"No," she said, her conviction faltering.

"Yes. You will do this, and then you will tell me where you have placed the note. The rest will be for me to manage. You need not be concerned with any of it." He leaned against her, taking delight in her terror. "Think of how you will benefit once Belisarius is fallen completely and Antonina is dead. You will be recognized for your service."

"I do not want such recognition," Eugenia insisted.

"Perhaps not now, when you are caught up in the danger. But once it is over, you will change your mind. You will be proud to say you helped in unmasking a traitor. The Censor will show you favor, and that is to your advantage, isn't it?" He seized her and kissed her hard.

She pushed against him trying to break his hold. "I don't want you to touch me."

"It doesn't matter what you want," he said simply. "You will do as I order or you will suffer for it."

"I suffer for it already," she said, her mouth set.

"Really?" With one hand he ruffled her hair, destroying its smooth order. "Is all this so terrible? Do I make things so difficult for you? Do I?"

She did not answer, but the loathing in her eyes was eloquent and for the time being, it satisfied Simones.

* * *

Text of a letter from Drosos to Chrysanthos, never delivered.

To my comrade-at-arms and, I hope, my friend, I send my apologies and belated greetings.

I have not set out to avoid you, Chrysanthos, though you have good reason to think that might be my intention. I know I ought to have explained to you, but I have not been able to discuss the things that you and I endured in Alexandria. I do not want to be reminded, and it is unforgivable in me that because of my cowardice I have not been willing to speak with you since that would remind me of all that transpired.

You are being posted to the frontier, or so I've been told. That's been happening to most of Belisarius' officers, hasn't it? At least you are not one of those who has disappeared forever and whose names are not spoken except when one is very private or very drunk. I hope that you will have the opportunity to show your valor and to convince the Censor and the Emperor that you are worthy of their good opinion. You have always had mine, but that means less and less every day, and never meant much.

Those bleak days in Alexandria you did more for me than I had any right to expect, and for that I am truly and deeply grateful. I have not said it, and I might not say it again, but I want you to know that all you did made my stay there a bearable torture. If it weren't for you, I might have forgot all they have taught us about sin and opened a vein or run on my sword like an old Roman.

That is one of the reasons I can almost envy you: you are going to have the opportunity to fight again, and in battle there is always the chance of a spear in the side or an arrow in the belly or a sword through the neck. I used to think that the greatest challenge, and now I see it differently; I see the release it would bring. I haven't been able to confess this to my pope, though to be honest, I haven't tried or wanted to. I would never be able to make a pope understand why I feel the shame I do, or why I seek to be rid of myself. All that is sin, and admitting it places me among the damned. But I knew that already. I knew that as I watched the Library burn.

The Emperor was wrong to order it. For whatever reason, he demanded a deed that was worse than blasphemy. It may be that he truly believes that it was a triumph of faith, and possibly it was that. I cannot grasp it, and no matter how I try, I can see no reason for it that balances what was lost. So now, on top of my heresy, I am speaking treason. Perhaps you had better not read this, or I had better not send this. I would burn it, but I have had too much of burning already. If I forget myself and send this to you, I suggest you burn it for your own protection. Or you can take it to an officer of the Court Censor, and then Kimon Athanatadies can have a chance to persuade me I am in error. If only someone could. If only I could convince myself that I have not enough comprehension and that what I see as a failing really is a magnificent accomplishment.

The souls of the books haunt me. They are like ghosts who cry in the night, and I hear them, so many, many voices, all lost and wandering. That sounds like the words of a madman, doesn't it? It may be that I am mad, and have not realized it yet. If I am mad, then does that mean I am condemned to live with those pitiful voices for the rest of my life?

Pay no attention to me, Chrysanthos. There is no reason for you to have to listen to more of this; you already suffered more than your share of this maudlin self-recrimination I have indulged in since I carried out my orders. And after all, the decision was not mine, it was the decision of Justinian to do away with the books. I was nothing more than his instrument and by rights I have no responsibility in the act, as you had none. It is just that I saw the books and the flames that consumed them and I have become sentimental about them. I do not castigate myself for the men I maimed and killed in battle, or for the peasants that starved because my troops took the last of their chickens to keep from starving themselves. There is no sensible reason to be so distressed over the scribblings on tablets and parchment and papyrus and paper. I have indulged in useless and apostatic whining long enough and I must have exhausted your patience and the bonds of our friendship long since.

I pray you have a worthy campaign and that you gain the glory and advancement you have so long deserved, and that any stigma that remains from your association with Belisar-ius or with me is at last removed so that you can be recognized as the superior officer you are. Do not hesitate to disavow your ties to me if that will aid you. I do not want to hinder you in any way, for you have done more than I might reasonably expect of a friend and fellow-officer. And I no longer deserve the loyalty you have given so unstintingly.

When I hear from you again, if I ever do, I trust it will be to learn that you are at last given full field command and the rights and grants that go with that promotion. Never did a true soldier earn it more completely than you have. If it would not compromise you, I would offer an official commendation, but since the Emperor recalled me, a good word from me is the same as the kiss of the plague. So perhaps you may regard this letter as a private thanks and appreciation from an officer who is no longer in a position to express such things.

If I have not wholly disgraced myself, or if there truly is a merciful God in Heaven, I might be given the chance to expiate my sins on campaign again. The Saints know I would welcome it. Let me be a Captain. I do not want higher command. Let me fight and restore some of the honor I have lost, if that is possible.

You are good to let me carry on this way. You have already heard most of it. So, perhaps, I will not send this after all. There is nothing here that is new to you and there is no reason you should have to endure this again.

Still, I will sign it with my good wishes and affection and respect.

Drosos

Captain

5

Long seclusion had leeched the deep tan from Belisarius' skin and now he looked almost as pale as a pope or a metropolitan who spent his life in religious devotions. His eyes were exhausted but he moved restlessly as he led the way from his vestibule to the one reception room that opened onto his garden.

"I am relieved that you came," he said to Olivia when the formalities had been observed. "I have not been able to get any response from the Censor regarding the items that were taken from your house. For the last month the only comment they will give me about you is that the Censor has not yet made up his mind. I have no means to demand more from him."

"You have done what you can, and more than I have any right to expect," said Olivia, wishing she could say more safely. On her arrival she had been warned that there were many spies in his household; she would have to guard her tongue.

"It ought to be more," said Belisarius, his frown deepening making furrows in his face. "It shames me that I am unable to do more."

"There is no reason it should," Olivia told him frankly. "I am a foreigner here, and a woman. That the Censor does not choose to act is not surprising. There are other more pressing cases requiring his attention, I am certain." She looked up as a slave brought refreshments into the room. "Thank you, I will take nothing."

"You never do," Belisarius complained with a smile.

"If things were different I might be offended. Under the circumstances, I admire your prudence."

Olivia laughed sadly. "It isn't that I fear what you serve. You have no earthly reason to poison me. But there are things that cause me upset, and I wish to avoid them. You have known others with antipathies to certain foods, and I am afraid I am one such." There was, she added to herself, one thing only that nourished her and lately it had been difficult to acquire.

"You've told me that before," he said, making the most of the conversation while the slave was still in the room. "I am sorry, incidentally, that my wife is not feeling well enough to join us. Her malady continues. I had hoped she would recover but that hope is—" He could not finish.

"Before I leave, I would like to call upon her, if that is all right with her. It has been almost three months since I had the pleasure of speaking with Antonina and I would like to have a little time with her."