The Cruel Tutelage of Detective Heinlein
Heinlein sleeps late in his assigned accommodations – that are, frankly, magnificent. He can live permanently in this joint, if they let him. A huge bedroom, a fully stocked kitchen with a wine rack, full marble bath, and a living room. There’s a spacious deck outside double French doors overlooking Manhattan. Down the hall is a wood-paneled, University-class library. It has an “Ancient Books and Manuscripts” Section and actual ancient weapons on display.
He’s wearing a warm, butter-soft fleece jumpsuit and Adidas trainers while his clothes are out to be cleaned and pressed. Dimitrios is courteous and attentive – and brings a full breakfast to his quarters: eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice and a huge pot of gourmet coffee with more than enough cream.
Heinlein showers, grabs a fresh jumpsuit, watches cable TV for a while, then ventures to the library to get a book. Before long he’s propped up in his bed reading Byzantine East, Latin West – Two Worlds of Christendom in the Middle Ages and Renaissance by Deno J. Gianakopulos (1976).
Dimitrios asks if Heinlein is interested in attending mid-day prayers. Heinlein agrees.
On the first floor of the building is a full Byzantine Chapel, adorned with authentic Icons and candle arrays. The whole affair must’ve been imported in its totality from Greece. A majestic Iconostas – or carved wood altar curtain, elaborately painted in the Orthodox fashion faces the pews. A wooden lectern that looks like it’s hundreds of years old stands at the side of the tabernacle, just ahead of the shrine to Mary, Mother of God: The Divine Theotokos. The God-bearer.
The prayers are delivered in Russian – and Heinlein keeps up as best he can. Brother Demitrios is helpful, handing him translated prayerbook sections of each Holy selection. True to form, when prayers are offered to Mary, Our Divine Theotokos – Heinlein’s eyes well up with tears as he remembers his mother. Brother Dimitrios does not miss this detail.
The mid-day prayers last a good hour. Heinlein feels amazingly satisfied after it all. There is a wholesomeness about devoting a portion of one’s day to worshipping God. His mind feels oddly at ease. Brother Dimitrios notices his contented look in the elevator heading back up to his quarters.
“If you start to enjoy all this too much, we’re going to have to charge you rent”.
Heinlein chuckles out loud. Dimitrios isn’t carrying on like some brutish jail guard. He’s genuinely trying to be humorous and helpful – and Heinlein appreciates it. Heinlein returns to his room and buries himself in his book, Byzantine East, Latin West, sipping delicious artisanal coffee through most of the afternoon. He doesn’t miss the outside world one iota. In fact, whatever plans Father Semyon has for him, Heinlein hopes that he takes his time.
As he reclines – wrapped in a warm duvet – Heinlein muses: as prisons go, this place is the cat’s pajamas.
Heinlein rides in the elevator with Dimitrios to dinner. He’s looking forward to the vast Manhattan panorama spread before him, the assortment of great quality wines and the hearty fare. The portions of whatever’s on the menu are liberal – and a tureen or plate of seconds is nearby. The crusty whole wheat bread is almost primitive – but warm with melting butter, it is a meal by itself. They walk in as Lacas, the Chef, is placing steaming dishes on the table. The smells are a wall of sensory overload. Heinlein’s mouth starts watering even before he sits down.
Chef Lacas says something to Dimitrios in Russian. Dimitrios, looking disappointed, casually relays the message to Heinlein.
“I’m told that the Master will not be attending dinner. He was called away. Unfortunately, you will have to deal with my rather meager conversational abilities.”
“Nonsense”, Heinlein replies. “By the smells I’m taking in here, my mouth is going to be too occupied to speak – but I’m sure you’re more than up to the task of entertaining a boring cop like me.”
They both laugh and turn their attention to what Lacas is ladling out of a silver tureen onto plates before them – grilled Chorizo sausage pieces in red sauce and onions, fried green peppers and small boiled potatoes. A huge mountain of warm, crusty wheat bread is nearby with tubs of whipped butter just waiting to be smothered on it.
The smells are overwhelming. Full-bodied Italian table wine is poured for them from carafes – peasant style. Chorzio is derisively considered a “poor man’s meal”, but Heinlein and Dimitrios attack it like famished men just rescued from a desert. Heinlein is soon reveling in the fare, signaling Lacas the Chef an enthusiastic “Thumb’s Up”. The usually reserved and laconic Chef actually smiles at the gesture and waves a “Thank you” in return.
After a number of mouthfuls, Heinlein comments to Dimitrios – “We’ve got to work out a way for me to stay here for a bit longer…. how ’bout a year?”
Dimitrios laughs out loud.
“We’ll make you an Orthodox Priest in no time!”
Plate after plate – endless dips of the ladle into the tureen for more Chorizo sausage. More bread. More butter. More red wine. Another heap of salad.
Dimitrios regales Heinlein with his war stories about playing professional soccer for Serbia. The hours pass. Finally, the young men push themselves back from the table, surfeit. New York City, in all its blazing nighttime glory stretches out before them as tugboats and luxury vessels ply the waters of the Hudson River below. From this vantage, the Big Apple looks like every young man’s wet dream – a teeming, flashing road sign daring anybody with balls enough to give it a try.
“Excellent food, Lacas” Heinlein announces to the Chef. Lacas smiles sheepishly. Obviously, Lacas doesn’t expect or easily accept praise. The appreciation on his face, however, is palpable. He’s beaming.
“How ’bout brandy and cigars on the deck after evening prayers?” Dimitrios suggests, obviously hoping for a positive response.
Heinlein just flashes a smile and follows him to the Chapel.
Before long, the boys are facing off wind gusts, admiring the frigid New York skyline. They’re puffing on the latest Hipster trend: Honduran cigars – stronger and spicier than Dominicans but not as insanely expensive as Cubans. They’re each cradling a brandy snifter in a free hand.
Life is good.
“I can get used to this, Brother Dimitrios. I truly can.” Heinlein says.
Flight time from Kennedy Airport in New York to Gatwick in London is seven hours. Even the private Gulfstream G700 that Simon Magus is reclining in at this moment can’t make the trip any faster. He recalls with a smile the hours that it took to sail across the Black Sea from Constantinople to Kiev in 685 AD when the Orthodox Monks Cyril and Methodius petitioned the Byzantine Emperor for his help.
“Send the Magus!” they pleaded.
It was in the Kievan Rus Court of Rurik, that Simon Magus reunited with his friend – called by all the luminaries in attendance there, “The Roman”. He remembers Rurik directing his eyes to a dark figure in the throne room – and then gesturing to Simon. It’s all as clear as yesterday to the present-day Paulus Hook denizen called Semyon Thaumaturgus. Of course, this name, translated from the Greek, means Simon Magus. But not even the passage of centuries or the changes time has wrought can dim his glorious memories. He smiles as he savors his recollections like fine wine…..
685AD
A man gradually makes his way into the candlelight that envelopes Rurik’s seat of honor. “Man” is one way of describing him. “Human Brick Wall” is another.
He isn’t unnaturally tall – or broad – as much as he is solid. He walks slowly, with purpose and confidence born of years in the thick of battles and danger during which most of his fellow companions perish. Vandals, Saxons, Hebrews, Pirates – he’s faced them all. He’s fought his way through Carthage, Macedon, Gaul, the lands of the Celts, the Ptolemaic Kingdom of Eqypt, Thrace, Anatolia...and slayed thousands. He is an officer in the most disciplined, highly trained and battle-tested cadre of human fighters ever assembled. The Legions of Rome.
That day in Kiev, everyone knows who and what this man is: a Roman Centurion.
He is a large, powerfully built soldier – gray haired and beard stubbled. His face is pock-marked. A deep, hideous scar runs from his right eye socket down to his mouth as if he’s been splayed open on a doctor’s table. His left ear and neck are burned cherry-red. Almost melted in places. His lips are drawn tightly together, as if speaking is a gesture alien to him.
The man wears a “Paludament” – a white officers’ cloak fastened at his left shoulder with a golden Eagle badge of rank. He wears fitted animal skin “Braccae” – trousers – topped by a broad leather midriff belt or “Balteus”. An over-the-shoulder sling called a “Baldric” is suspended at his side, carrying the most fearsome, infamous edged blade ever forged: the Gladius – the short sword Rome has used to bring the known world to its knees.
There’s a blood-red tunic under his cloak, interwoven with “Lorica Hamata” or mail armor. Around his neck is a chain mail guard or “Focale”. Heavy, closed-toe sandals cover his feet against the harsh Northern climes and he wears “Greaves” – lower leg shields – strapped to his calves.
This man cradles his impressive, fully plumed officer’s helmet in the crook of his left arm as a gesture of respect to his esteemed host, Prince Rurik of the Keivan Rus.
Finally, his scarred and burned face betrays the merest whisp of a smile as he stands at attention, a stone monolith in the middle of the room. All voices become silent. He strikes his right fist into his left breast and speaks – in Latin.
“DIO GRATIAS, SIMON MAGUS!”
This is his friend. His Brother in Arms.
Cassius Gaius Longinus.
The blessed Archangel Gabriel himself assigned Longinus to be Simon’s bodyguard not long after the Centurion’s conversion. And the story of his conversion is truly Biblical.
John 19:31 KJV:
“The Jews, because it was in preparation for Passover desired that the bodies should not remain upon the Cross on the Sabbath Day, besought Pilate that their legs might be broken so that those crucified might die…then, therefore, came a soldier who pierced the side of Jesus, and forthwith came out blood and water…”
The Epistle of Barnabas, 121 AD:
“And a soldier with his spear did pierce the side of Jesus, causing blood and water to issue forth. And this flow did cover the face and eyes of the soldier, called Longinus, who cried out in pain and anguish as if he was burning.
Now this man was a Roman warrior of many campaigns and was slowly going blind after his years. All saw him fall to his knees and give thanks to God because his eyesight was at that very moment restored. And all who bore witness were amazed and greatly astonished.”
Simon awakes suddenly to thumps and mechanical noises beneath him. It’s 1:00AM New York time. The Gulstream’s landing gear is being lowered. He can see the lights of Kennedy Airport outside his window. He uses the intercom to call the rear cabin.
“Longinus…we’re landing. Get our guest ready for transfer…we should be dining at Paulus Hook within the hour. “
Simon then messages his Chef, Lacas on a secure, specially encrypted texting app.
“Have food for three prepared within the hour. Am assuming Heinlein and Dimitrios have already supped. Alert Dimitrios that both of them will be required to join us later this evening. Tell them to be ready when called. Thank you.”
Copyright, 2025 Jon Croft
www.bogironpatriot.com
www.bogironslav.com
Email: vlchek1@gmail.com
