciding who could be allowed to take on apprentices, as well as regulating prices and standards.

My father specialised in the white breads bought by the better off. He made raised Cappadocian bread and soft, fluffy rolls, using the finest flour. I watched him sieving the flour through sheets of linen, adding salt from the pot, then mixing in oil and leaven. Only the best flour, well kneaded, made a dough elastic enough to rise well, and each baker kept his own stock of yeast, which he thought better than any other. If I had wandered away, I always returned in time to see the loaves taken out of the oven, and breathe in the rich, almost suffocating smell. Sometimes I was allowed to stand at the counter, handing bread to the customers already waiting in the street. I liked to feel the coins, warm from their hands, and hear the sound as they clinked into the jar under the counter.

The customers were fussy about the type and texture of their bread, and in that they were supported by the old philosophers. Bread, like all food, is made of the elements, and affects our humours. Phlegmatic types should stick to crusty bread, leaving the crumb for the choleric. A good baker must know his customers, and have ready loaves that are well done, or not, as required. Of course, only the rich can afford this choice, the poor have to eat ryebread, and be glad of it, whatever the state of their health.

I do not know what our sect was called. There are many such heretical groups in the East. Some consider themselves to be Christians, others do not. They are called by many names, mostly uncomplimentary. Among ourselves we were the Good People, or just the People.

Many years later I met a Persian priest, and learned from him something of the philosophy of Dualism. It is a religion more dramatic, and dangerous, than Christianity, in which the universe is thought to be a battleground between the forces of Good and Evil. Its followers believe that, when the world was made, some particles of goodness, in the form of light, were trapped in evil matter. The goal of the devout Dualist is to reduce the quantity of evil in the world, and free the light from its material prison. This is achieved by, as far as possible, abstaining from all carnal pleasures.

As a child I was unaware of this cosmic struggle, which, in our everyday lives, was manifested in a complex set of rules concerning cleanliness. The outward signs of our heresy were an absence of crosses or other Christian signs in our houses, and a refusal to attend church. Though these signs must have been noted by our neighbours, I do not remember any trouble at first, only some name–calling from other children.

My parents attended meetings in the houses of those they called the Elect. They were the members of the sect who had achieved perfection by renouncing everything material. Children were not taken to these meetings, but from what I managed to overhear, it seemed that worship took the form of doing housework. The Elect ate no meat, but lived on fruit and vegetables, which they could neither pick nor cook. They could not touch dirt, though their houses had to be kept clean. My parents were always preparing food, making up baskets of fruit, or rushing out with bundles of cleaning equipment. Our house, like the shop, was also kept very clean, and it puzzled me that when we were called names, the names suggested dirt or squalor. I knew that we were not dirty, and the injustice hurt me. I wanted to shout back that we were cleaner than they were, but I was forbidden to answer.

I first noticed that things were going wrong when unsold loaves began to build up at the end of the day. Our customers would not buy stale bread, so these loaves were sold to a shop that specialised in spoiled food for the poor. My father and uncle grumbled, reduced the number of batches they baked, then cut the order of flour from the guild’s millers. Guild officers soon visited the shop, and I watched from behind the flour jars while they questioned my father and uncle. They seemed to say that we were growing careless, and baking inferior bread. They hinted that customers had complained of contamination. If we did not improve the bread and stop the complaints, we would lose guild membership as well as trade. After the officers left, my father and uncle exchanged a few sharp words, but there was nothing they could do, and the decline in trade continued. Then we started to find dead rats in the flour. My father wanted to complain to the millers, but my uncle stopped him. The guild officers would soon hear about it, and their suspicions would be confirmed. We had never been troubled by rats before, but, just in case, we swept even more often. The rats continued to appear, and were clearly being put into the jars by someone.

One morning we heard loud shouting, and banging on the shutters. My uncle opened them, expecting early customers, but was driven back by stones and rubbish thrown by a crowd. They were calling us ‘dirty heretics’, and saying that we put blood in the bread, to poison good Christians. I suppose they meant menstrual blood, that is the usual accusation, though sometimes heretics are accused of contaminating food with the blood of sacrificed babies. I did not understand much except their anger, but afterwards my father explained that they were customers who thought the bread was dirty. But they were not our usual customers, or their servants, and I knew that there was nothing bad in the bread. I had watched it being made. When we cleaned up the shop, we found dead rats among the rubbish the crowd had thrown. After that, hardly anyone bought our bread. The few who did were jeered at by the crowd, and did not come back. There was soon no point in baking, and the flour order was stopped altogether. The guild officers were soon back, and said that if we did not restore our order we would lose our membership, and be closed down. My uncle attempted to argue, but my father seemed already defeated. There was nothing to be done, so we relinquished the shop and went home.

For a few weeks, we waited, growing hungrier as food and money ran out. We did not go out much. My parents no longer attended the Elect, though they anxiously washed and cleaned everything in our house. Outside, the streets were dominated by two gangs, the Greens and the Blues. People said that the gangs were a new thing, and that they had appeared in Tarsus at the same time as the rats. If so, that was appropriate, as both rats and gangs were signs of decay, and symptoms of the Empire’s collapse. Everyone was afraid of the gangsters. They could be seen in the squares and markets, or outside the churches, lounging and strolling, insolently displaying their power. Both gangs adopted a similar style of dress, which was quasi–barbaric, supposedly borrowed from the Persians or Avars. Few, if any, of those street–corner toughs can have seen an Avar, though they were soon to meet the Persians, but they invented freely. They grew their hair long and tied it in knots, cut it short to make it stand on end, or shaved it into crests and tufts. Those who could grew long beards, which they curled or plaited. Their clothes were the opposite of those worn by the ordinary citizen: tight where they should have been loose, loose where they should have been tight, elaborately tucked, puffed, slashed and billowed. They pierced their ears and noses with rings and pins. Those who dared led large dogs on chains. Despite the strict law against civilians carrying weapons, all were armed.

They came for us at night, though there was no need. They would have found us there at any time. I had feared it. At six I was old enough to see that we were in danger, and who from. But my parents must have anticipated every detail: the smashing of the door, the swaggering entry of the Blues, the sneering accusations, the disappointed eyeing up of meagre possessions, the hanging back of neighbours’ sons, newly and self–consciously barbarised. They must have rehearsed it all in their minds, and in their dreams.

We all hope we will face danger bravely and fear that we will not, and in the event my family behaved with dignity. They did not allow themselves to be provoked. They knew, more than their attackers, the degree of their poverty. Perhaps they were fortified by their religion. The wickedness of the world was being amply demonstrated.

The door was kicked open by a large man with his hair shaved except for a spiky crest. He called over his shoulder:

“They’re here.”

More men followed him, pushing into the small room until it was almost full. I could smell the drink on their breath. They were dressed in the barbarian style, their bright clothes fastened with stolen jewellery. They waved curved Avar–style daggers. Two priests were with them, dully dressed and quiet. The crested man turned to the priests and said:

“Here they are, the filthy devil–worshippers.”

“We are not devil–worshippers,” my father said.

“You shut up!” said the crested man. “We’ll tell you what you are.”

“And we are not filthy. We take great care to avoid contamination by dirt.”

“I said shut it!” This time he pushed his dagger at my father’s throat.

“Wait,” said one of the priests. “We must establish the truth before we go on.”

“Well do it quickly. We haven’t got all night. There’s plenty more filth to be disposed of.”

The priest looked at my father and asked him:

“Are you a Christian?”

“We worship the true God.”

“Liar! You worship the Devil.”

“We do not worship him, we worship God. But we know the power of evil, and try to avoid it.”

“Then who were the sacrifices for, if not the Devil.”

“What sacrifices?”

“Don’t you lie to the priest,” said the crested man. “We know you kill babies. And we know what you do with the blood.”

“Well?” said the priest.

“We make no sacrifices. We do not even eat meat. Look at this house. It is perfectly clean, and you will find no blood anywhere.”

“Don’t give us that! We know you kill them.” The crested man waved his dagger again. The priest thought for a moment, then asked:

“You say you worship God?”

“Yes.”

“Do you accept that the Saviour has two natures, human and divine, separate but fused, each whole and perfect?”

My mother burst into tears when my father looked at her. He looked away, and said nothing.

“Answer the question,” said the crested man.

“No.”

“No, you will not answer, or no, you do not believe?”

“I do not believe that God came to earth in material form. He cannot have mingled himself with corrupt matter. He has only one nature.”

“What does he mean by that?” said the crested man.

“He means,” said the priest, “that he is a filthy heretic.”

My parents allowed themselves to be led away. I do not know what happened to them, but I can guess. I was taken away by one of the priests. The Church claimed, and still claims, those members of heretic families too young to understand their error. In the dark, I was pulled out into the street, where I could see burning houses, and crowds milling about noisily. A few streets away, I was pushed through a doorway into a room full of children. There must have been two dozen, all, by that time, crying, and guarded by two worried–looking Blues. Soon I was crying too, and the guards, tired of the noise, shouted at us to stop. That made us worse, but after a while the noise died down. We were tired, but could not sleep. What we feared most had just happened, but that did not exhaust our fear. We began to fear things we could not imagine. Every so often one of us would start crying again, or sniffling. What was left of the night seemed endless.

At dawn more priests arrived with ropes. Without looking at us, they told the guards to tie us together. In one long line, with a priest and guard at each end, we were marched away from the streets I knew, out towards the suburbs. We passed through an arched gateway where lounging Blues jeered. Instead of narrow alleys faced with shops and windows, we were soon in a district of large, inward–looking houses, with only the tops of palm trees showing above their blank, white walls. I had never been outside the city walls before, and the sight of those enclosed houses was oddly comforting. As we were dragged away from the suburbs, I imagined myself safe within high, white walls. Outside the city there was little shade. I was hot, thirsty, and the ropes bit into my wrists. At noon, in a grove of palms by the River Cydnus, we stopped to rest. We were given bread and water, but not untied. In the afternoon we were led to a church.

As a Christian I suppose I should be glad at what happened next, but as a small boy I was terrified. We were taken inside and baptised. I had never entered a church before, it was full of symbols I had been taught to fear and despise, and we went through a ritual that I did not understand. I do not know why they baptised us then and there without instruction. Perhaps, though young, we were too deeply tainted with heresy. The Church would claim us, but not as we were. We were told by a priest that, whatever we had been before, we were now proper Christians, and in the care of the Church. We would be taught, and looked after, until we were old enough to make our own way.

Then we were handed over to the monks.

In troubled times men rush to enter monasteries, sure of a bed, clothing, regular meals, care if they fall ill, and freedom from debt, taxation or military service. As cities have emptied, and schools have closed, monasteries have filled with scholars and teachers. I had no choice, and the circumstances of my arrival were distressing, but it soon came to seem a safe and pleasant place. It lay a few miles outside Tarsus, in the strip of rich, green land that follows the river. The high walls that surrounded its dark, cool buildings seemed to offer protection from the hostile world outside, which we soon began to forget. It was not, after all, the monks who had burned our houses or attacked our families. Once they had made it plain that there could be no backsliding into heresy they were kind enough.

I lived in that monastery for ten years, and it made me what I am. It was, perhaps, an exaggeration to say that we were looked after, as we had to look after ourselves. Older boys were put in charge of us. They allocated tasks and made sure they were done. They enforced the rules and punished wrongdoers. Deprived of our families, we wished only to be approved of, and came to depend on them. Strong emotions were generated, and expertly manipulated. The monks were more remote. We went to them for lessons, and they seemed all–knowing, but they could not be friends or confidants.

We had to wash and mend our own clothes, and were made to weave baskets and rush mats, some of which were sold in Tarsus. The dormitories, like the rest of the monastery, were built from mud brick, which steadily crumbled to dust in the scorching Cilician summers. We swept ceaselessly with brushes that we made ourselves. There was food to grow, and to cook. In the spring we hoed the hard soil and carried water to the seeds we sowed. In the summer and autumn we picked fruit. In the winter, when cold winds blew down from the Taurus Mountains, we pruned the trees and vines. We constantly picked and podded beans, storing them in huge baskets, where heat and insects competed to make them inedible. When they were dry, we ground the beans, then made them into a thin porridge, which we ate nearly every day. If we were lucky, and were allowed extra oil, we made fried bean–meal cakes. Hippocrates recommends beans, though Galen warns against them. I do not think they did me any harm, though I would have welcomed a more varied diet.

My education, rather to my surprise, began with music, something I had not encountered before. We were taught songs, which we sang while clapping or beating small drums. The simple tunes and rhythms helped us learn the words whose meaning we would only understand later. As we learned more of these simple songs, then progressed to psalms and hymns, we gradually shed our heresy and became Christians. We learned to read, write and count, scratching letters on tablets of soft wax. Later we studied arithmetic and geometry. We memorised the Scriptures, and were instructed in theology, or rather, Christology. We were drilled in Greek grammar, and some of us learned Latin, which was still the official language of the Empire.

The Greek of the Bible, as all scholars acknowledge, is inelegant, and we were encouraged to study the sermons of Saint John Chrysostom as models of Christian rhetoric. Antique writers, to whom we were obliged to look for examples of style, were represented by short extracts in anthologies, which were full of polished passages free from any taint of paganism. Homer could not be freed from paganism, but his style is exemplary, and the stories are famous. We were allowed to read the Iliad and Odyssey in full. Many of my childish daydreams began with the martial friendship of Achilles and Patroclus, or the wanderings of Odysseus.

Within those limits, the monks did their best, and I could not have learned what I later did without that foundation.

I had escaped the outside world, but some news reached us. The Abbot, a thin, bony man with a terrifying stare, sometimes included a topical reference in his long and rambling sermons. His descriptions of tyranny, civil war, gangsterism and religious conflict, though heavily disguised in the language of the Old Testament, usually made the seclusion of the monastery seem more agreeable. I knew what Tarsus was like, and if the rest of the Empire was just as bad, I was happy to be safe behind high walls. But a few years after I arrived at the monastery, the Abbot revealed something that unsettled us all. After morning prayers, instead of sending us to work, he kept us in the chapel and addressed us, adopting the grim tone he used for cataloguing the smitings and begettings of the Israelites. He told us that the new Emperor, whom he had previously hailed as a hero, had committed a sin so bad that it could not be named, still less described.

“It goes against God’s laws,” the Abbot said. “But we must still pray for His Majesty the Emperor. We must pray for his guidance from error!”

He led us in prayer, then spoke again, taking a gloomy pleasure in his words:

“Even now, God is preparing to chastise us. We are to be punished for the Emperor’s sins. A Persian army is on its way to Cilicia. Tarsus is certain to be attacked!”

When the Abbot dismissed us, we rushed to our work, but could not concentrate, either on lessons or chores. We chattered constantly, despite the older boys’ attempts to keep us quiet. They were as excited as we were, and so were the monks. Little work was done that day. It seemed pointless to learn Latin grammar, or to sweep or weave baskets, when we might soon be slaughtered or carried off into slavery. That night, in the dormitory, the older boys speculated about the Emperor’s sin. The word incest was whispered, and explained to the younger boys. I was only just becoming aware of the promptings of lust, which I understood only as something to be resisted. While I lay uneasily on my prickly mattress, thinking about sin, the other boys told stories of King Chosroes and the cruelties of the pagan Persians. The high walls of the monastery no longer seemed so reassuring, yet there was an anticipatory pleasure mixed with our fear.

In Tarsus the citizens did not panic. The news seemed to concentrate their minds. The city had been neglected while the Empire declined, and the arrival of the Persians might be an opportunity rather than a misfortune.

For a day or two, the factions were confident. The leaders of the Greens and the Blues forgot their rivalry and formed themselves into a militia to defend the city. They put on their most extravagant clothes, polished their weapons, and paraded in the streets. The citizens, despite their cheering, were not impressed. The clothes, so intimidating before, seemed laughable now. The weapons, good for cutting throats in back streets, were obviously inadequate to defeat an invading army. The factions seemed to realise that, and on the third day they paraded in plain clothes. Some also carried improvised weapons: sharpened agricultural implements, or poles with daggers lashed to their ends. Perhaps the makeshift nature of these weapons made their bearers think about how war might actually be fought, and how it might differ from street–fighting. Whatever the reason, that was the last parade. After that the Greens and the Blues disappeared. Some escaped into the mountains or hid in cellars. A few attempted to enrol at the monastery. Others reappeared in the guise of ordinary citizens, the former leaders of whom now realised that they had better prepare to surrender. A committee was formed, ceremonial clothes were prepared, and keys to the city were found. For a few more days the life of the city was paralysed. No one could think of anything except the Persians.

When the first Persians arrived at Tarsus, they were not the huge army we had imagined, but a small advance party, little more than scouts. They looked like ordinary soldiers, not the barbaric fantasies of the gangsters. They were not interested in hearing speeches of welcome. But their commanding officer was glad to advance his career by receiving the keys. Later more soldiers arrived, and a small garrison was left in the city.

The Abbot seemed disappointed that we had escaped an inevitable doom. He addressed us again, telling us that Chosroes was now our King, and that we were subjects of the Persian Empire. He read us a long passage from Jeremiah, in which there was no smiting, but many confusing comparisons between baskets of figs and cups of wine. We were supposed to draw the conclusion that a Babylonian captivity was imminent, and we had heard terrible stories about other cities the Persians had conquered. In Jerusalem, they sacked churches, looted monasteries, and massacred priests and monks. The Abbot may have been hoping for martyrdom, but there was little trouble in Tarsus. The Persian garrison ignored the monastery, and took only taxes from the citizens. Perhaps God’s failure to punish us indicated that we were not very important, either to Him or to King Chosroes.

We prayed, and we returned to our work, for which I was glad. I was determined to learn as much as I could, while I had the chance. I enjoyed my studies, and was successful at most subjects, though I was rather puzzled by theology. Some of the things we were asked to believe could not be as simple as the monks pretended. The question of the Incarnation had divided the Church for centuries, and, as I approached the age of sixteen, it troubled me. Perhaps my interest in the Incarnation was no more than a bewildered youth’s attempt to deny a growing awareness of fleshly desires. But the difficulty of accepting that God, all–powerful and omnipresent, could have allowed Himself to be constrained in the fleshy prison of a human body, had caused many, including my parents, to abandon Christianity for a simpler faith. Others, remaining Christian, denied God’s presence on earth, thinking Christ either an illusion, or just a man adopted by God. Yet orthodoxy requires us to believe that Christ is both God and man, each perfect and separate, both mystically fused, rather as body and soul are fused in man. It seemed to me that the Trinity, the natures of Christ, and the relationships between them, were problems that could be explored, if not finally explained, by theorems of the sort used in geometry. Whenever I tried to propose the idea, the monks looked embarrassed, and said that there were mysteries that we just had to accept. When I persisted, I was told to stop interrupting the lesson with questions, and learn what I was told to learn. They knew what I did not, that theological disputes had weakened the Empire, and contributed to its imminent collapse. Perhaps, had I thought harder, I might have had more sympathy for their point of view. I had recently been made an assistant teacher, and I found my work much easier if the younger boys I taught did not ask awkward questions.

I assumed that, at sixteen, I would become a full member of the community and devote the rest of my life to teaching. When the Abbot summoned me to his room, I thought I knew what he would say. He began by praising my work, and thanking me for the teaching I had done. He went on to say that I was an exceptional pupil, one of the best they had taught. My knowledge of Greek was excellent, and I showed promise in mathematics and music. My enthusiasm for theology, he said, was very creditable.

His stare was no longer terrifying. His manner was regretful, almost apologetic. His eyes, so piercing that they could silence a chapel full of boys, would not meet mine. I was wondering why I had ever been scared of him when he said:

“The monastery cannot do justice to your abilities. You must continue your studies, but not here. There is nowhere nearby that is suitable. There used to be schools all over the East. Antioch, Edessa, Beirut…” His bony shoulders shuddered as he thought of learned and pious monks dragged from their desks and sold into slavery by the Persians. “You must go away,” he said.

“But where?”

“Athens.”

I protested that his scheme was impossible, citing, not, as might have been seemly, my own unworthiness, but the Persian occupation.

“There will be no difficulty,” he said. “You will travel by sea. I will give you letters of introduction, and once you reach Athens I am sure you will have no difficulty finding teachers.”

Despite the Abbot’s praise of my work and ability, I felt as though I was being dismissed, almost expelled. The monastery had become my home, and I had no wish to leave it for the outside world, which, my small experience told me, was hostile and dangerous. A few days later I returned to the Abbot, told him that I felt unworthy of the education he proposed for me, and volunteered to remain at the monastery as a teacher. He refused my offer, gave me letters of introduction and a little money, and sent me away. This experience, bewildering at the time, has since become familiar. Several times, in later life, I have been sent away from monasteries in similar circumstances. There must be some flaw in my nature, perhaps a lingering symptom of my parents’ heresy, that makes me, almost without knowing it, turn against communities that have made me welcome.

Despite my reluctance to leave the monastery, once outside its walls I felt exhilarated. I was starting a new life. For the first time, I was alone, and free. As I walked to the coast I day–dreamed about Athens, imagining myself debating with philosophers, or dazzling bishops with theological theorems. Perhaps I would become a bishop, or a theologian. The Patriarchate or Papacy might not be beyond one who could refute with mathematical certainty the errors of the heretics. I imagined my life stretching ahead, free of obstacles, like the dusty plain I was crossing. Everything seemed possible.

At the coast I found a few patched and dilapidated fishing boats. Some fishermen had upended one of them, and were daubing its hull with pitch. They seemed amused by the idea of sailing to Athens, but let me stay with them for the night. They gave me food: a sort of soup with every kind of fish boiled up together, and afterwards I slept in a hut, curled up among nets and ropes.

For a few more days I followed the coast, scrambling along the rocky shore. I questioned everyone I met, but was always told the same thing. Greece was overrun by savage Slav tribesmen. Athens had been sacked. No one was sailing west any more. I was fed regularly on fish soup, but it became clear to me that I was not going to reach Athens. The Abbot must have known. Why had he deceived me?

Feeling helpless and defeated, I decided to go back to Tarsus.

As I approached the city I began to regret my decision to return. The suburbs were empty, and many of the high–walled houses that had once seemed so safe were ruined or abandoned. Saint Paul’s Gate was guarded by Persian sentries, big, black–bearded men armed with spears and swords. I hesitated for a moment when I saw them, but kept walking. To turn back would have made them suspicious. When I got closer, the guards did not seem so impressive. They wore absurd felt hats, domed like eggshells, their baggy trousers were tattered and stained, and their spears were little more than poles. Clearly, King Chosroes had not sent his best troops to guard Tarsus. I tried to look purposeful, as though I passed the gate every day and knew exactly where I was going. The guards idly watched as I walked past them, into the city. They did not move out of the shade, their swords remained sheathed, and their spears were left resting against the wall. They cannot have thought me important. I was young, my cloak and tunic were dusty, and I carried no baggage. I walked on quickly, along the deserted main street to the city centre.

The market place was almost empty, as were most of the shops. A few peasants squatted by piles of vegetables, but they had no customers. Persian soldiers lounged on street corners, just as the Greens and the Blues had once done. I kept walking, through narrow streets like those I had lived in as a child. But I did not recognise the streets, and their few inhabitants glared at me suspiciously. Some threw stones. They, I realised, were the people who had persecuted my parents. Now their houses were wrecked, and their livelihoods lost. That thought gave me pleasure at first, and helped me bear their hostility. I wandered, losing myself in gloomy alleys, stumbling over scattered rubble, sometimes emerging into parched and empty squares. I slowly realised that there was nowhere for me to go. I had mistakenly thought of Tarsus as my home, but, though I had lived in or near the city for sixteen years, it was completely strange to me. My real home was the monastery, from which I had been expelled.

I trudged the streets, looking for somewhere I could rest, but I kept finding myself back in the market square. Some of the soldiers, seeing me again, began to stare. I walked on. I had been walking all day. I was hungry, thirsty, and needed a place to sleep. The city’s few surviving taverns were full of Persians. There seemed to be nowhere a traveller could go. Then I saw the church of Saint Paul. I had not been inside it before, its doors were open, there were no Persians lounging on its steps, and its dark interior looked invitingly cool.

It was there that I met Nicholas.

I was in the nave, examining a series of mosaics depicting the voyages of Saint Paul. There was nothing else to do, and the pictures fed my sense of failure in a way that was almost alarmingly satisfying. Rome, Thessalonika, Jerusalem, even Antioch, seemed impossibly remote. The Apostle was a much more resolute traveller than I had proved to be. The mosaics were damaged, and loose tesserae were scattered about the floor. I stood miserably, staring at a scene in which Paul converted an Athenian, perhaps Dionysius the Areopagite, though the inscription was defaced. A voice said:

“Are you lost?”

“No. Returned,” I said, and looked round, into his face. Nicholas was taller than me, and older. He had dark, curly hair and a straight nose, like an antique statue. His eyes had the sad sincerity of a mosaic saint. I knew then that I wanted him to be kind to me.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Yes.” I was hungry, and not just for food. The sight of Nicholas had awoken in me another need, one I could not define or put a name to.