‘And you feel,’ said Valerius, ‘that the proposal of the Rhodian is deficient in this regard? Really?’ The question was pointed.
The Patriarch hesitated. The Emperor had an unsettling habit of posing such blunt queries, cutting past detail to the larger issue. The fact was, the charcoal sketches of the proposed mosaic were astonishing. There really was no other simple word for it, or none that came to the Patriarch’s mind at this late hour.
Well, one other word: humbling.
That was good he thought. Wasn’t it? The dome crowned a sanctuary- a house-meant to honour the god, as a palace housed and exalted a mortal ruler. The god’s exaltation ought to be greater, for the Emperor was merely his Regent upon earth. Jad’s messenger was the last voice they heard when they died: Uncrown, the lord of Emperors awaits you now.
For worshippers to feel awe, sweep, immense power above them .. .
‘The design is remarkable,’ Zakarios said frankly-it was risky to be less than direct with Valerius. He settled his fingers in his lap. ‘It is also . . . disturbing. Do we want the faithful to be uneasy in the god’s house?’
‘I don’t even know where I am when I look at this,’ Maximius said plaintively, striding over to the broad table surface where Pertennius of Eubulus was standing over the drawings.
‘You are in the Traversite Palace,’ said the little architect, Artibasos, helpfully. Maximius flashed him a glance etched in rancour.
‘What do you mean?’ Zakarios asked. His principal adviser was an officious, bristling, literal-minded man, but good at what he did.
‘Well, look,’ said Maximius. ‘We are to imagine ourselves standing beneath this dome, within the Sanctuary. But lying along the … I suppose the eastern rim, the Rhodian is showing what is obviously the City . . . and he is showing the Sanctuary itself, seen from a distance …”
‘As if from the sea, yes,’ said Valerius quietly.
‘… and so we will be inside the Sanctuary but must imagine ourselves to be looking at it from a distance. It… it gives me a headache,’ concluded Maximius firmly. He touched his brow, as if to emphasize the pain. Pertennius gave him a sidelong glance.
There was a little silence again. The Emperor looked at Artibasos. The architect said, with unexpected patience, ‘He is showing us the City within a larger meaning. Sarantium, Queen of Cities, glory of the world, and in such an image the Sanctuary is present, as it must be, along with the Hippodrome, the Precinct palaces, the landward walls, the harbour, the boats in the harbour …”
‘But,’ said Maximius, a finger stabbing upwards, ‘with all respect to our glorious Emperor, Sarantium is the glory of this world, whereas the house of the god honours the worlds above the world … or should.’ He looked back at the Patriarch, as if for approval.
‘What is above it?’ the Emperor asked softly.
Maximius turned quickly. ‘My lord? I beg your . . . above?’
‘Above the City, cleric. What is there?’
Maximius swallowed.
‘Jad is, my lord Emperor,’ said Pertennius the historian, answering. The secretary’s tone was detached, the Patriarch thought, as if he’d really rather not be forced to participate in any of this. Only to chronicle it. Nonetheless, what he had said was true.
Zakarios could see the drawings from where he sat. The god was indeed above Sarantium, magnificent and majestic in his solar chariot, riding up like sunrise, straight on, unimpeachably bearded in the eastern fashion. Zakarios had half expected to protest a prettily golden western image here, but the Rhodian had not done that. Jad on this dome was dark and stern, as the eastern worshippers knew him, filling one side of the dome, nearly to the crown of it. It would be a glory if it could be achieved.
‘Jad is, indeed,’ said Valerius the Emperor. ‘The Rhodian shows our City in majesty-the New Rhodias, as Saranios named it in the beginning and intended it to be-and above it, where he must be and always is, the artisan gives us the god.’ He turned to Zakarios. ‘My lord Patriarch, what confusing message is there in this? What will a weaver or a shoemaker or a soldier beneath this image take to his heart, gazing up?’