The general's gaze was returned by the monk's blue-eyed glare. A crooked little smile came to Belisarius' lips.

"You might want to keep him hooded, Bishop, before he slaughters your doves."

Cassian laughed. "Oh, well said! Belisarius, let me introduce you to Michael of Macedonia."

Belisarius cocked an eyebrow. "An odd companion at this hour—or at any hour, from his reputation."

Belisarius stepped forward and extended his hand. The Bishop immediately shook it. The monk did not. But, as Belisarius kept the hand outstretched, Michael began to consider. Outstretched the hand was, and outstretched it remained. A large hand, well shaped and sinewy; a hand which showed not the slightest tremor as the long seconds passed. But it was not the hand which, finally, decided the man of God. It was the calmness of the brown eyes, which went so oddly with the youthful face. Like dark stones, worn smooth in a stream.

Michael decided, and took the hand.

A small commotion made them turn. In the doorway stood a woman, yawning, dressed in a robe. She was very short, and lush figured.

Michael had been told she was comely, for a woman of her years, but now he saw the telling was a lie. The woman was as beautiful as rain in the morning, and her years were the richness of the water itself.

Her beauty repelled him. Not, as it might another holy man, for recalling the ancient Eve. No, it repelled him, simply, because he was a contrary man. And he was so, because he had found all his life that what men said was good, was not; what they said was true, was false; and what they said was beautiful, was hideous.

Then, the woman's eyes caught him. Eyes as green as the first shoots of spring. Bright, clear eyes in a dusky face, framed by ebony hair.