An Oblique Approach

Hermogenes was struck, even more than by Cassian's words, by the bishop's expression. That peculiar combination of gentle eyes and a mouth set like a stone. The merarch knew the bishop's towering reputation as a theologian among the Greek upper crust. And he knew, as well, that Cassian's reputation as a saintly man was even more towering among the Syrian peasantry and plebeian classes. Both of those reputations suddenly came into focus for him.

"Enough theology!" protested Irene. "I want to hear John's latest progress report on his infernal devices."

Almost gratefully, Hermogenes looked away from the bishop. John of Rhodes straightened abruptly in his chair and glared at Irene. He slammed his goblet down on the table. Fortunately, it was almost empty, so only a few winedrops spilled onto the table. But, for a moment, Hermogenes feared the goblet would break from the impact.

"There is no progress report, infernal woman! As you well know—you were present yourself, yesterday, at the latest fiasco."

Irene grinned. She looked at the bishop.

"Did you hear that, Anthony? He called me a devil! Doesn't that seem a bit excessive? I ask for your expert opinion."

Cassian smiled. "Further clarification is needed. If he called you a devil, then, yes—'twould be a tad excessive. However, John was by no means specific. `Infernal woman,' after all, could refer to any denizen of the Pit. Such as an imp. In which case, I'm afraid I would have to lend my religious authority to his words. For it is a certain truth, Irene, that you are indeed an imp."

"I didn't think there was such a thing as a female imp," retorted Irene.

The bishop's smile was positively beatific.

"Neither did I, my dear Irene, until I made your acquaintance."

Laughter erupted at the table. When it died down, Maurice spoke.

"What happened, John?"

The naval officer scowled. "I burned down the workshop, that's what happened."

"Again?"

"Yes, thank you—again!" John began to rise, but Antonina waved him down with a smile.

"Please, John! I've had too much to drink. I'll get dizzy, watching you stump around."

The naval officer subsided. After a moment, he muttered: "It's the damned naphtha, Maurice. The local stuff's crap. I need to get my hands on good quality naphtha. And for that—"

He turned to the bishop. "Isn't your friend Michael of Macedonia in Arabia now?"

The bishop shook his head. "Not any longer. He returned a few weeks ago and has taken up residence nearby. He would not have been much help to you, in any event. He was in western Arabia, among the Beni Ghassan. Western Arabia's not the best place for naphtha, you know. And, besides, I don't think—"

He coughed, fell silent.

Hermogenes was about to ask what the famous Michael of Macedonia had been doing in Arabia when he suddenly spotted both Antonina and Irene giving him an intent stare. He pressed his lips shut. A moment later, both women favored him with very slight smiles.

Something's afoot, he thought to himself. There are hidden currents here, deep ones. I think this is a very good time for a young officer to keep his mouth shut, shut, shut. No harm in listening, though.

Maurice spoke again.

"There's an Arab officer in our cavalry—well, he's half-Arab—a hecatontarch by the name of Mark. Mark of Edessa. His mother's family lives near Hira, but they're not affiliated to the Lakhmids. Bedouin stock, mostly. I'll speak to him. He might be able to arrange something."

"I'd appreciate it," said John. A moment later, the naval officer rose from the table.

"I'm to bed," he announced. "Tomorrow I've got to rebuild that damned workshop. Again."

As he left, he and Antonina exchanged smiles. There was nothing in that exchange, noted Hermogenes, beyond a comfortable friendship. He thought back on the bizarre, leering expression which had crossed Antonina's face earlier in the evening, in the presence of Procopius.

Deep currents. Coming from a hidden well called Belisarius, if I'm not mistaken. I do believe my favorite general is up to his tricks again. So. Only one question remains. How do I get in on this?

Maurice arose. "Me, too." The hecatontarch glanced at Hermogenes.

"I believe I'll stay a bit," said Hermogenes. He extended his cup to Irene. "If you would?"

Maurice left the room. Antonina yawned and stretched.

"I'd better look in on Photius. He wasn't feeling well today." She rose, patted Irene on the shoulder, and looked at Hermogenes.

"How long will you be staying?"