An Oblique Approach

"How could you deprive me of my son?" Belisarius' voice, though soft, was filled with fury. His wife shook her head again. Her eyes roamed the room. She seemed almost dazed.

"He's not your son," she whispered. "You don't even know he— How did you know?"

Before he could speak again, Cassian seized Belisarius by the shoulders and shook him violently.

"Belisarius—stop this! Whatever—whoever—this Photius is, he's something from your vision. Clear your mind, man!"

Belisarius tore his eyes away from Antonina and stared up at the bishop. Not two seconds later, clarity came. The hurt and rage in his eyes retreated, replaced by a sudden fear. He looked back at Antonina.

"But he does exist? I did not simply imagine him?"

She shook her head. "No, no. He exists." She straightened up. And, although her eyes shied away from her husband's, her back stiffened with determination. "He is well. At least, he was three months ago, when I saw him last."

The quick thoughts in Belisarius' eyes were obvious to all. He nodded slightly.

"Yes. That's when you said you were visiting your sister. The mysterious sister, whom for some reason I have never met." Hotly, bitterly: "Do you even have a sister?"

His wife's voice was equally bitter, but hers was a bitterness cold with ancient knowledge, not hot with new discovery.

"No. Not of blood. Only a sister in sin, who agreed to take care of my boy when—"

"When I asked you to marry me," concluded Belisarius. "Damn you!" His tone was scorching.

But it was like the pale shadow of moonlight compared to the searing fury of the monk's voice.

"Damn you!"

The eyes of both husband and wife were instantly drawn to Michael, like hares to the talons of a hawk. And, indeed, the Macedonian perched on his seat like a falcon perches on a tree limb.

At first, the eyes of Belisarius were startled; those of his wife, angry. Until, in a moment, they each realized they had mistaken the object of the curse.

Not often did Belisarius flinch from another man's gaze, but he did so now.

"By what right do you reproach your wife, hypocrite?" demanded the monk. "By what right?"

Belisarius was mute. Michael slumped back in his seat.

"Verily, men are foul. Even so does the churchman who sells his soul damn the harlot who sells her body. Even so does the magistrate in robes of bribery condemn the thief in stolen rags."

Belisarius opened his mouth. Closed it.

"Repent," commanded Michael.

Belisarius was mute.

"Repent!" commanded the monk.

Seeing the familiar crooked smile come to her husband's face, Antonina sighed. Her little hand fluttered toward his large one, like a shy kitten approaching a mastiff. A moment later, his hand closed around hers and squeezed. Very gently.

"I'm beginning to understand why they flock to him in the desert," Belisarius quipped, somewhat shakily.

"Quite something, isn't it?" agreed the bishop cheerfully. "And you can see why the Church hierarchy encourages him to stay there. Nor, I believe, have any magistrates objected recently to his prolonged exile."

He cocked an eye at the Macedonian.

"I trust, Michael, that your remark concerning churchmen was not aimed at anyone present."

Michael snorted contemptuously. "Do not play with me." He glanced at the bishop's frayed coat. "If you have turned to simony since our last encounter, you are singularly inept at it. And of this I am certain: if the subtlest Greek of all Greek theologians, Anthony Cassian, ever sold his soul to the Devil, all creation would hear Satan's wail when he discovered he'd been cheated."

Laughter filled the room. When it died down, the bishop gazed fondly upon Belisarius and Antonina. Then said:

"Later, you will need to discuss this matter of Photius. May I suggest you begin with an assumption of good motives. I have always found that method reliable." A smile. "Even in theological debate, where it is, I admit, rarely true."

Michael snorted again. "Rarely true? Say better: as rare as—" He subsided, sighing. "Never mind. We do not have time for me to waste assuring you that present company is excluded from every remark I could make concerning churchmen." Gloomily: "The remarks alone would require a full month. And I am a terse man."

The Macedonian leaned forward and pointed to the thing in Belisarius' hand.

"Tell us," he commanded.

When Belisarius was finished, Michael leaned back in his chair and nodded.

"As I thought. It is not a thing of Satan's. Whence it comes, I know not. But not from the Pit."

"The foreigner—the dancer—was not Christian," said Antonina, uncertainly. "A heathen of some sort. Perhaps—not of Satan, but some ancient evil sorcery."

"No." Belisarius' voice was firm. "It is not possible. He was the finest man I ever knew. And he was not a heathen. He was—how can I say it? Not a Christian, no. But this much I know for certain: were all Christians possessed of that man's soul, we should long since have attained the millenium."