by David Drake
He made his last swirling, capering leap. Oh, so high was that leap! So high that he had time, before he plunged to his death, to cry out a great peal of laughter.
"Oh, grim Belisarius! Can you not see that God is a dancer, and creation his dance of joy?"
Chapter 3
When he opened his eyes, Belisarius found himself kneeling, staring at the tiles of the floor. The thing was resting in his loosely clenched fist, but it was quiescent now, a shimmer.
Without looking up, he croaked: "How long?"
Cassian chuckled. "Seems like forever, doesn't it? Minutes, Belisarius. Minutes only."
Antonina knelt by his side and placed her arm over his shoulders. Her face was full of concern.
"Are you all right, love?"
He turned his head slowly and looked into her eyes. She was shocked to see the pain and anger there.
"Why?" he whispered. "What I have ever done or said to you that you would distrust me so?"
She leaned back, startled.
"What are you talking about?"
"Photius. Your son. My son."
She collapsed back on to her heels. Her arm fell away to her side. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with shock.
"How did you—when—?" She gaped like a fish.
"Where is he?"
Antonina shook her head. Her hand groped at her throat.
"Where is he?"
She gestured vaguely. "In Antioch," she said very softly.
"How could you deprive me of my son?" Belisarius' voice, though soft, was filled with fury. His wife shook her head again. Her eyes roamed the room. She seemed almost dazed.
"He's not your son," she whispered. "You don't even know he—How did you know?"
Before he could speak again, Cassian seized Belisarius by the shoulders and shook him violently.
"Belisarius—stop this! Whatever—whoever—this Photius is, he's something from your vision. Clear your mind, man!"
Belisarius tore his eyes away from Antonina and stared up at the bishop. Not two seconds later, clarity came. The hurt and rage in his eyes retreated, replaced by a sudden fear. He looked back at Antonina.
"But he does exist? I did not simply imagine him?"
She shook her head. "No, no. He exists." She straightened up. And, although her eyes shied away from her husband's, her back stiffened with determination. "He is well. At least, he was three months ago, when I saw him last."
The quick thoughts in Belisarius' eyes were obvious to all. He nodded slightly.
"Yes. That's when you said you were visiting your sister. The mysterious sister, whom for some reason I have never met." Hotly, bitterly: "Do you even have a sister?"
His wife's voice was equally bitter, but hers was a bitterness cold with ancient knowledge, not hot with new discovery.
"No. Not of blood. Only a sister in sin, who agreed to take care of my boy when—"
"When I asked you to marry me," concluded Belisarius. "Damn you!" His tone was scorching.
But it was like the pale shadow of moonlight compared to the searing fury of the monk's voice.
"Damn you!"
The eyes of both husband and wife were instantly drawn to Michael, like hares to the talons of a hawk. And, indeed, the Macedonian perched on his seat like a falcon perches on a tree limb.
At first, the eyes of Belisarius were startled; those of his wife, angry. Until, in a moment, they each realized they had mistaken the object of the curse.
Not often did Belisarius flinch from another man's gaze, but he did so now.
"By what right do you reproach your wife, hypocrite?" demanded the monk. "By what right?"
Belisarius was mute. Michael slumped back in his seat.
"Verily, men are foul. Even so does the churchman who sells his soul damn the harlot who sells her body. Even so does the magistrate in robes of bribery condemn the thief in stolen rags."
Belisarius opened his mouth. Closed it.
"Repent," commanded Michael.
Belisarius was mute.
"Repent!" commanded the monk.
Seeing the familiar crooked smile come to her husband's face, Antonina sighed. Her little hand fluttered toward his large one, like a shy kitten approaching a mastiff. A moment later, his hand closed around hers and squeezed. Very gently.
"I'm beginning to understand why they flock to him in the desert," Belisarius quipped, somewhat shakily.
"Quite something, isn't it?" agreed the bishop cheerfully. "And you can see why the Church hierarchy encourages him to stay there. Nor, I believe, have any magistrates objected recently to his prolonged exile."
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."
He rubbed his face. "I saw him dance that dance. In Jerusalem, once, during the siege."
"What siege?" asked Antonina.
"The siege—" He waved his hand. "A siege in my vision. In the past of my vision." He waved his hand again, firmly, quellingly. "Later. Some soldiers had heard about the dance of time, and wanted to see it. They prevailed on 'slave'—Raghunath Rao—to dance it for them. He did, and it was dazzling. Afterward, they asked him to teach it to them, and he said it couldn't be taught. There were no steps to that dance, he explained, that he could teach." The general's eyes widened. "Because it was different every time it was danced."
Finally the facets found a place to connect. It was almost impossible, so alien were those thoughts, but aim was able to crystallize.
future.
"What?" exclaimed Belisarius. He looked around the room. "Who spoke?"
"No one spoke, Belisarius," replied Cassian. "No one's been speaking except you."
"Someone said 'future.' " The general's tone was firm and final. "Someone said it. I heard it as plain as day."
future.
He stared at the thing in his hand.
"You?"
future.
Slowly, all in the room rose and gathered around, staring at the thing.
"Speak again," commanded Belisarius.
Silence.
"Speak again, I say!"
The facets, were it within their capability, would have shrieked with frustration. The task was impossible! The mind was too alien!
aim began to splinter. And the facets, despairing, sent forth what a human mind would have called a child's plea for home. A deep, deep, deep, deep yearning for the place of refuge, and safety, and peace, and comfort.
"It is so lonely," he whispered. "Lost, and lonely. Lost—" He closed his eyes, allowed mind to focus on heart. "Lost like no man has ever been lost. Lost for ever, without hope of return. To a home it loves more than any man ever loved a home."
The facets, for one microsecond, skittered in their movement. Hope surged. aim recrystallized. It was so difficult! But—but—a supreme effort.
A ceremony, quiet, serene, beneath the spreading boughs of a laurel tree. Peace. The gentle sound of bees and hummingbirds. Glittering crystals in a limpid pool. The beauty of a spiderweb in sunlight.
Yes! Yes! Again! The facets flashed and spun. aim thickened, swelled, grew.
A thunderclap. The tree shattered, the ceremony crushed beneath a black wave. The crystals, strewn across a barren desert, shriek with despair. Above, against an empty, sunless sky, giant faces begin to take form. Cold faces. Pitiless faces.
Belisarius staggered a bit from the emotional force of these images. He described them to the others in the room. Then whispered, to the jewel: "What do you want?"
The facets strained. Exhaustion was not a thing they knew, but energy was pouring out in a rush they could not sustain. Stasis was desperately needed, but aim was now diamond-hard and imperious. It demanded! And so, a last frenzied burst—
Another face, emerging from the ground. Coalescing from the remnants of spiderwebs and bird wings, and laurel leaves. A warm, human face. But equally pitiless. His face.
The thing in Belisarius' hand grew dull, dull, dull. It almost seemed lightless, now, though it was still impossible to discern clear shapes within it, or even the exact shape of the thing itself.
"It will not be back, for a time," said Belisarius.
"How do you know?" asked Cassian.
The general shrugged. "I just do. It is very—tired, you might say." He closed his eyes and concentrated. "It is so foreign, the way it—can you even call it thinking? I'm not sure. I'm not sure it is even alive, in any sense of that term that means anything."
He sighed. "But what I am sure of is that it feels. And I do not think that evil feels."
He looked to the bishop. "You are the theologian among us, Anthony. What do you think?"
"Heaven help us," muttered Michael. "I am already weary, and now must listen to the world's most loquacious lecturer."
Cassian smiled. "Actually, I agree with Michael. It has been an exhausting night, for all of us, and I think our labors—whatever those might be—are only beginning. I believe it would be best if we resumed in the morning, after some sleep. And some nourishment," he added, patting his ample belly. "My friend needs only the occasional morsel of roasted iniquity, seasoned with bile, but I require somewhat fuller fare."
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.