Chapter Thirty-Five (Patreon)

Palladius had not always been his name. He had been born to the name Pyotr Ivanovich Kafarov, son of Archpriest Ivan Grigorievich Kafarov and Irina Mironova. His childhood had been a pleasant one. His father served as Dean of the Chistopol district, a moderately wealthy farming area. With his father’s position–collecting taxes, ensuring local churches kept to the faith, and spreading word of any edicts from the bishop, the archbishop, and the Most Holy Synod–the family never needed to fear a lack of food. They ate meat once a day, and cheese and fresh milk were frequent luxuries. Young Pyotr’s clothes had been made from good wool or linen, finer than the coarse-woven robes of the local serfs.

At the age of ten Pyotr’s future career was set. He accompanied his father on his rounds and watched with amazement how the overburdened serfs seemed to relax and smile as his father spoke of the next life. He saw how parents grew teary-eyed when his father blessed their infants. In his contented life Pyotr had taken hope for granted. Now he saw what it looked like give hope to those who had nothing, and much desired to do so himself. Soon he was enrolled in Chistopol’s theological school.

He learned much of religion and God in school. He learned about the world from his mentor, the fallen monk Hyacinth. Soon after graduation he travelled to Siberia, eager to participate in the 12th Spiritual Mission to Peking. Alas, war emerged. The young Tsarevich, despite his good works for the poor, remained a temporal prince with all that entailed. Still, Palladius decided to continue upon his holy task. He had followed the army. Seeing that the soldiers themselves were well-attended to, Palladius spent his time with the locals.

As the army moved through Manchuria they had attracted a number of camp followers. Travelling brothels, greengrocers, cooks, washerwomen, tailors, and cobblers made up the bulk of them. Palladius worked alongside them. He carried buckets of water for the stewpots, helped pull carts out of the mud, translated for merchants, and used the weight of his cassock to defend the whores from greedy soldiers and moralization alike, for did Christ not speak to the High Priests and say, “Assuredly I say to you that tax collectors and harlots enter the Kingdom of God before you.” Did Christ not allow a prostitute to wash his feet, and say unto Simon the Pharisee, “Her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loved much?”

By the time the army reached Mukden Palladius found himself the camp follower’s liaison, speaking on their behalf to Polycarp (the Archimandate who was to lead the 12th Spiritual Mission) the Tsarevich, and the army’s leaders. The Tsarevich did not show much care to the camp followers, but neither did he dismiss their concerns out of hand. So long as the issues could be resolved in a manner that did not hamper his campaign, the Tsarevich supported Palladius’ efforts.

The campaign ended. The camp followers dispersed, most returning home rather than following the army through the tough mountain passes. And Palladius, who had been dubbed the “Bishop of Whores and Chinamen” by General Igirov, was made Mukden’s spiritual leader. By the end of the year his title was solidified: Palladius was now an Archbishop.

Quite frankly he was still trying to figure out how it happened. It had been a year and a half since word came of his appointment. Palladius was yet to don a mitre besides his plain linen wrap. He wore the same cross of silver-lined wood that his father gave him as a graduation present. His cassocks were wool in winter and linen in summer. Even the epitrachelion–a long piece of white fabric embroidered with silver crosses that hung from his neck and fell across his body–felt strange, but at least his father had worn that as well.

Palladius knew he was young for his post. At twenty-four he ought to be the Archimandate’s assistant, helping with his papers and research. Yet life is what it was, and perfection could only be found in the Kingdom of Heaven. To reach that lofty place Palladius could not ignore the opportunities given. As the Book of James says, “If you really fulfill the royal law according to Scripture, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself,’ you do well.”

So it was that His Eminence Palladius, Archbishop of Mukden, met the Tsarevich of Russia while praying beside a man who lost his hand for theft.

*

Palladius centered himself as he poured tea from the samovar. Though he would rather be with his parishioners, either praying or learning more of their culture, certain sacrifices were required by the rank he now bore. “How do you prefer it?” Palladius asked.

“Strong,” the Tsarevich replied.

Palladius acted accordingly. He poured a large section of the steamed tea concentrate, filling the cup a fifth of the way. The rest was filled with water, still boiling hot, from the samovar’s bottom spigot. As Palladius poured himself a cup–only a tenth of it the steamed concentrate–the Tsarevich reached for the platter between them. A slice of lemon was squeezed into his tea. Palladius followed suit, though he also mixed in raspberry jam.

The Tsarevich sipped his tea. He stopped. “Chinese or Korean?” he asked.

“Korean,” Palladius answered. “From Jeju Island, I believe.”

The Tsarevich nodded and went back to his tea. What he meant by that nod Palladius had no idea, and instead took a sip of his own tea. It was perfect, as always. The supply of fresh tea was perhaps the greatest benefit of the Mukden-Busan railway.

“You have decided to build a hospital.”

“Yes, your Imperial Highness,” Palladius agreed. He kept his face calm–as much as he could manage. “While we Christians are defined by faith, I believe our evangelism is strongest when those who have yet to accept Christ see the good works put forth by his followers.”

“I agree.” The Tsarevich took another sip of tea. “I also agree with your decision to allow ancestral veneration.”

Palladius felt his shoulders relax. The Tsarevich was not here to condemn him.

“That will not be the opinion of the Synod.”

Immediately Palladius’ tension returned. “The Most Holy Synod–”

“Is dominated by Nationalists and Panslavists,” the Tsarevich interjected. “They do not realize what monsters their appeals to tribal instinct will create. They will learn, but until that date they will oppose you.” The Tsarevich took another sip of tea. “Fortunately there is little they can do in the East.”

“Your Imperial Highness?” Palladius asked. The Tsarevich was powerful, but he was not yet the Tsar.

“I will handle the politics.” The Tsarevich met him with those unsettling blue eyes. “You will continue your work. I would recommend a correspondence with the current Bishop of Verkhneudinsk–he shares your opinion regarding local customs.”

Palladius had no objection to that, though he wondered why the Tsarevich would offer introductions between a pair of bishops.

For a moment they said nothing, drinking their tea. The Tsarevich’s eyes roamed Palladius’ walls. Though largely plain, there were a number of paintings he had commissioned from Manchurian and Korean artists, as well as the samovar itself.

“The hospital is quite large,” the Tsarevich suddenly noted.

“The current plans allow for two thousand treatment beds and four hundred rooms for long-term care,” Palladius said. “If needed the number of beds can be expanded to five thousand.”

“An impressive facility. One worthy of Manchuria’s crown jewel.” The Tsarevich fixed him with a steady stare. “Are you funds sufficient for the project?”

“Yes, your Imperial Highness,” Palladius answered. The government’s donation to the Cathedral was astronomical, apparently of the belief that Mukden’s new house of worship ought to be built entirely from gold and silver worked by the finest artisans imported from Paris. Palladius preferred to work with local men and materials, though the architect insisted upon the marble facing. The interior–always the costliest part of a truly magnificent building–was being decorated by local artists. The tower they currently sat in was no exception, its tall domed ceiling being transformed into a magnificent caisson that, rather than the traditional dragon motifs, depicted the Savior’s life from birth to resurrection and ascension.

“What do you think of the palace?”

There was only one palace the Tsarevich could be referring to. The Palace of Mukden. Thousands of workers had been engaged in destruction, construction, and renovation for the last two years and had yet to scratch the surface of what was intended for the old Qing residence. It was the only building–perhaps even the only project–that managed to outspend the new cathedral and hospital. It was an enormous expense, a monumental work of art, a grandiose project–there were countless words for the ongoing construction. Considering it was personally approved by the Tsarevich–and that he was involved enough to fire the previous architect for embezzlement–Palladius would need to pick his words carefully.

Palladius eyed the Tsarevich. The Heir’s face was flat, his eyes cold and sharp. Palladius got nothing. “It will be magnificent,” Palladius said, hedging his bets.

“You do not believe it an extravagance?”

Palladius gulped. “It could be called such,” he said, herding his thoughts into order with the determination of a sheepdog, “yet there is a use for great things. A symbol of Russian rule in the Far East is not without its uses.”

“Even at the price of twelve million rubles.” The sentence was so calmly delivered it took Palladius a moment to process the words. When he did he nearly fainted.

“Let us speak of more practical things,” the Tsarevich said. For a moment Palladius thought he could see some sort of satisfaction in the Tsarevich’s eyes before it was snuffed out. “How goes the construction of local churches?”