Standing behind the elders, the representatives of the young grenadiers and their wives murmured excitedly. An annual income of twenty nomismata—the Greek term for the solidus—was twice the income of a Syrian peasant household. A prosperous household. The extra ten nomismata were more than enough to cover a soldier’s gear. With the wives’ stipends included, each peasant family enrolling in the Cohort had just, in effect, tripled their average income.
The elders stroked their beards, calculating.
“What of the children?” asked one.
Antonina spoke.
“The children will accompany the Cohort itself. The Empress has also agreed to provide for the hire of whatever servants are necessary.”
That announcement brought another gratified hum from the grenadiers. And especially from their wives.
“In battle, of course, the children will be held back, in the safety of the camp.”
“The camp will not be safe, if they are defeated,” pointed out an elder.
One of the grenadiers in the back finally lost patience.
“The villages will not be safe, if we are defeated!” he snarled. His fellows growled their agreement. So did their wives.
The elders stroked their beards. Calculating.
They tried a new approach.
“It is unseemly, to have a woman in command.” The elder who uttered those words glared back at the peasant wives.
“The girls will start giving themselves airs,” he predicted.
To prove his point, several of the wives made faces at him. To his greater chagrin, their husbands laughed.
“You see?” he complained. “Already they—”
The Empress began to cut him off, but her voice was overridden by another.
“Damn you for Satan’s fools!”
The entire crowd was stunned into silence by that voice.
“He does that so well, don’t you think?” murmured Cassian.
The Voice stalked into the room from a door to the side.
The elders shrank back. The young grenadiers behind them, and their wives, bowed their heads. Even Theodora, seated high on her throne, found it hard not to bend before that figure.
That hawk. That desert bird of prey.
Michael of Macedonia thrust his beak into the face of the complaining elder.
“You are wiser than Christ, then?” he demanded. “More certain of God’s will than his very Son?”
The elder trembled with fear. As well he might. In the stretches of the Monophysite Syrian countryside, the rulings of orthodox councils meant nothing. Even the tongs and instruments of inquisitors were scorned. But nobody scoffed at holy men. The ascetic monks of the desert, in the eyes of common folk, were the true saints of God. Spoke with God’s own voice.
Michael of Macedonia had but to say the word, and the elder’s own villagers would stone him.
When Michael finally transferred his pitiless eyes away, the elder almost collapsed from relief.
His fellows, now, shrank from that raptor gaze.
“You are on the very lip of the Pit,” said Michael. Softly, but his words penetrated every corner of the room. “Be silent.”
He turned, faced the grenadiers and their wives.
“I give these young men my blessing,” he announced. “And my blessing to their wives, as well. Especially to their wives, for they have just proved themselves the most faithful of women.”
He stared back at the elders. Stonily:
“You will so inform the people. In all the villages. Publicly.”
The elders’ heads bobbed like corks in a shaken tub.
“You will inform them of something else, as well,” he commanded. The monk now faced the Empress, and Antonina standing by her side.
He prostrated himself. Behind him, the peasants gasped.
“God in Heaven,” whispered Cassian into Antonina’s ear, “he’s never done that in his life.” The Bishop was almost gasping himself. “It’s why he’s refused all the many invitations to Constantinople. He’d have to prostrate himself before the Emperor, or stand in open rebellion.”
Michael rose. The peasants’ murmurs died down.
“I have had a vision,” he announced.
Utter silence, now.
The monk pointed to the Empress. Then, to Antonina.
“God has sent them to us, as he sent Mary Magdalene.”
He turned, and began leaving. Halfway to the door, he stopped and bestowed a last gaze upon the elders.
The hawk, promising the hares:
“Beware, Pharisees.”
He was gone.
Sittas puffed out his cheeks.