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him jump and swear and hop . . . if he weren't already a dead man. Rhavas
waited to see if anyone would pay attention to his collapse. But no one did.
If anyone saw the fall, it was doubtless taken for just another drunken monk
going down.
Whistling, Rhavas went on his way. He wondered what would happen if he had to
do something like that at the synod to get his point across. Would the
assembled priests and prelates, monks and abbots, pay attention to him then?
Would they decide his theology had something behind it after all?
He whistled some more. If they didn't, they'd be sorry.
* * *
Soldiers kept laymen away from the High Temple. "Phos!" one of the pikemen
complained. "This is liable to be more dangerous than going out and fighting
Stylianos' boys. Leastways you know what you're up against with them."
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The soldiers did not keep club-swinging monks from crossing their line. Rhavas
hadn't expected them to.
The monks belonged in the synod. So they were convinced, anyway.
When Rhavas walked into the High Temple, he found priests and monks arguing
with one another. Here a priest wagged a finger under a prelate's nose. There
an angry monk brandished his bludgeon. The priest at whom he shook it told him
it would have an unlikely final resting place if he presumed to swing it. The
monk expressed a certain amount of disbelief.
The commotion made Rhavas smile. For one thing, this was what synods were
supposed to be like.
And, for another, the mere fact of at least some disagreement encouraged him.
He'd wondered if everyone would automatically oppose him. It didn't seem that
way, anyhow.
Behind the pulpit stood Sozomenos. He watched the assembled ecclesiastics, and
listened to them. He did not try to bring them to order, not just then. Maybe
he couldn't. Maybe he simply didn't want to.
Rhavas wasn't sure which the answer was, though he hoped for the former.
More and more priests and prelates and monks and abbots came in. Sozomenos
waited and watched.
At last, for no reason Rhavas could see, the ecumenical patriarch raised both
hands in a gesture of benediction, and also not incidentally one that brought
every eye to himself. An imperial commissioner heading up an important
assemblage would have had a gavel with which to control his group. Sozomenos
had only the strength of his will. As things turned out, that was more than
enough.
"We are ready to begin," Sozomenos said. They hadn't been. They hadn't been
anywhere close.
Suddenly, though, they were, for no better reason than that the patriarch said
they were. In spite of himself, Rhavas was impressed.
Another small group of ecclesiastics walked into the High Temple. Seeing
everyone in front of them quiet and orderly, they ducked into pews not too far
from the altar and sat ready for whatever would come next. They might have
been schoolboys not quite late but not anxious to draw the master's eye even
so, lest he reach for a switch.
Sozomenos had no switch, any more than he had a gavel. Plainly, he did not
need one, either. "I thank all of you for your presence here this morning," he
said. "One of our brethren had called upon my illustrious predecessor, the
most holy Kameniates, to convene this synod to examine our faith and its most
fundamental workings. That is his privilege, and, Kameniates no longer being
among men, I have the honor of conducting this resulting assemblage. On your
prayers, on your belief, and on your reasoning rest our direction for years if
not centuries to come. I am confident you are up to the job."
He said nothing about what Rhavas' challenge really meant. He also said
nothing about his own view of
Rhavas' belief. Again, Rhavas was impressed. Sozomenos presented at least the
appearance of scrupulous fairness. He would, no doubt, find some way to make
his views felt but then, so would every other ecclesiastic at the synod. That
was what synods were for.
Hands still upraised, Sozomenos began to intone the creed: "We bless thee,
Phos, lord with the great and good mind, by thy grace our protector, watchful
beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor."
All the clerics in the High Temple repeated the words after him. They came
echoing back from the dome, as if the image of the good god picked out in
mosaicwork there were also saying them. A tight smile on his face, Rhavas
joined in the creed. Sozomenos had ways of showing which side he was on, sure
enough.
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But then the ecumenical patriarch said, "The task before us is nothing less
than to decide whether that is still an appropriate summary of belief for us
in this day and age. Think well on it, my colleagues: has goodness failed?"
"Of course not!" The prelate who boomed out that response was a plump,
red-faced man in regalia almost as magnificent as Sozomenos'. He seemed much
more accustomed to it than the ecumenical patriarch did, too; he wore it as if
entitled to it, not as if surprised by it. Rhavas did not know him. He must
have risen to prominence since Rhavas went to Skopentzana, and by his accent
came from the westlands, which had not suffered barbarian attack, and which
had had only a limited share in the current civil war. Since he knew little of
suffering, he thought the same had to be true for the Empire of Videssos as a
whole.
Fool. Fat, pompous fool, Rhavas thought. You'd sing a different tune if you
ever set eyes on a
Khamorth.
More than a few other ecclesiastics were nodding along with the pompous
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