An Oblique Approach by David Drake and Eric Flint

Antonina kept an experienced and vigilant eye on the familiar dance, but for the most part, she did not interfere. An occasional word to Maurice, now and then, to restrain the overenthusiastic. And when Hypatia became pregnant, she simply insisted that the father take responsibility for the child. There was some doubt on the subject, but one of the cataphracts was more than happy to marry the girl. The child might be his, after all, and besides, he wasn’t a true cataphract but just a tough kid from Thrace. What did he care for the worries of nobility?

Nor did his friends chaff him. A sweet girl was Hypatia, a man could do much worse. Who were they to fret over such things, when their general didn’t?

Long before Hypatia became pregnant, however, not six weeks after Maurice and his two companions returned from their mission, a young man was released from the care of the monks in a local monastery in Antioch. Examining his prospects in the cold light of a new day, he decided to become a beggar, and began to ply his new trade in the streets of the city. He did quite well, actually, by the (admittedly, very low) standards of the trade. And his friends (acquaintances, it might be better to say) assured him that the scars on his face gave him quite the dashing look. A pity, of course, that he couldn’t dash. Not without knees.

Chapter 4

“So what do we conclude?” asked Belisarius.

Cassian pursed his lips. He pointed to the thing in the general’s hand.

“Has there been—?”

Belisarius shook his head. “No. I don’t think there will be, for some time. Not much, at least.”

“Why not?”

“It’s—hard to explain.” He shrugged slightly. “Don’t ask me how I know. I just do. The—jewel, let’s call it—is very weary.”

Antonina spoke up:

“What were your own visions, Anthony? You did not speak of them yesterday.”

The bishop looked up. His pudgy face looked almost haggard.

“I do not remember them very well. My visions—and Michael’s even more so—had none of the clarity and precision of your husband’s. I sensed at the time that the—the jewel—would fit Belisarius much better. I cannot explain how I knew that, but I did.”

He straightened his back, took a deep breath.

“I saw only a vast ocean of despair, mute beneath a—a church, can you call it?—that was the essence of godlessness. A church so foul that the world’s most barbarous pagans would reject it without a thought, and find in their savage rituals a cathedral of pity compared to that monstrosity of the spirit.”

His face was pale. He wiped it with a plump hand.

“I saw myself, I think. I am not sure. I think it was me, squatting in a cell, naked.” He managed a croaking laugh. “Much thinner, I was!” A sigh. “I was awaiting the Question, with a strange eagerness. I would die beneath their instruments soon, for I would not give them the answer they demanded. I would refuse to interpret scripture as a blessing for the slaughter of the innocent. And I was satisfied, for I believed in the truth of my faith and I knew I would not yield to the agony because I had—”

He gasped, his eyes widened. “Yes! Yes—it was me! I remember now! I knew I would have the strength to resist the torment because I had the image of my friend Michael always before me. Michael, and his unyielding death, and his great curse upon Satan from the flames of the stake.”

He looked at the Macedonian and wept gentle tears. “All my life I have thanked God that Michael of Macedonia has been my friend since boyhood. And never more than on that day of final hopelessness. On my own, I am not certain I would have had the courage I needed.”

“Ridiculous.” As ever, Michael’s voice carried the finality of stone.

The emaciated monk leaned forward in his chair, fixing the bishop with his gaze.

“Hear me now, Bishop of Aleppo. There is no pain on earth, nor torment in hell, that could ever break the soul of Anthony Cassian. Never doubt it.”