The Macedonian snorted, but said nothing. Cassian took him by the arm.
“Come, Michael.” To Belisarius: “You will be here tomorrow?”
“Yes, of course. I was planning to return to Daras, but it can be postponed. But—”
“Stay here,” interjected Antonina. “There are many unused rooms, and bedding.”
Anthony and Michael looked at each other. Michael nodded. Antonina began bustling about to make things ready for their guests. But Cassian called her back.
“Go to bed, Antonina. Gubazes will take care of us.” He bestowed upon her and her husband a kindly but stern gaze. “The two of you have something to discuss. I think you should do so now. Tomorrow, I fear other concerns will begin to overwhelm us.”
He turned away, turned back.
“And remember my advice. In private, I will confess I share Michael’s opinion of the good will of the majority of my theological cohorts. But you are not churchmen carving points of doctrine in each other’s hides at a council. You are husband and wife, and you love each other. If you start from that point, you will arrive safely at your destination.”
In their bedchamber, husband and wife attempted to follow the bishop’s advice. But it was not easy, for all their good will. Of all the hurts lovers inflict upon each other, none are so hard to overcome as those caused by equal justice.
To Belisarius, the point that he had done nothing, never, at no time, to cause his wife’s distrust and dishonesty was paramount. It was a sharp point, keen-edged and clean, and easy to make. Nor could Antonina deny its truth. Her own point was more difficult to make, for it involved not one man and one woman, but the truth of men and women in general. That her dishonesty had been occasioned, not by a desire to consummate an advantageous marriage, but by a desire to protect a beloved husband from further disgrace, only added bitterness to the brew. For he believed her, but did not care a whit for his reputation; and she believed him, but cared deeply for the pain that his unconcern would cause him. And all this was made the worse by their difference in age. For though Belisarius was shrewd beyond his years, he was still a man in his mid-twenties, who believed in promises made. And Antonina was a woman in her mid-thirties, who had seen more promises made than she could recall, and precious few of them kept.
In the end, oddly enough, the Gordian knot was cut by a dagger. For, in the course of stalking about the room, expounding his point much like a tiger might expound the thrill of the hunt to a deer, Belisarius’ eye happened to glance at the drawer of his bed table.
He froze in his tracks. Then, slowly, walked over and opened the drawer. From within, he drew forth a dagger.
It was a truly excellent dagger. Armenian made, perfectly balanced, with a razor-sharp blade and a grip that seemed to fit his hand like a glove.
“This is the dagger I gave him,” he whispered. “This is the very one.”
Interest cut through resentment. Antonina came over and stared down at the weapon. She had seen it before, of course, and had even held it, but had never given it much thought. After a moment, uncertainly, her hand stroked her husband’s arm.
He glanced down at it, began to stiffen, and then suddenly relaxed.
“Ah, love,” he said tenderly, “let us forget the past. It can’t be untied, only cut.” He gestured with the dagger. “With this.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is the dagger of my vision, and it is proof that the vision was true. All that matters, in the end, is that I love Photius, and I would have him as our son. Let us bring him here, and we will begin from there.”
She gazed up at him, still with a trace of uncertainty.
“Truly?”
“Truly. I swear before God, wife, that I will cherish your son as my own, and that I will never reproach you for his existence.” The crooked smile. “Nor for hiding his existence.”
Now they were embracing, fiercely, and, very soon thereafter, dissolving all anger with the most ancient and reliable method known to man and woman.