Harris - False Ambassador

FALSE AMBASSADOR

Christopher Harris was born in London in 1951. After studying art he had a vast array of different jobs before returning to university to take a degree in biology and teach science. He now lives in Birmingham with his wife, a university lecturer, and writes full-time. Christopher Harris is the author of the acclaimed Byzantine trilogy: Theodore (2000), False Ambassador (2001), amd Memoirs of a Byzantine Eunuch (2002).

In Mappamundi (2009) he continues the story of Thomas Deerham, begun in False Ambassador, taking Thomas to the New World.

Christopher Harris is currently writing a novel about Pelagius, a British heretic.

it portrays the young Theodore as curious, sensual and very human, anxious to understand what exactly constitutes enlightenment, assailed by religious doubts and constantly at odds with the frequent irrational beliefs of the religious men surrounding him. The greatest strength of Harris novel is the clear and simple presentation of its often complex moral ideas. Ultimately, this is a novel of curious decency, simply and movingly written by a first-time author of real promise.

Christopher Fowler in the Independent on Sunday

Theodore of Tarsus who became Archbishop of Canterbury in 668 was a significant figure in ecclesiastical history, and his story is told in this well researched first-person novel .. what follows is an interesting account of the homosexual saints life during strange and turbulent times.

Andrew Crumey in Scotland on Sunday

At its heart, however, Theodore is a beautiful and poignant love story, examining the passion between twin souls a love too intense to remain chaste. The author challenges us to consider that while Christianity owes a lot to such love, it will never acknowledge the debt.

Murrough OBrien in The Daily Telegraph

The headline Archbishop of Canterbury in Gay Sex Shock may be every tabloid editors dream, but, in the seventh century, it was a reality, at least according to Christopher Harriss first novel. However speculative the premise, Harriss research is impeccable and he displays remarkable organisational abilities in chronicling the life of Theodore, first as a clerk in the service of Emperor Heraclius, then as archbishop at the worlds misty northern edge. The theological debates on the nature of the incarnation are somewhat fusty, but the scenes of war and episcopal intrigue are vividly described. Despite the novels lack of an authentic sounding voice, its very modernity underlines its relevance for the self-deceptions within todays Church.

Michael Arditti in The Times

Theodore, described as the heretical memoirs of a gay priest, was 7th in The Guardians Top Ten Paperback Originals for January 2000.

These fictional memoirs of Theodore of Tarsus, a homosexual priest with heretical tendencies who became Archbishop of Canterbury in the 7th century, will appeal to admirers of Memoirs of a Gnostic Dwarf.

The Gay Times

the author is adept at evoking the feeling of the time, from the strange world of the Cappodocian monks and the hollow grandeur of Constantinople, to the decay of Rome and the squalor of England. The author explores Theodores humanity and faith by depicting him as a homosexual, giving the book a philosophical twist that well matches the uncertainty of his times.

Roger White in Heritage Learning

While we wait for the historical Theodore to emerge from the labours of professional scholarship, we have the Theodore of Christopher Harris ambitious and wide-ranging novel to educate and entertain us.

Catherine Holmes in The Anglo-Hellenic Review

This is Harris first novel and Dedalus, an innovative and imaginative small publishing house, are to be commended for finding a new author of such talent and storytelling skill. This book was a pleasure to read.

Towse Harrison in The Historical Novel Society Review

As we neared Venice, Brother Lodovico had a chest brought up from the hold. We had all seen it before, but not its contents. It was large, and iron-bound, and it took four men to heave it through the hatch, and two to slide it along the deck. When it stood before him, Lodovico produced a key from the folds of his habit, unlocked the chest, and reached into it. He pulled out a long gown of flimsy muslin, looked at it, shook his head sadly, then dropped it back in the chest. Then he tugged out a short jacket of figured silk, then a long brocade coat, then a fur hat trimmed with a feather. He dropped those on the deck, muttering to himself.

The dozen men who lounged on deck left aside their cards and dice, or nudged each other awake, pointing at the friar. Soon we were all watching. He called back the men who had brought up the trunk, and had them upend it, tipping its contents onto the deck. A rich cascade of slithering silk, soft velvet, striped cotton, flowered satin and stiff, white linen spread about the friars callused feet, joined by tumbling hats, slippers, belts and boots.

Ambassadors! he said, looking up at us at last. It is time to get ready.

We gathered round, looking, curiously but without enthusiasm, at the heap of gaudy clothing.

You know your characters, Lodovico said. You know your countries and the kings and princes you represent. Now you must dress like the men you are supposed to be. And remember! The rulers of the West will not take kindly to impostors. We must convince, all of us!

There was a murmur from the men, but whether of agreement or dissent, I could not tell. Lodovico stooped, and reached into the pile.

This is the sort of thing, he said, lifting an embroidered robe and holding it against his grey habit. Anything fancy will make you look Eastern. We held back. He waved the robe. Come on! Dress yourselves! Do you want the Venetians to see you for what you are?

A few men shuffled forward and began to inspect the clothes. They tugged garments from the pile and held them up, feeling the rich fabrics. Some of them smiled, remembering, perhaps, the adage that a man is made what he is by the clothes he wears. By putting on those clothes they would make themselves better than they were. With luck, there might be no need to return to what they had been. A few of them discarded their own ragged and travel-stained clothes, and stood naked, or nearly so.

Wait! Lodovico said. Ambassadors should not smell like goats. You had better wash yourselves before dressing. He called for buckets to be lowered over the side, and watched while the men sluiced each other then dried off, shivering in the breeze. Pay particular attention to your hands, he said. They will be seen, and you should not look as though you have done manual work.

I looked at my hands. They were scarred and grazed, with knobbly, swollen joints. Some of the marks were war wounds, which need not dishonour an ambassador, but much of the damage was done by the hard labour I did at Constantinople.

After washing, the Trapezuntine, who was at least Greek, put on some loose trousers and struggled into a tight silk coat with wide red and green stripes. His friend, representing Sinope, was a huge man with a full black beard. He put on a similar coat, which would not button up, and added a red hat, domed and trimmed with fur. The Trapezuntine snatched up an even grander hat, garnished with fluttering pheasant feathers. They capered and twirled, each mocking the others pretensions, while Lodovico scowled.

You may look the part, he said. But you cannot play it. Ambassadors are grave men, they do not mince or prance!