Bessarion was stunned. Even in these changing shadows, it was clear in every line of his face and the angle of his head and shoulders.

“You traitor!” It was a snarl of disbelief. “What about the Church?” Bessarion demanded. “Would you also betray God?”

This was as bad as he had feared. Bessarion saw nothing of his own incompetence to lead. Why had he not seen it sooner himself? His hopes had blinded him, and now he had no choice left.

His voice shook. “We won’t save the Church if the city falls, but if we do what we plan to tomorrow, then it will.”

“Judas!” Bessarion said bitterly. He swung out wildly but stumbled when he met no resistance.

It was terrible, like killing himself, except that the alternative was unimaginably worse. And there was no time to think. Shuddering, his stomach sick, he did it, lunging at Bessarion as hard as he could. There was a splash as he hit the water, then a cry of surprise. The young man went in after him while Bessarion was still dazed. He found his head and grasped the thick, curling hair with both hands, twisting it and throwing all his weight to submerge him and hold him down under the cold, clear water.

Bessarion struggled, trying to fight upward, with nothing to stand on, against a man leaner and stronger than himself and just as willing to sacrifice everything he had for a belief.

At last the splashing ceased. Silence washed in from the shadows beyond the aisles, and the water became still again.

He crouched on the stones, sick and cold. But he was not yet finished. He forced himself to stand. Aching as if he had been beaten, he climbed back up the steps, his face wet with tears.