While the rest of Venice’s embassage were escorted from the palace to assume proper lodgings in the Venetian quarter, Strophantes himself led Dandolo out into the Imperial quarter. Naturally they traveled with a large retinue of imperial guards, fine in their glistening armor. All but one bore halberds. That one was their commander, a handsomely bearded Captain of the Guard who bore a sword in a brocaded leather sheath.
Having passed under the walls of Septimus Severus, they traversed the hilly streets through the packed and thronged avenues, their guards very presence cutting a swath for them.
Strophantes pointed out each notable plaza and monument: the Forum of the Bull, the house of Concordia, the Temple of Thomas the Apostle. There was the pillar of Arcadius, rising higher than any building in this quarter, with its twisting tale of the victory over the Scythians. Yet that paled compared to the golden statue of Constantine Helios, that bore the very nails that had affixed Christ to the Cross.
“There are the baths of Achilles. The Emperor Justinian was able to harness the aqueduct so well that the calidariam has hot water to this day. In spite of upheavals of earth and men, the fountains of Constantine’s great city still flow, showering us with pleasing sight and sound.”
They paused before the palace to view the statue of the Emperor Justinian, dressed as Achilles. In one hand he held the entire world. His other hand extended with regal force, forbidding the barbarians of the world to enter his domain. Dandolo noted that Justinian faced east. That put his back to Venice, meaning he was claiming dominion over it, too.
All was beauty, and fair. Viewing it, Enrico Dandolo remained silent. It was churlish to insist that Venice owned a quarter of the beauty of this vast metropolis. It was galling to admit, even to himself, that his boast of his own nation as heir to Rome was difficult to maintain in the midst of this aweful splendor. All around it were columns of silver, topped by figures of history – Ullysses, Helen, Homer himself.
At the start of the excursion, Dandolo had been to the palace’s western balconies. Higher by far than his own silken cell, he was for the first time afforded a view of the Imperial Quarter, inside the walls of Septimus Severus. Roofs of bronze or gilded tiles, a blinding city of light reflected from the sun as it wended its laborious path around the earth.
He had seen the Hippodrome from above, and marveled silently at the perfection, the glowing unity of art and entertainment. Returning now to the Imperial enclosure through the Forum of Constantine, they strolled southwards through a symphony of birdsong towards the Hippodrome, stationed just north of the old Imperial Palace.
Strophantes maintained his role of guide and historian. “The building itself dates from before Constantine’s own life, though of course he and others built upon it. There are the likenesses of Castor and Pollux. That is the Lymachus Hercules in bronze. Can you make out the horses above the imperial loggia? The chariot of Lysipppus, made of gilded bronze, they have lasted these nine hundred years unblemished.”
“Admirable,” said Dandolo, sweating and feeling as if his blood were thinned. Pillars of colored marble supported the galleries above, with tier upon tier of marble seats. Below these were cages and tiring rooms, filled with lions, leopards, and animals that the Venetian could not even name.
Crossing to the center of the oblong track, Dandolo studied the obelisk placed inside the Hippodrome by Theodosius the Great. Taken from the Temple at Karnak, the hieroglyphs in the pink marble were still legible, if indecipherable.
At the far end of the track was a more recent addition, less than two hundred years old but no less magnificent, was the Walled Obelisk, so named for the armor of gilded bronze plates that covered it.
Between them stood the Serpentine Column of Delphi, three entwined ebony snakes whose golden heads had once upheld a tripod and vase. It had been a gift for the Oracle, reward for her part in defeating the Persian army at Plataea.
Far from relishing his companion’s silence, Strophantes spoke intelligently and learnedly of that battle sixteen-hundred years in the past. It was a mark of how comfortable the Greeks were in their legacy that it needed no underscoring. Dandolo felt a stirring of envy and admiration within his soul.
Exiting the Hippodrome, they emerged into a tree-lined arcade leading to the western end of the Golden Horn. Strophantes said, “It is time to visit the jewel of our nation’s crown.”
Dandolo had seen the dome rising above the line of trees, but not until they entered the direct walkway from the Hippodrome did he comprehend what it was reflecting in his eyes. Dandolo slowed step by step as his mind grasped what he was viewing, until he ceased to walk at all.
Smiling slightly, Strophantes continued speaking as though there was no change in his companion. “That is the seat of our Patriarch, the home of our Christ the Savior. That is the Church of the Holy Wisdom. That is Hagia Sophia.”
The building was a magnificent confluence of curves and domes, massively solid and colorful, but far from garish. Red as blood, white as a dove, with a monumental cross atop the grand dome, it was a city unto itself – a City of God. Resting against a background of water, the basilica was surrounded by perfectly tended trees that seemed to embrace it, even from a distance.
For this first time in his sixty-six years, Dandolo found himself at a utter loss. Strophantes laughed, but not in malice. “Come – shall we see her properly?” And as old Dandolo forced his feet to trod the paved walkway, the Greek fell in quietly beside him. They walked a ways, and after a moment Strophantes murmured:
“Inasmuch as you have power unassailable
From all kinds of perils free me so that unto you
I may cry aloud, Rejoice, 0 unwedded Bride.”
Blinking out of his reverie, Strophantes begged Dandolo’s forgiveness for his indulgence in poetry. In truth, Dandolo was relieved that the Greek was still capable of being moved by this glowing magnificence before them.
Strophantes resumed his role of historian. “Justinian ordered material from every corner of his empire. The column drums are from the temple of Artemis at Ephesus, so cruelly destroyed by that fiend Herostratus. Yet now that lost Seventh Wonder of the World has been incorporated into an even greater monument to the one true God. Besides these illustrious columns you will see porphyry from Egypt, jade marble mined in Thessaly, obsidian from the Bosporus, and yellow stone from Syria. In this one basilica all the world has come together.”
Feeling the need to speak, to say anything at all, Dandolo asked, “It is named for Santa Sophia?”
“In fact, no!” exclaimed Strophantes with pleasure. “Sofia in Greek is Wisdom. Rather than name this magnificent basilica after any one saint, it is named for a saintly quality. She is the Church of the Holy Wisdom. Do you not agree that wisdom is the most profound attribute a saint can possess?”
“I would have said piety,” replied Dandolo absently.
“Ah, the difference between our Churches. You Latins believe that blind obedience to God is the greatest of all virtues, whereas the God we would follow asks us to see for ourselves.” If there was perhaps a trace of bite to these words, if the patina of Strophantes’ civility had begun to crumble, this fact was lost on Dandolo, who was engaged in noting the many architectural marvels that until this day he had never seen, not even in his long life.
Strophantes returned to the subject of nomenclature. “This edifice is in truth the third basilica of that title. All three have stood on the same site, and the original was commissioned by Constantine himself.”
“What became of it?”
“Destroyed. By fire, in times of civil unrest. The second burned in 532.” The Emperor’s cousin seemed untroubled. Perhaps he thought that this, the third and final, was more than adequate compensation. Or was it divine will, a mirror of the Trinity? Gazing upwards at the walls, now close at hand, his tone was almost reverent as he said, “Construction on this one began mere days later, on the orders of the Emperor Justinian himself. He could not bear the loss, and was determined to please the Lord by creating a place of worship more sublime than any on earth. He commissioned two architects, Isidore of Miletus and Anthemius of Tralles, and personally guided the building to completion. The seat of the Patriarch of Constantinople, it is the focal point of our religion, and has been through the centuries. Come,” said Strophantes, “it is more impressive within.”
Dandolo was tempted to assert the impossibility of this claim. But until a moment ago he would never have suspected to be so awed by an exterior, so he kept his tongue. Stepping into the cool interior, he expected to require a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the change in light. But such light! Never had he set foot inside a cathedral so rife with natural illumination.
The structure of the vast interior was astonishingly complex. The dome that covered the nave was perhaps smaller than the dome of the Pantheon, but infinitely superior. In the Pantheon a single ray of light shone down from the center, a conduit to the Lord. Here, however, the dome seemed to float weightlessly overhead. Squinting against the light, Dandolo saw that this effect was achieved by an arcade of windows running all around the dome’s base. Yet the way the light came in, the frames of the windows almost vanished, leaving only the hovering dome. It was anchored at the nave’s corners by four large pillars.
Strophantes spoke some words to a cleric in jeweled robes. Dandolo was not familiar enough with the forms of the Greek clergy to recognize his station, but he doubted the man was insignificant. Apparently Strophantes received permission to make a tour of the interior, for he returned to take Dandolo by the arm.
“The Church contains a large collection of holy relics. There is a stone from the tomb of Jesus. There, suspended in that crystal sphere, is milk from the Virgin Mary. Below it is the shroud in which our Lord was wrapped after his death. They raise it out every Friday, in honor of his passing. You will hardly credit it, but I assure you that his features are still plainly visible…”
Moving from one awesome artifact to the next, Dandolo’s eyes were blinded more than once from light reflecting from a fifty foot silver iconostasis. Of greater artistic value were the many mosaics that covered the walls and domes. High above he saw the child Christ and mother Mary, with golden tiles all around, yet brighter gold for their halos. Lower down were the images of emperors and empresses. These were set against carved marble pillars and lavishly brocaded wall hangings. Dandolo saw that many of the carvings and even some of the mosaics were in the style not of Christianity, but the Mohommadan infidels – rather than depictions of people or event, these showed ornately complex geometric shapes. Asking his companion, he was told, “Beauty is beauty.” This was accompanied with a parable which Dandolo only half heard. So full were his eyes that he could pay little heed to his other senses.
At one point he asked how many men served within these walls, and Strophantes told him that a service in Sophia required eighty priests, one hundred fifty deacons with sixty subdeacons, one hundred sixty readers, twenty-five cantors and seventy-five doorkeepers.
They completed a full circuit of the church and the upper levels. At last Strophantes released Dandolo’s arm and turned to face him. “Has the noble Venetian balio seen enough?”
With an effort to project humility, Dandolo said, “I am filled with – awe is too small a word for the emotions that fill my poor soul.”
Smiling, Strophantes nodded. “Justinian is said to have proclaimed, Solomon, I have surpassed thee! A trifle blasphemous, perhaps, but because this is a house of worship was entirely of his making, we must forgive him his pride. Now, since we have intruded so upon this holy ground, we must pray. I know your religion is not ours, but surely you would not object to making an obedience in this place.”
“I would be honored,” said Dandolo, following the Greek back down the stairs and to the nave.
During the prayers and through the departure, Dandolo worked to fill his memory will all he saw. Venice, which he had always deemed magnificent, now seemed impoverished and base. Despite the wealth the crusades had brought, despite her navy that each day brought back the wealth of the world to pass through her canals, Venice could not compare to the glory of Constantinople. It was fact, indisputable but not eternal. For Dandolo determined, there and then, to make Venice someday as golden a city as this.
This determination combined with the open air caused Dandolo’s natural truculence resurface. They strolled towards the water of the great Bosphorus. Small vessels were littered hither and yon, fishing or transporting people from Pera, the land across the Golden Horn. It was in Pera where the Venetians were allowed to subsist, outside of the city proper. It was to Pera that his fellow ambassadors had been shipped after their meal, and where he would be headed at the end of this excursion. Since he felt the tour was drawing to a close, he decided to reintroduce the subject that prompted it.
“I must give you my thanks, Lord Strophantes. Constantinople is a magnificent city. The natural pride of its people is well justified. I must confess, Venice is nothing near as glorious – in its physical being.”
“There is another kind of glory?” asked Strophantes, gazing out at the reflection of the setting sun.
“There is glory of spirit. Constantinople is certainly the heir of Rome’s bones. But it was not monuments that made Rome great as a nation. The greatness came first, the monuments after. Rome was an idea, a powerful thought, a way of being. In that sense, I maintain that Venice is her true heir. We cannot match you for beauty. But our spirit is shines bright.” He bowed. “Of course, I am a patriot, speaking of a country I love. I mean no disrespect.”
Strophantes seemed not at all put out. In fact, his face betrayed a secret pleasure. “I am sure. Indeed, I was hoping you would stay your course. But then, you Venetians are naval at heart.”
Dandolo laughed. “Which could mean we shift with the wind! But no. We believe in constancy, in all things.”
“As do we, signore,” replied Strophantes Komnenos. “As do we. Well, we must be off.” Here the Emperor’s cousin nodded to the Captain of the Guard, close at Dandolo’s shoulder. Then, with a flourishing gesture at Hagia Sofia, he said to Dandolo, “But please! Indulge your eyes one last time before we depart. It is a sight to treasure.”
“Indeed,” said Dandolo, nothing loath.
As the aged Venetian gazed upwards at the exterior of the dome, the Captain of the Guard removed a length of finely-woven rope from his sleeve. The bristled cord had two large knots tied a finger’s distance apart, with a great deal of slack on both ends. At Strophantes’ nod, the imperial guard coiled the slack over the backs of his hands, wrapping again and again until the two knots were held taut and secure between his two fists.
Dandolo had no indication anything was amiss until the cord was passing over his head. At once he pressed forward, only to find his arms pinioned to his sides by others of the imperial guard. Still he leaned his face forward, protecting his throat from the garotte. At first he believed he had succeeded, for the cord descended no further than his nose. But then, with serpent-like speed, the cord was pulled taut against his face and he perceived the intent of those two knots. He was not to be killed. He was to be blinded.
Dandolo squeezed his eyes shut, even as the Captain of the Guard yanked back, pressing his knuckles against the back of Dandolo’s head. The two large knots sank into the flesh around the Venetian’s eyes. Soon it would not matter if his lids were open or closed. The pressure alone would turn the balls of his eyes into a pulpy mass.
“Do not struggle so,” said Strophantes from not far away. “You are blessed. The Emperor could have ordered this punishment before you laid eyes on the Holiest of Holy Palaces.”
The pressure was tremendous, causing a spasm of colorful lights inside Dandolo’s lids. But in spite of the weight of his sixty-six years on earth, Enrico Dandolo was not yet feeble. A part of the invading naval force just the year before, his appointment there had not been wholly political. What at first glance appeared to be fat was truly muscle, thick and built-upon in one field of battle after another.
The mistake was made by the men holding his arms. They still bore their halberds in their off hands, meaning only one hand grasped each elbow. His age and stature deceived them so much that a single twist of his powerful shoulders he shrugged free of them. Intantly he propelled himself backwards, on top of his assailant. Plucking the cord from his eyes he found he could not see through a dim cloud of tears. He had only moments before they pinned him again, and this time the violence would be worse. Though his eyes were not pulped, they were useless to him. But he remembered that the Imperial road was to his left, while the water lay to his right. Running sightlessly towards the lap of the water, he tripped over the edge of the cliff, falling sightlessly to the water below.
