by David Drake
The sight was undoubtedly impressive. Sittas had brought a thousand noble Greek cataphracts with him to Syria, to reinforce the Roman army there. The heavily armored horsemen made the very ground rumble with their charges. And their lances struck the practice poles with extraordinary impact. Not surprising, that—the lances were being held in the underarm position, using the full weight of rider and mount to drive them home.
Sittas stood up on his stirrups, reveling in the motion.
God, how he loved stirrups. And so did the cataphracts.
But, for all his self-satisfaction, Sittas was by no means stupid. So, after a time, the smug look disappeared, replaced by a frown.
"All right, Maurice," he growled. "Spit it out."
The hecatontarch cocked a quizzical eye.
"Don't play with me, damn you!" snapped Sittas. "I know perfectly well you think this"—he waved at the charging cataphracts—"is a waste of time. Why?"
"I haven't said a word." Maurice fanned the air in front of his face, grimacing at the dust clouds thrown up by the charging lancers. What little vegetation had once grown on the barren field had long since been pounded into mush under the hooves of the heavy horses.
Sittas glowered. "I know. That's the point. You haven't made a single criticism. Not one! No criticisms—from the Maurice? Ha! You bitched at your own mother coming out of the womb—told her she wasn't doing it right."
Maurice smiled, faintly.
"And another thing. I notice that you aren't spending much time with your Thracian boys practicing lance charges. Instead, you're running them ragged with all sorts of fancy mounted archery maneuvers. So spit it out, Maurice. What gives?"
The hecatontarch's smile disappeared.
"I think the question ought to be reversed. You know things I don't, General. From Belisarius."
Sittas' expression was uncomfortable. "Well—"
Maurice waved his hand.
"I'm not complaining. And I'm not prying. If the general hasn't told me whatever it is he's keeping secret, I'm sure there's a good reason for it. But that doesn't mean I can't figure some things out for myself."
"Such as?"
"Such as—he's got a mechanical wizard living on the estate concocting God knows what kind of infernal devices. Such as—the devices, whatever they are, are obviously connected to artillery. Such as—he's always had a soft spot for artillery. Such as—he's especially been doting on infantry, lately. Before he left, he instructed me in no uncertain terms to cultivate Hermogenes."
Sittas rubbed his face. The gesture smeared the dust and sweat on his face into streaks. "So?"
Maurice snorted. "So—I have a sneaking suspicion that in a few years charging the enemy with lances is going to be a fast way to commit suicide."
"I like lance charges," grumbled Sittas. "Don't you?"
"Is that a joke? I don't like to fight in the first place. If I knew a different way to make a living, I'd do it. But as long as I'm stuck with this trade, I'd like to be good at it. That means I'd like to win battles, not lose them. And most of all, I'd like to stay alive."
Sittas' expression was glum. "Leave it to a damned Thracian hick to take all the fun out of war," he complained.
"Leave it to a damned Greek nobleman to think war's fun in the first place." For a brief moment, Maurice's face was bitterly hostile. "Do you know how many times Thrace has been ravaged by barbarians—while the Greek nobility sat and watched, safely behind the ramparts of Constantinople?"
Sittas grimaced. Maurice reined his horse around.
"So enjoy your lance charges, General. Personally, I'm rooting for Belisarius and his schemes—whatever they are. If this John of Rhodes can invent some secret weapon that fries cavalry, I'm for it. All for it. I'll gladly climb off a horse and fight on foot, if I could slaughter the next wave of barbarians that tries to plunder Thrace."
After the hecatontarch was gone, Sittas blew out his cheeks. Maurice's harsh words had irritated him, but he could not hold on to the mood. There was too much truth to those words. For all his class prejudices, Sittas was well aware of the realities of life for the vast majority of Rome's citizens. He himself had not watched the plundering of Thrace from behind Constantinople's ramparts. He himself had led charges—lance charges—against the barbarian invaders. And watched them whirl away, laughing, and strike another village the day after. And seen the results, the day after that, lumbering up with his cataphracts. Too late, as usual, to do anything but bury the corpses.
He drove his horse forward, onto the training field. Seeing him approach, his cataphracts shouted gaily. Then, seeing his face, the gaiety died.
"Enough of this lance shit!" he roared. "Draw out your bows!"
The next day, Maurice arrived back at the villa near Daras. With him, he brought Hermogenes.
Hermogenes now gloried in the exalted rank of merarch. He was in overall command of the Army of Syria's infantry. Following Belisarius' recommendations, Sittas had immediately promoted Hermogenes to that post shortly after he arrived in Syria and replaced Belisarius as commander of the Roman army.
When Maurice and Hermogenes drew up in the courtyard of the villa, Antonina and Irene emerged to greet them.
"Where's Sittas?" inquired Antonina.
"He's staying with the army," grunted Maurice, as he dismounted. "For a while, anyway. Don't know how long."
"Probably till he gets over his latest peeve," piped up Irene cheerfully. "What did you say to him this time, Maurice?"
Maurice made no reply. Hermogenes grinned and said: "I think he cast aspersions on the glory of thundering cataphracts. Probably tossed in a few words on the Greek aristocracy, too."
Maurice maintained a dignified silence.
"You're just in time for dinner," announced Antonina. "Anthony's here."
"Bishop Cassian?" asked Hermogenes. "What a pleasure! I've been wanting to make his acquaintance for the longest time."
It was the first time Hermogenes had been invited to the villa since Belisarius' departure. He enjoyed the evening thoroughly, although he found the first few hours disconcerting. Conversation at the dinner table seemed somehow strained. On several occasions, when he pressed John of Rhodes for a progress report on his rather mysterious artillery project, Antonina or Irene would immediately interject themselves into the conversation and divert the talk elsewhere. After a while, Hermogenes realized that they did not want the subject discussed in front of their other guests.
He assumed, at first, that it was the person of the bishop who was the obstacle. Too holy a man to be affronted by such a grisly subject. So, bowing to the demands of the occasion, Hermogenes abandoned all talk of artillery projects and engaged the bishop in a discussion of religious doctrine. Hermogenes, like many Greeks from the middle classes of Byzantine society, rather fancied himself as an amateur theologian.
He found the ensuing discussion even more disconcerting. Not, be it said, because he was chagrined at finding himself outclassed. Hermogenes was by no means so swell-headed as to imagine himself the equal of the famous Bishop of Aleppo when it came to theological subtleties. It was simply that, once again, Antonina and Irene invariably interrupted whenever Hermogenes was on the verge of pinpointing the bishop's views on the Trinity. And, as before, diverted the discussion into aimless meanderings, as if they did not want the bishop's opinions aired in front of their other guests.
There came, then, the worst moment of the evening, when Hermogenes came to the sudden conclusion that he was the unwanted guest. But, after a time, that embarrassment waned. It seemed obvious, from their friendly behavior toward him, that neither Antonina nor Irene—nor certainly Maurice—viewed his presence with discomfort.
So what—?
Clarity came, finally, after the first glass of dessert wine had been enjoyed. Antonina cleared her throat and said to the general's secretary:
"Procopius, I'm afraid I'm going to need the full report on the estate's financial condition by tomorrow morning." She reache
d out and placed her fingers on the pudgy hand of the bishop sitting next to her. "Anthony wants to begin examining the records as soon as he awakens."
For a moment, it almost seemed to Hermogenes as if Antonina's fingers were sensuously caressing those of Anthony Cassian. Ridiculous.
Procopius frowned. "Tonight?" he asked plaintively.
"Yes, I'm afraid so."
Antonina's eyes flashed around the table, accompanied by an odd smile. If the thought weren't absurd, Hermogenes would have sworn that she was leering at all of the men at the table except Procopius. Her look at John of Rhodes seemed particularly lascivious. And Irene's face, now that he noticed, had a strange sort of knowing smile on it. Almost obscene, if it weren't— Ridiculous.
Procopius stared at her. His eyes grew bright, his face flushed, his lips tightened—he seemed, for all the world, like a man possessed by a secret vision.
"Of course," he said, chokingly. The secretary arose from the table, bowed stiffly, and departed the room. He glanced back, once. Hermogenes was struck by the hot glitter of his gaze.
As soon as he was gone, the atmosphere in the room seemed to change instantly. Maurice pursed his lips. Hermogenes thought the hecatontarch would have spit on the floor, if politeness hadn't restrained him. John of Rhodes blew out his cheeks and, silently, extended his cup to Irene. Grinning, Irene filled it to the brim. Antonina sighed and leaned back in her chair—then extended her own cup.
For his part, the bishop turned immediately to Hermogenes and said:
"To answer your earlier questions directly, merarch, while my own opinion on the Trinity is that of the five councils of the orthodox tradition, I also believe that there can never be a final solution to the problem. And thus I feel that any attempt to impose such a solution is, from the social and political standpoint, unwise. And, from the theological standpoint, downright impious."
"Impious?" asked Hermogenes. "Impious?"
Cassian's nod was vigorous. "Yes, young man—you heard me aright. Impious."
Hermogenes groped for words. "I've never heard anyone say—" He fell silent, taking a thoughtful sip of his wine.
Cassian smiled. "Mine is not, I admit, the common approach. But let me ask you this, Hermogenes—why is the subject of the Trinity so difficult to fathom? Why is it such an enigma?"
Hermogenes hesitated. "Well, it—I'm not a theologian, you know. But it's very complicated, everyone knows that."
"Why?"
Hermogenes frowned. "I don't understand."
"Why is it so complicated? Did it never strike you as bizarre that the Almighty should have chosen to manifest himself in such a tortuous fashion?"
Hermogenes opened his mouth, closed it; then, took a much deeper sip of wine—almost a gulp, actually. As a matter of fact, he had—now and then—puzzled over the matter. Privately. Very privately.
Cassian smiled again. "So I see. It is my belief, my dear Hermogenes, that the Lord chose to do so for the good and simple reason that He does not want men to understand the Trinity. It is a mystery, and there's the plain and simple truth of it. There is no harm, of course, in anyone who so chooses to speculate on the problem. I do so myself. But to go further, to pronounce oneself right—to go so far as to enforce your pronouncement with religious and secular authority—seems to me utterly impious. It is the sin of pride. Satan's sin."
Hermogenes was struck, even more than by Cassian's words, by the bishop's expression. That peculiar combination of gentle eyes and a mouth set like a stone. The merarch knew the bishop's towering reputation as a theologian among the Greek upper crust. And he knew, as well, that Cassian's reputation as a saintly man was even more towering among the Syrian peasantry and plebeian classes. Both of those reputations suddenly came into focus for him.
"Enough theology!" protested Irene. "I want to hear John's latest progress report on his infernal devices."
Almost gratefully, Hermogenes looked away from the bishop. John of Rhodes straightened abruptly in his chair and glared at Irene. He slammed his goblet down on the table. Fortunately, it was almost empty, so only a few winedrops spilled onto the table. But, for a moment, Hermogenes feared the goblet would break from the impact.
"There is no progress report, infernal woman! As you well know—you were present yourself, yesterday, at the latest fiasco."
Irene grinned. She looked at the bishop.
"Did you hear that, Anthony? He called me a devil! Doesn't that seem a bit excessive? I ask for your expert opinion."
Cassian smiled. "Further clarification is needed. If he called you a devil, then, yes—'twould be a tad excessive. However, John was by no means specific. `Infernal woman,' after all, could refer to any denizen of the Pit. Such as an imp. In which case, I'm afraid I would have to lend my religious authority to his words. For it is a certain truth, Irene, that you are indeed an imp."
"I didn't think there was such a thing as a female imp," retorted Irene.
The bishop's smile was positively beatific.
"Neither did I, my dear Irene, until I made your acquaintance."
Laughter erupted at the table. When it died down, Maurice spoke.
"What happened, John?"
The naval officer scowled. "I burned down the workshop, that's what happened."
"Again?"
"Yes, thank you—again!" John began to rise, but Antonina waved him down with a smile.
"Please, John! I've had too much to drink. I'll get dizzy, watching you stump around."
The naval officer subsided. After a moment, he muttered: "It's the damned naphtha, Maurice. The local stuff's crap. I need to get my hands on good quality naphtha. And for that—"
He turned to the bishop. "Isn't your friend Michael of Macedonia in Arabia now?"
The bishop shook his head. "Not any longer. He returned a few weeks ago and has taken up residence nearby. He would not have been much help to you, in any event. He was in western Arabia, among the Beni Ghassan. Western Arabia's not the best place for naphtha, you know. And, besides, I don't think—"
He coughed, fell silent.
Hermogenes was about to ask what the famous Michael of Macedonia had been doing in Arabia when he suddenly spotted both Antonina and Irene giving him an intent stare. He pressed his lips shut. A moment later, both women favored him with very slight smiles.
Something's afoot, he thought to himself. There are hidden currents here, deep ones. I think this is a very good time for a young officer to keep his mouth shut, shut, shut. No harm in listening, though.
Maurice spoke again.
"There's an Arab officer in our cavalry—well, he's half-Arab—a hecatontarch by the name of Mark. Mark of Edessa. His mother's family lives near Hira, but they're not affiliated to the Lakhmids. Bedouin stock, mostly. I'll speak to him. He might be able to arrange something."
"I'd appreciate it," said John. A moment later, the naval officer rose from the table.
"I'm to bed," he announced. "Tomorrow I've got to rebuild that damned workshop. Again."
As he left, he and Antonina exchanged smiles. There was nothing in that exchange, noted Hermogenes, beyond a comfortable friendship. He thought back on the bizarre, leering expression which had crossed Antonina's face earlier in the evening, in the presence of Procopius.
Deep currents. Coming from a hidden well called Belisarius, if I'm not mistaken. I do believe my favorite general is up to his tricks again. So. Only one question remains. How do I get in on this?
Maurice arose. "Me, too." The hecatontarch glanced at Hermogenes.
"I believe I'll stay a bit," said Hermogenes. He extended his cup to Irene. "If you would?"
Maurice left the room. Antonina yawned and stretched.
"I'd better look in on Photius. He wasn't feeling well today." She rose, patted Irene on the shoulder, and looked at Hermogenes.
"How long will you be staying?"
"Just for the night," replied Hermogenes. "I'm leaving early in the morning. I really can't be absent from the army for
long. Sittas seems to have finally gotten lance charges out of his system, and he's beginning to make noises about general maneuvers."
"Come again, when you can."
"I shall. Most certainly."
Moments later, he and Irene were alone in the room. Hermogenes and she stared at each other in silence, for some time.
He understood the meaning in her gaze. A question, really. Is this man staying at the table to seduce me? Or—
He smiled, then.
I've done some foolish things in my life. But I'm not dumb enough to try to seduce her. As my Uncle Theodosius always said: never chase women who are a lot smarter than you. You won't catch them, or, what's worse, you might.
"So, Irene. Tell me about it. As much as you can."
The next morning, Antonina arose early, to give her regards to Hermogenes before he left. As she walked out of the villa, the sun was just coming up. She found the young merarch already in the courtyard, holding his saddled horse. He was talking quietly with Irene.
Antonina was surprised to see the spymaster. As a rule, Irene viewed sunrise as a natural disaster to be avoided at all costs.
When she came up, Hermogenes smiled and bowed politely. Antonina and the merarch exchanged pleasantries, before he mounted his horse and rode off.
Antonina glanced at Irene. The spymaster yawned mightily.
"You're up early," she commented.
Irene grimaced. "No, I'm just up later than usual. I haven't slept."
She nodded toward the diminishing figure of Hermogenes, who was now passing through the gate. "He's quite a bright fellow, you know. He figured out much more than I would have expected, just from watching the people around him."
"Is that why he stayed at the table? I assumed it was because he had intentions toward you."
Irene shook her head, smiling. "Oh, no. His conduct was absolutely impeccable. Propriety incarnate. No, he wanted to join the conspiracy. Whatever it is. He doesn't care, really, as long as Belisarius is involved. A bad case of hero worship, he's got."