the day was ending. Drawn by the sunset, Belisarius went to the balustrade overlooking the Bosporus. He leaned on the stone, admiring the view.
An urgent thought came from Aide.
There is more, now. More that I understand of the message from the Great Ones. I think. I am not sure.
Tell me.
They said to us—this also:
Find everything that made us.
Find passion in the virgin, purity in the whore;
Faith in the traitor, fate in the priest.
Find doubt in the prophet, decision in the slave;
Mercy in the killer, murder in the wife.
Look for wisdom in the young, and the suckling
need of age;
Look for truth in moving water; falsehood
in the stone.
See the enemy in the mirror, the friend
across the field.
Look for everything that made us.
On the ground where we were made.
Silence. Then:
Do you understand?
Belisarius smiled. Not crookedly, not at all.
Yes. Oh, yes.
I think I understand, too. I am not sure.
"Of course you understand," murmured Belisarius. "We made you. On that same ground."
Silence. Then:
You promised.
There was no reproach in that thought, now. No longer. It was the contented sound of a child, nestling its head into a father's shoulder.
You promised. ho served the throne as a secret police—dispatching squads of them throughout the Empire. Those squads assigned to the capital itself had already reported back. The results of their missions were displayed, for all to see, on the walls of the Hippodrome. Next to the spiked heads of Malwa kshatriya—hundreds of them, with Balban's occupying a central position; faction leaders; Hypatius; John of Cappadocia (and all of his bucellarii who had not managed to flee the city)—now perched the heads of three dozen churchmen, including Glycerius of Chalcedon and George Barsymes; those officers of the