Eric Flint - An Oblique Approach

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 reached 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?