Michael considered, and knew again that men lied.

"You were right, Anthony," he said harshly. He staggered slightly, betrayed by his weak limbs. A moment later the woman was at his side, assisting him to a couch.

"Michael of Macedonia, no less," she said softly, in a humorous tone. "I am honored. Though I hope, for your sake, you were not seen entering. At this hour—well! My reputation is a tatter, anyway. But yours!"

"All reputation is folly," said Michael. "Folly fed by pride, which is worse still."

"Cheerful fellow, isn't he?" asked Cassian lightly. "My oldest and closest friend, though I sometimes wonder why."

He shook his head whimsically. "Look at us. He, with his shaggy mane and starveling body; me, with my properly groomed beard and—well. Slender, I am not." A grin. "Though, for all my rotundity, let it be noted that I, at least, can still move about on my own two legs."

Michael smiled, faintly. "Anthony has always been fond of boasting. Fortunately, he is also clever. A dull-witted Cassian would find nothing to boast about. But he can always find something, buried beneath the world's notice, like a mole ferreting out worms."

Belisarius and Antonina laughed.

"A quick-witted Stylite!" cried the general. "My day is made, even before the sun rises."

Suddenly solemn, Cassian shook his head.

"I fear not, Belisarius. Quite the contrary. We did not come here to bring you sunshine, but to bring you a sign of nightfall."

"Show him," commanded Michael.

The bishop reached into his cassock and withdrew the thing. He held it forth in his outstretched hand.

Belisarius stooped slightly to examine the thing. His eyes remained calm. No expression could be seen on his face.

Antonina, on the other hand, gasped and drew back.

"Witchcraft!"