Misplaced Legion (Videssos Cycle) by Turtledove Harry

Author:Turtledove, Harry [Turtledove, Harry]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 2011-03-09T05:00:00+00:00

The tribune elbowed his way through the thick-packed crowd surrounding Phos’ High Temple. In his hand was a small roll of parchment entitling him to one of the coveted seats within the Temple itself to hear the patriarch Balsamon’s address. A priest had delivered it to the Roman barracks the day before; it was sealed with the sky-blue wax that was the prerogative of the patriarch alone.

In his outland gear, Marcus drew some hard looks from the Videssians he pushed by. A disproportionate number of them seemed to be city toughs of the sort Scaurus had seen on the day he first met Phostis Apokavkos. They did not take kindly to foreigners at the best of times, but the sight of the Roman’s blue-sealed pass was evidence enough for them that he stood high in the regard of their well-loved prelate, and he had no real trouble making headway.

Videssian soldiers at the bottom of the broad stairways leading up the Temple kept the mob from crowding rightful seatholders out of their pews. They were nonplussed to find a mercenary captain with a token of admisison, but stood aside to let him pass. At the top of the stairs a priest relieved him of his parchment and lined through his name on a roll of expected attenders. “May the words of our patriarch enlighten you,” the priest said.

“He enlightens me every time I hear him,” Marcus replied. The priest looked at him sharply, suspecting derision from this manifest unbeliever, but the Roman meant what he said. Seeing that, the priest gave a curt nod and waved him into the High Temple.

From the outside, Marcus had found the Temple rather ugly, impressive for no other reason than sheer size. He was used to the clean, spare architecture the Romans had borrowed from Greece and found the Temple’s heavy projecting buttresses clumsy, cluttered, and ponderous. Inside, though, its architects had worked a miracle, and the tribune stood spellbound, wondering if he had been suddenly whisked to the heaven Phos’ followers looked to in the life to come.

The structure’s basic plan was like that of Phos’ main temple in Imbros: at its heart was a circular worship-area, surmounted by a dome, with rows of benches projecting off in each of the cardinal directions. But Imbros’ shrine was the work of a not very gifted child when compared to this great jewel of a building.

First and most obvious, the craftsmen of the imperial capital had the advantage of far greater resources to lavish on their creation. The High Temple’s benches were not of serviceable ash but sun-blond oak, waxed and polished to glowing perfection and inset with ebony, fragrant red sandalwood, thin layers of semi-precious stones, and whole sheets of shimmering mother of pearl. Gold leaf and silver foil ran riot through the Temple, reflecting soft sheets of light into its furthest recesses. Before the central altar stood the patriarch’s throne. For Balsamon that throne alone should have made the High Temple a place of delight, for its tall back was made up of a score of relief-carved ivory panels.

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