"If that is what you want, of course." Together we left the Great Palace, and made our way down from the walled precinct, slipping through one of the small gates close to the Hippodrome. We followed a narrow, twisted, high-walled pathway behind that enormous edifice and emerged onto a wide, tree-lined street. "This is the Mese," Justin told me. "It is the longest street in the world, and it begins there at the Milion." He pointed to a tall, free-standing column set in a square a short distance away.
"Where does it end?"
"At the Forum in Rome," he said grandly. "This way; my church is not far."
Turning west, we walked along the wide street which was, he told me, the city's chief ceremonial route. "All the emperors and armies march along the Mese and go out through the Golden Gate when they leave on campaigns. And, whether in triumph or defeat, they return the same way."
The Mese swarmed with people in the cool evening-as if, having finished work for the day, the entire population of the city was now making its way home-most of them carrying the items for a simple supper: a loaf of bread, a few eggs, an onion or two, and oily packets of spiced olives. The more fortunate, however, might pause and enjoy a meal at one of the innumerable eating and drinking places lining the Mese-tabernas, Justin called them. These could be recognized by the bright-coloured standards with names painted on them-names like House of Bacchus, The Green Charioteer, or Leaping Lark. Statues of Greek and Roman gods stood outside most of these tabernas, along with smouldering braziers on tripods.
If the sight of glowing charcoal on a chilly night was not enough to draw hungry people in, the owners of the eating places stood beside their braziers, cooking meat on spits and imploring passersby to stop and avail themselves of the hospitality offered. "Come in, come in," they would call. "My friend, it is warm inside. The wine is good here. Tonight we have roast pork and figs. You will love this food. Come in now; there is room just for you."
The aroma from the braziers and that of the unseen kitchens combined to form waves of scent, lush and dense, which ebbed and flowed about us as we made our way down the longest street in all the world. After passing a number of these tabernas, my mouth began to water and my stomach to growl.
Justin, however, seemed impervious to both the aroma of the food and the pleas of the taberna men. Ignoring all but the path before us, he pushed on. We passed a magnificent church-the Church of the Sacred Martyrs, Justin informed me-and all at once, the bells began. First just one, probably from Saint Sophia's, which was followed quickly by another from a church further off, and then another, and still others, near and far, until the whole of Constantinople rang with the sound. Even to one long accustomed to the tolling of the daily round, I could but marvel at this multitude of chimes: bells of every tone from high, clear-voiced celestials, to deep-toned earthshakers. From every corner of the city came the blessed sound-a boon of peace at the close of day.
We turned onto a narrow street and joined a throng making its way to the church at the end of the packed-earth path. The doors of the church were open and candlelight spilled out onto the street and onto the heads of those crowding through the doorway. "This is the Church of Saint Euthymi and Saint Nicholas, where I worship. There are many more beautiful churches, but few more crowded."
We waded into the press at the door and squeezed in to find places next to one of the pillars. Candles blazed in every corner, and lamps hung from elaborate iron grids suspended above the heads of the crowd. Indeed, there were so many people packed together so tightly, that I could hear but little of what the priests said. Even so, I know there were numerous prayers and I recognized the reading as coming from the Gospel of Saint Luke.
In this, it was very like one of the services performed at the abbey, but the similarity ended when the worshippers began to sing. Their song was unlike any I have ever heard. I do not know how this music was achieved, but it seemed to fill the entire church with a buoyant, uplifting sound of many parts which somehow blended and united to form a single voice of admirable strength. I was considerably moved and impressed, and felt a longing in my heart for the monks of Cenannus na Rig. DeDanaan's children rejoice in the best voices of any in the world, and I would have given much indeed to hear them attempt this new way of singing.
Aside from the music, the worship was, as I say, much the same as I had known before-except for the fact that, instead of kneeling or prostrating themselves for prayer, the people stood upright; and instead of clasping their hands, they lifted them up. Also, the priests used far more incense than we would have allowed at the abbey. Indeed, they seemed intent on filling the church with clouds of fragrant smoke.
