Gunnar seemed especially fascinated with the cross. Passing beneath the centre of the dome, I felt a touch at my shoulder and looked round to see the stout barbarian staring straight up at a golden mosaic of the largest cross I have ever seen. "His sign," Gunnar whispered, in a voice made small with awe. "It is everywhere."
"Yes," I answered, and explained that the cross was revered even as far away as Eire, the furthest limit of the empire. "Although the cross of the Byzantines is slightly different from the cross of the Celts, and that of the Romans is different again, yet they all honour the self-same sacrifice made by the Lord Christ for all men."
"So much gold," remarked Gunnar. Tolar nodded sagely.
Didimus led us to the left side of the nave where a free-standing panel had been erected to hold a number of large images painted on flat wooden boards. These icons bore the images of Christ, and various apostles and saints, which the people of Byzantium especially venerated. Before the panel, which Didimus called the iconostasis, rose a series of boards in stepped ranks which held the candles placed there by the worshippers. Taking his candles, Didimus lit one from those already burning, and placed it in one of the few empty holes in the plank. He stood for a moment rocking slightly back and forth, before taking a bit of the incense and sprinkling it over the flame. The incense struck the flame with a puff of fragrant smoke.
"There," he said, turning to us, "I have sent a prayer through Elijah that Holy Jesu will give me your shrewdness, and I have sent one through Barnabas that God will give me your barbarian friend's strength."
I conveyed these words to Gunnar, who appeared much impressed with this procedure. He held out his hand to Didimus for one of the candles. While Tolar and I watched in amazement, Gunnar lit the candle and performed the little rocking motion in imitation of the boatman. I wondered what had moved him to pray-and what he said-but thought it uncouth to ask.
Both Gunnar and Tolar were dazed by the grandeur of the church-especially the extravagant use of gold and silver throughout, which continually amazed them. It is no exaggeration to say that the gleam and glitter of these rare metals everywhere meet the eye, especially as one approaches the sanctuary-to which Didimus led us next. Rising from the floor is a circular platform, the ambo, reached by two flights of wide, low stairs to the right and left. The ambo is surrounded by a series of pillars with gilded capitals which support a shelf bearing a multitude of lamps and crosses-some silver, some gold, and many adorned with pearls and gems.
"We can go no further," Didimus explained once we had pushed our way to the edge of the platform. "No one but churchmen and high officials are allowed beyond the ambo."
"In Eire," I said, "anyone can come to the altar. It is God's table and all are welcome."
The little boatman looked at me curiously, as if he had never heard of anything so peculiar. "The choir stands there," he continued. "On high days there is always a choir." Pointing beyond the ambo he indicated a sort of raised walkway. "That is the solea," he told me, "it is used by the priests and emperor when approaching the altar. The chancel screen is solid silver-so they say."
The chancel was enclosed on three sides by an open lattice-work screen of gleaming white, radiant in the light of all the lamps and candles. The chancel screen had a series of columns which supported a low parapet on which stood a number of priests and court officials, all dressed in the colours of their kind: priests in white robes, courtiers in red and black. The columns and parapet were faced in silver, and the light of candles and lamps hanging down allowed the eye to feast on the rich metalwork: images of the Christ, and the Virgin, prophets, saints, angels, seraphim, and imperial monograms.
The chancel with its screen and parapet formed an inner sanctuary for the altar standing just beyond. The worshippers were not allowed beyond the ambo and solea, but the parapet was fairly low, and the altar was raised, making it easy for the gathered congregation to view the ceremony taking place at the altar.
The altar was of rose-pink marble, surrounded by a sort of tent of gold. "That is the ciborium," Didimus said when I asked him. "The stone comes from Damascus," he said, paused, and added, "or Athens."
The fabric of the tent-like shelter was wefted with threads of gold, and sewn with jewels-ruby, emerald, topaz, and sapphire-arranged in patterns. The light of all the lamps and candles, and the sunlight streaming down from the windholes above, struck the ciborium and suffused the altar with a heavenly glow. The entire sanctuary seemed to radiate pure, golden light, bathing and engulfing not only the altar, but those attending it, too.
