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.”
All stared at Belisarius. The general shook his head.
“You must understand. I can only tell you the shell of the vision. I lived it, and the whole life that went before it.”
He stared blankly at the wall. “For thirty years he served me. As I told you, even after I offered him his freedom. When he refused, he said simply that he had already failed, and would serve one who might succeed. But I failed also, and then—”
To everyone’s astonishment, Belisarius laughed like a child.
“Such a joy it is to finally know his name!”
The general sprang to his feet. “Raghunath Rao!” he shouted. “For thirty years I wanted to know his name. He would never tell me. He said he had no name, that he had lost it when—” A whisper. “When he failed his people.”
For a moment, the face of Belisarius was that of an old and tired man.
” ‘Call me ‘slave,’ ” he said. ‘The name is good enough.’ And that was what we called him, for three decades.” Again, he shook his head. “No, I agree with Michael. There was never any evil in that man, not a trace. Great danger, yes. I always knew he was dangerous. It was obvious. Not from anything he ever said or did, mind you. He was never violent, nor did he threaten, nor even raise his voice. Not even to the stableboys. Yet, there was not a veteran soldier who failed to understand, after watching him move, that they were in the presence of a deadly, deadly man. His age be damned. All knew it.” He chuckled. “Even the lordly cataphracts watched their tongues around him. Especially after they saw him dance.”
He laughed. “Oh, yes, he could dance! Oh, yes! The greatest dancer anyone had ever seen. He learned every dance anyone could teach him, and within a day could do it better than anyone. And his own dances were incredible. Especially—”
He stopped, gaped.
“So that’s what it was.”
“You are speaking of the dance in your vision,” said Cassian. “The one he danced at the end. The—what was it?—the dance of creation and destruction?”
Belisarius frowned. “No. Well, yes, but creation and destruction are only aspects of the dance. The dance itself is the dance of time.”