Maximilianus was no doubt here to report on the progress of the baths, which had been delayed by the winter rains and sickness among the labourers. Some of the others were my clients, and had come simply out of courtesy. But what was the Christian Patriarch of the city doing here?
Sylvester waited with surprising patience, a wiry little man with a fringe of fading reddish hair around his tonsure, clad in a plain white tunic and cloak. The only mark of rank he bore was the large cross that lay upon his breast, which was fashioned of gold. It was the young priest who had escorted him who fidgeted and muttered at the delay.
If some of the others were unhappy with the speed with which I dealt with their petitions, they did not dare to say so, and by the time an hour had passed, only Sylvester remained to be heard.
“My Lord Bishop, I am certain that only a matter of great moment could have brought you to me on such a day. Yet I am an old woman, and not accustomed to fasting. So that you may have leisure in which to set forth your business will you share my midday meal?”
I could see amusement flickering in his eyes, but he assented with a gravity equal to my own. Bishop Ossius had become one of Constantine’s most trusted advisors, but I had never warmed to him. Sylvester seemed different. I found myself curious to know more of this priest who was the heir of the Apostle Petrus and Patriarch of the See of Rome.
After Cunoarda had sent the younger priest off to eat in the kitchens, Sylvester and I were escorted to the triclinium. I saw him gazing around at the marble facings of the lower walls and the paintings above and felt a certain embarassment, even though the scenes portrayed were of nymphs and shepherds from the romance of Daphnis and Chloe, and innocent enough.
“I apologize for the grandeur, and the chill,” I said as I motioned him to take the couch on the other side of the brazier. In the large room the two of us seemed like a pair of peas in a large bowl. “I never eat in here when I am alone, but my household would be mortified if I told them to serve us in my little sitting room.”
“We are all at the mercy of our servants,” answered Sylvester. “My housekeeper bullies me mercilessly.”
“If there is anything you may not eat, you must let me know,” I said a little nervously, and saw him smile.
“It is not a fast day, and in any case the holy Petrus himself once said that it is not what goes into a man’s mouth, but what comes out of it that defiles him.”
“Very true,” I agreed, but nonetheless I whispered to Cunoarda to instruct the cook to prepare something simple.
I do not know whether it was my order or respect for the Patriarch that compelled him, but in a while we were served with barley broth and a dish of lentils and cow-parsnips along with our eggs and bread and cheese. The Bishop’s appetite was good, and I wondered suddenly if this was his first meal of the day.
“So,” I said, when we had taken the edge off our hunger and were sipping hot spiced wine, “what is it that you want of me?”
“Are you so certain that I have come as a petitioner?”
“You are too busy a man to make this journey yourself if a mere message or a delegate would do.”
“It is true,” Sylvester said with a sigh. “The need is great, or I would not have come to you. You may have heard that there is sickness in the city, but perhaps you do not realize how bad it has become. This is not one of the fevers that strikes us every summer, but something new, in which the victim coughts up blood or chokes to death on his own phlegm. Some are saying it is a precursor of the Final Days, and have lain down upon their beds to wait for Our Lord to come, but I think that it is only another trial to test us.”