Death of the Son, Episode Five: Imperatrix, Dominus, Episcopus

Death of the Son, Episode Five:

Imperatrix, Dominus, Episcopus

[Episode One; Episode Two; Episode Three; Episode Four]

When his vision cleared, he found himself outside, standing on the brow of a low hill, looking down into what he recognized as a chariot-racing course, surrounded by gleaming white marble stands larger than any he had ever seen. The stone glistened in the sunlight, nearly blinding him. 

Forcing himself to tear his eyes away, he looked around. Hosius was by his side, watching him with an expressionless face.

"I..." Theodotus was momentarily taken aback. "I did not know we would be leaving the Palace."

"You thought Helena stayed in the Palace?" Hosius seemed to consider that for a moment. His voice, when he spoke, was slower than before. "No, no...not the mother of Constantine. Her son built her a palace of her own, to the Southeast, in the gardens." He paused, seemingly lost in thought: but his eyes did not leave Theodotus' face.

"You are from the East; you know that Emperors have not stayed in Rome for centuries. Even Constantine has been here only...twice? Three times in ten years? But he has given Rome to his mother as her own." His lip twisted, seemingly involuntarily, but his face did not change otherwise. "Many have wondered at this: that Constantine, who loves his mother so deeply and so publicly, should keep her so far him--that he should wander like a soldier, from Trier to Arles, Nicomedia to Seleucia, and leave Rome, the Mother of the Empire, only to his mother."

Theodotus was finding it harder to regain his composure than he had expected, with his eyes still adjusting to the light and the grandeur of Rome before him. Also I have eaten nothing since rising, and it must be nearly noon. 

Is this a test?

But he had little time to reflect on this possibility, for Hosius was still speaking, slowly and reflectively and with the subtle intonation of an orator, a preacher: and still with his eyes fixed on Theodotus' face, ignoring the splendors of the City.

"Some say it is because of Helena's piety, because of the tombs of the Apostles and the holy virgins and martyrs. Others that it is for Helena's pride, to pay her wounded dignity back for the years of suffering and shame his father caused her. Or perhaps for her fear, to keep her far from the son who reminds her so much of that father--above all in his anger. And finally there are those who say that it is the son who is afraid, and keeps away from the mother, for what reason only those who know his heart can say. I once thought myself one of these, but now...?" He sighed suddenly, a forceful release of air, and for a moment lowered his eyes before raising them again to Theodotus.

But Theodotus' own eyes and mind had begun to adjust; and he realized abruptly that these words were not just a test: they were also a confession, like the confessions he had received from so many criminals in court. Eustathius told him I am sent by God to discover guilt; and so he is revealing his guilt to me.

"But if the son is an enigma, so too is the mother. Who can say anything about Helena that is true?" Hosius' lip twisted again, and for the first time he chuckled humorlessly. "I cannot even say where she is from. An innkeeper's daughter, they say: but from Asia? Greece? Illyria, like his father? Savage Britain? I have heard all these, but never a word from Helena herself.  Even her name is a mask: 'the Greek woman,' of whom there are hundreds in every city in the Empire. Even in Spain...and yet her statues are everywhere, in all the splendors of the first Helena, and the number of cities named after her rises with each day."

He sighed again, but this time more slowly, and sadly, not taking his eyes off the deacon at his side.

"But now her home is Rome, and she stays here, mostly, in her palace, in her gardens with the holy virgins and the priests and bishops and ascetics who visit her and pray with her. I myself have visited many times, and thought myself in a house of prayer. But now...I doubt myself...I doubt everything. Was it a house of prayer, of ascesis that I visited, or only a house of luxury in disguise? Or perhaps a refuge, for a hunted woman? Or a prison?"

Hosius' face now was no longer a neutral mask; it was openly anguished.

"It is strange, is it not? In all the times I have seen her, in all our conversations on holy things, I never thought to ask her these questions." He shook his head with decision, and his face cleared. "Eustathius is right. We bishops of these dwindling times, coddled by luxury, are so easily swayed by talk of God, cosmos and ousia, theoria and ascent. When men speak such words to us, we believe them, we think they have seen the very face of God, and we remain ignorant of all else they do, ignorant of their hearts. The Holy Martyrs of the great times knew better; they knew that in the final balance, the heart of man is a ravening wolf, and our task is to draw its teeth."

Finally, Hosius tore his eyes away, and for the first time looked down at the circus. His face, abruptly, broke into a smile.

"The circus maximus. Where Nero burned Christians alive to light his games. This is a holy city, and in it sins will not remain buried long."

All at once he was moving again, pulling the deacon after him as if by an invisible force; within a few minutes the two clerics had penetrated the walls of the Palace compound by a side door leading into a narrow alley; a little later still, and they were in a broad street filled with slaves, commoners, here and there a wagon pulled by horses or oxen. The lanes were lined with tabernae and barber shops in which lean sun-browned men in tunics talked and laugh and argued and ate porridge and fried food or merely sat and watched the passersby with open mouths and shouted comments.

All in all, it was not too different from the streets of Antioch, save for the dress of the men and the particular hum of the crowds. What amazed Theodotus was not these sights and sounds, but the easy way Hosius himself navigated them, sliding lightly around slaves staggering beneath loads, shopkeepers driving carts, dodging wheels and limbs. Every bishop I have known--even Eustathius--would have summoned a crowd of deacons to accompany him. Or would not have ventured into the public streets at all except in a carriage. They would be afraid of being noticed--or not being noticed.

Hosius, though, seemed equally regardless of both. Despite his size, despite his black tunic with crosses, he attracted no notice from most; a smaller number, mostly ragged paupers and slaves, raised their heads at the sight of him, bowing and crossing themselves, asking for blessings which Hosius dispensed matter-of-factly without greatly slackening his pace; and a few shouted theological ribaldry at him from the doors of barber shops. A small man with a long beard, perhaps a Syrian like Theodotus, cupped his hands to his mouth as they passed: "The Son is..." But the theological claim, priceless as it might have been, was lost in the crack of a broken cart axle and the shouting of its driver.

All at once, though, the noise sputtered and died, and the street was held in a silence more overwhelming, and far eerier, than the noise had been.

 Theodotus' first thought, absurdly, was: They have found me. And he found himself cowering away despite himself, searching for the shelter of a side alley, the door of a taberna, even a hole in the ground...

When he had reached the shelter of a crowded barbershop, though, his reason returned to him in a flood of shame, and he wrenched his body around, forcing himself to look for the old bishop. His first impression, he found, had been somewhat exaggerated; the noise had not died, merely lowered by several degrees; but more astonishingly, the inhabitants of the packed thoroughway were following his flight, drawing back to the sides of the road or into the alleyways less fearfully, but no less definitely, than he. 

It is just like my dreams...

A moment more, and he saw what had produced the disturbance. Down the very center of the road was marching an array of nearly fifty men, who might have been a cohort by the ease and assurance with which they kept together and drove all, men and carts alike, before them. These, though, were not soldiers in mail and helmets, but an assortment of slaves in identical black tunics and black pila and thin men in brilliant white togas. At their center, six slaves sweated and strained under the weight of an enormous covered litter, not merely a couch but almost a small house on poles, roofed and curtained in brazen gold and red. 

To his surprise, Theodotus' heart caught in his throat, and his heart beat, if anything, even harder. The Emperor...?

Again, though, his shame brought him to his senses, and he turned his eyes away from the marching column, searching with increasing desperation for Hosius. If the old man had been caught and trampled...

But the answer was even more disturbing. Hosius was not to be found in the crowds pressing to the sides of the road because he was still in the center of the road; still walking forward, more slowly but also more definitely, placing foot after foot with deliberate force, and not even looking up at the approaching column.

Is the old man blind? 

But there was decision, not blindness, in Hosius' step and clenched jaw. And after a moment, with an intake of breath, Theodotus understood: the bishop had refused to move aside.

A few moments more, and the column had reached him. A German slave did not slacken his pace, and with a contemptuous expression on his face, he raised his hand to strike--but the hand was caught by a white-togaed man behind him, and a moment later the whole column had come to a confused halt. One young man tripped over his toga, sprawling on the ground near the doorway of a taberna to the baudy laughter of those within. But after a moment, the slaves had spread themselves out in a cordon, again in an almost military manner, and the laughter was quickly checked.

Another slave was standing below the litter now, whispering through the curtain in a loud hiss that could be heard even through the hubbub around him. Then his monologue ceased, and he listened in silence: and a moment later he was moving through the crowd, whispering orders here and there, directing his fellows backwards and to the sides of the road, deploying them in an almost military formation, surrounding the litter on every sides. Only then did the litter slaves step forward, laying their burden carefully on the ground at the feet of the old bishop, who had stopped walking but remained set and still as before. There was a long silence, in which the slaves and togaed men stared at the old bishop, as if expecting him to act or speak first. Then, with a slight hesitation, the grey-haired slave in authority stepped forward, and drew back the curtain.

Inside lay an old, thin man lying on his side, his elbow propped on a cushion. He was dressed simply, in a voluminous toga with a broad purple stripe that twined itself around his body without, somehow, ever falling out of alignment; he wore neither crown nor diadem. By his appearance alone, he might have been any man walking the streets of the city; the only odd thing about him was how completely still he kept, with no part of his body or his face moving an inch. 

After a moment, he spoke, his lips barely moving.

"Be well, Your Holiness." There was another pause, in which, evidently, he expected the bishop to bow to him; when it became clear that Hosius would do no such thing, he resumed again, but without even a hint of irritation or discomfort showing in his voice.

"What, I ask, brings so revered a priest of the Christian gens into the streets of the common people?" 

He spoke in Latin, with an odd intonation, hard consonants and resonant vowels, that Theodotus had never heard before, and with archaic forms that he struggled to convert into the military Latin of his training. 

Hosius, though, did not seem confused; he still did not bow, but instead extended one hand painfully slowly towards his counterpart. "Be well also, Lord Consul. What brings so revered a noble into the streets of the common people?" 

Hosius' intonations did not precisely match the old man's, but his forms and words were equally remote from common language. He was also stiffer than Theodotus had yet seen him, even stiffer than Apollon and the other bishops in the Palace. 

The old man also did not move, and he waited several long moments before replying, his eyes not moving or even blinking as they gazed at the bishop. "The business of the Church naturally is of concern for you; and the business of the Empire is of concern for me. I go to the Palace, to consult with the First Citizen for the advantage of the Republic. But you come from the Palace, disturbing your leisure and your holy rituals; does the First Citizen send you on some errand for him, or the pontifex maximus?"

Hosius did not alter his expression a whit. "As I said, I go on no business for the Emperor. Surely if he had sent me he would have told a man such as you of it."

The old man's expression did not alter. "Perhaps he will tell me of it, if it is of importance, when I meet with him. But of course such things are not to be discussed in the public streets. It is permitted for you to go about your business for your Church, bishop; but it is fitting for me to go about mine." He raised one hand smoothly from where it lay, which after such stillness struck Theodotus like a pistol shot. The litter bearers rose equally slowly to their feet, lifting him with his panoply far above the height of the Spanish bishop.

But still, Hosius had not moved. He continued to gaze directly into the eyes of the thin old man, and his hands were at his side.

"Perhaps we will both hear of each other's business in time. And even if we do not, there is one who knows the affairs of bishops and Emperors alike; and I am about his business."

The same slave drew near again and drew the curtain around the old man. Even when the curtain closed around him, he adjusted his volume and intonation to penetrate it; and was heard one last time, behind the curtain.

"I hope that you enjoy your time away from the Palace. For so many years now, it seems, you have hardly left it. The First Citizen has greatly valued your counsel; and now, he values mine. Such changes the times bring to the customs of men. Be well, bishop."

The litter began to move forward; but still the bishop did not move. After a moment, the grey-haired slave waved his arm, and the litter adjusted its trajectory, the sea of men whirling about the old bishop like a storm of white and black snow. The bishop began walking, too, slowly and deliberately through the center of the road vacated by the litter; and as the column resumed its march, the common people returned to the road, and Theodotus with them. 

He reached Hosius' side just in time to hear him mutter, almost to himself: "Be well, Lord Consul," and then abruptly cross himself. Only then did he look around to see Theodotus, and in a moment his stiffness had left him and his broad face broken into a wry smile. 

"Do you know who that was? Or rather: do you know what that was?"

Theodotus shook his head. "I thought at first it was the Emperor, but: no, I cannot guess. Some high Imperial official, a Praetorian Prefect?"

Hosius laughed. "No, he holds no office at the moment; though doubtless he soon will. That was a Senator." He made a mock bow. "Sextus Anicius Paulinus...or at least those are some of his names." He and Theodotus were both walking again through the crowd, dodging wheels as before, but keeping closer together. "You have had dealings with curials before, I assume?"

Theodotus shrugged. "Not many...some visit the chancery at Antioch at times, but I have had none in the Episcopal Court. I have met far more in the last day than at any time before in my life."

Hosius laughed his big booming laugh, and seemed for the first time since leaving the Palace unaffectedly delighted. "A martyr who has never met a curial...Eustathius was right to send you. Curials are powerful and wealthy men, as you know, with their own codes and behaviors and gaits and endless tiresome honors: but they are nothing to the Senators. In the Imperial Senate and its families is gathered all the wealth of the whole world, and all its honors. That man"--he jerked his head back the way they had come--"has more land than a dozen curials of the provinces. Tens of thousands of slaves labor every day on his villas to provide his wine and his denarii. Gold is like water to him; but all this is nothing to the dignity of his supposed ancestry. In his mind he is sprung directly from the most ancient heroes of the Republic, Cincinnatus and Cicero and that man with the hand, masters and conquerors of the world. His life is a parade of wealth and honor, wax masks and togas and myths and gems and false gods. A pagan, as they all still are." He was breathing harder now, and Theodotus could see the anger in the red flush coming to his face. "Men like that instigated the persecution, delighted to see us suffer, delighted especially to see bishops and priests suffer. They cannot bear for anyone to have any honor denied to them. Even the Emperor..."

He sighed, and the anger left him in a moment. "With our Emperor's efforts, perhaps soon they will all be Christians. Perhaps soon they will be bishops as well. If the Lord is kind I will die before that day comes."

He eyed Theodotus with a mix of shame and amusement. "Yet you see how well I handled him, how I spoke as he did, how well I imitated his accursed pride. I have been the advisor of the Emperor, in the councils where they debate the great matters. What difference does it make if Senators become bishops if bishops become Senators?"

Theodotus did not answer; and the two men were silent for the rest of their journey.

When they reached the metal gate of Helena's private gardens, it was nearly an hour after noon, and Theodotus was annoyed to discover that he was somewhat light-headed. As a soldier, a forced march in similar conditions would hardly have winded him--and even as a deacon, he often failed to break his fast before noon, from a mix of busyness and personal distaste. But I am far from my cell now; and the events of last night and today have excited and disturbed me as few things have since the Persecution. Hosius, when he glanced over at him, also looked tired and drawn and nearly ten years older than when he had first seen him. Indeed, for the first time, Hosius looked old.

After waiting in silence for several minutes, Theodotus saw two slaves approaching, one a small, stern-looking woman with black hair, the other a suspicious looking German man. Upon seeing Hosius, the woman immediately began to open the gate--but the man at her side wrenched it shut again.

"What business brings you to the Empress' gardens?" the man's voice was harsh, his face wide, and his eyes glared at Hosius and Theodotus with equal disregard.

Before either cleric could answer, though, the woman had broken out in a loud, high-pitched voice, at the same time wrenching the gate back from the man and opening it again. "Oh, don't be foolish, it's Hosius: more to the point, it's a bishop, and you know our Lady's orders--"

"Well, he's dressed like a bishop," the man said sulkily; but he made no move to close the gate again. "In these days, when an Empress has just been murdered, there's--" But the little woman had silenced him with a glare and after a moment he moved aside, out of the path, with something like fear on his face.

"There," the woman said. "Now, you stay here and watch the gate, since you're so eager about security, and I'll take Hosius to the Empress." And with neither a bow nor a greeting, she abruptly motioned the two clerics to follow and set off down the path, her arms pumping. 

Hosius smiled a little wearily, and motioned for Theodotus to follow. "Melania. Not even to bishops does she bow, but she is a pious woman. Or..." His voice trailed off.

Despite Melania's height, both men had to struggle to keep up as she wound her way through the gardens. Theodotus' impressions grew increasingly confused, all paths and leaves and fountains and marble colonnades and statues of nymphs and satyrs with dappled green light falling across them like drops of water. A single drain in a hillside was a black hole in the dark green shadow. He could not imagine trying to find his way through it alone, let alone at night. Abruptly, an image from his childhood came to him: Theseus wandering in the labyrinth, holding only to a single thread, looking for the monster at its center. And with a glance up at the little woman before them: Here at least is the thread; but where is the monster? And with that thought, more recent memories, from his catechesis and training as a deacon, came to him: The Serpent in the garden. And the Woman. 

And amidst these gardens lives the Empress whom men have believed to be a saint. 

When they reached the mansion at last, even Theodotus was taken aback. It was certainly smaller than the imposing Palace on the Palatine, but hardly less luxurious: everywhere he looked, there were colonnades in colonnades, beautifully painted with red and gold and impressionistic scenes looking through false windows into painted gardens. Only after a few moments of observation, though, did he discover the telltale marks of more recent alteration, in the statues missing from their plinths and alcoves, others draped with dark cloth and, here and there, an incongruously blank red wall that had once surely held a scene of god or hero. Signs of devotion, of a sort.

"Greetings, Your Holiness."

With a start, Theodotus realized that his minute examination of his surroundings had neglected one crucial detail: a small, stooped man, shaven, with the skin hanging down from his face in flaps, but wearing what were unmistakeably bishops' robes, standing at the entrance to the inner house and watching them with a slight smile on his face. By his side, and equally obtrusive, was a frowning priest in black, holding a large book in his hands. 

Theodotus glanced at Hosius and was surprised to see that the bishop seemed even more surprised than he. He was gaping at the little bishop; and after a second he bowed, more deferentially than Theodotus had yet seen him, muttering as he did so through clenched teeth.

"Your Holiness! It...it is good to see you."

The little man's smile broadened a little, but his lips remained pursed. "Hosius! It is good to see you also, brother! I had hoped to have seen you long since; but I suppose that was unrealistic." His smile had turned unmistakeably in the direction of a scowl, and Hosius flinched wordlessly at Theodotus' side, as if he had been rebuked or even struck.

Theodotus himself was almost equally thunderstruck, not by the man, but by the unaccustomed behavior of the bishop at his side. Hosius showed no fear of martyrdom, and none of a Senator. Who is this that frightens him so?

The little bishops abruptly took a few steps forward and with large, deeply veined hands had grasped Hosius' shoulders and exchanged the kiss of peace with him, the larger man having to bend his head down to facilitate. 

When they parted, though, the old bishop's scowl had, if anything, deepened.

"A fine old custom, that. Tell me, from your own experience: do they still practice it in Nicomedia? Or Trier? Seleucia? Or even Cordoba?" He paused, pursing his lips even deeper. "You have been gone from your diocese a very long time, brother; there was a time that would have been the cause of a council, but I suppose those days are long past. You are busied with much more important tasks, and much more important dioceses, no doubt." Hosius again flinched, and the old man paused for a moment, as if catching his breath, before continuing.

"The time was, not so long ago--well, at least not so long ago that I cannot remember it, and I still have the canons written in my books--when bishops entering another's diocese would first ask permission before proceeding--and even in these latter days, it is usual, as I understand it from my small acquaintance, to at least present oneself to the bishop and announce your presence. But such customs are of course obsolete for those who arrive on the public cursus with the Court."

He turned abruptly on Theodotus. "And who are you? Another bishop? It is difficult to tell with the adjustments that some bishops have been making with their robes of office these days. And how many bishops there are in Rome these days! I'm afraid I've lost count, and so have my chancery--so few have even told me they were coming, and few even of those seem to ever venture out of that lovely residence on the Palatine. Do even you know how many there are, Hosius? A dozen? Two? Or have you summoned another council, perhaps, without telling me? One can hardly keep track."

Hosius raised his head abruptly and seemed about to speak--but there was a glint in the old man's eye, and after a moment the Spanish bishop thought better of it and lowered his head again, respectfully. The scene, Theodotus decided, was almost comical: a giant old man hanging his head like a schoolboy being scolded by his teacher, a tiny old man who was all but wagging his finger at him.

"All petty concerns of course, hardly worth bothering about. I of all people understand the new state of affairs in which we live. So many solidi! So much oil! So many churches! Everyone tells me they're quite splendid; and some of them, even, I am allowed to manage myself. The time was when bishops would come to Rome to see me--or at least my predecessors. But now, there is someone, or something, much more important in the City, and one can hardly expect anyone to pay any attention to the decrepit old relic housed down on the Lateran."

The old bishop stopped abruptly. Having relieved himself almost without interruption of this ironic tirade, a gentle smile returned to his face, and he looked up expectantly at Hosius, practically beaming.

"I...you are quite right, Your Holiness. I apologize, profoundly, for my...lack of consideration in not paying my respects earlier. Though..."

Hosius looked around helplessly, as if for assistance, but found only Theodotus; when he saw him, though, the resolution seemed to return to his face, and his voice rose noticeably in tone and force as he continued.

"In fact, I had intended to write to Your Holiness this very day and request an audience. Very serious events have taken place of late, and I fear that the heretical contagion is spreading unchecked, far worse than we had imagined. And as my colleague Eustathius, whose deacon I have with me, has rightly said, to whom can we turn to in these troubled times but the source-Church, the Chair of Peter?" His voice took on again the booming, rhetorical quality Theodotus had become familiar with in episcopal sermons; but the other bishop hardly looked impressed. He continued to beam benevolently up at the two of them as he replied:

"Ah, naturally, naturally...so you and your friends' plans have begun to go awry again? Or should I say more awry? It is just possible that I may have warned you about this, before the Council, but then the Chair of Peter was hardly needed; now, though...?" His voice trailed off in noticeable irritation.

Hosius did not flinch this time, but he looked if anything more embarrassed than before. "I again have no choice but to apologize. I was...I now see...you were right before the Council. About...the things on which we differed. We should have--" 

But the old bishop waved away Hosius' apology with one blue-veined hand, and a second later had rounded on Theodotus himself, taking a step towards him and laying one gnarled hand on his shoulder. Despite himself, Theodotus flinched.

"So you are Eustathius' deacon...a remarkable man, your Master, but so young...so impatient. And now occupying the revered See of Antioch, by Hosius' contrivance..." His eyes narrowed. "Why are you here? Why are the two of you visiting the Empress? What does Eustathius want with her...?"

Theodotus tried his best to turn his head, to prompt Hosius to reply in his place; but the old bishop's black eyes were still fixed on his own, and to his surprise Hosius had taken a step back, with his head bowed once again deferentially. With no choice left, Theodotus turned his eyes back toward the old bishop; this close, he could see that the man was not in reality nearly as old as he had at first appeared to be: his skin was clear, and the hand on Theodotus' shoulder was firm and unyielding in its grip. But most of all, his eyes glinted like polished obsidian, strong and unmoving: and they demanded an answer. 

Moving among bishops, he was finding, was very different from dealing with laymen in the episcopal court. I am the one on trial now...

And once that realization had been made, his only course of action was clear. How did I demand those on trial in the Episcopal Court behave? What did I make them tell me? How did I make them swear?

"I was sent by Eustathius to Rome to investigate the death of Crispus and determine who was responsible. Eustathius suspects that he was murdered at the instigation of his theological enemies. I don't know anything about that; so far all I know is that clerics were involved, and involved as well in the death of Fausta. But some have said that Helena was involved in Fausta's death as well: so we came here to question her."

He paused, and looked at the bishop questioningly. Abruptly, the old man released his grip on his shoulder, and with the flick of a wrist he had summoned the priest to his side and was hobbling his way slowly back down the path. As he passed Hosius, still standing deferentially at attention, he spoke:

"Very well, then: your apology is accepted. Send me that letter today, and we will talk tomorrow, at the Cathedral. You will find Helena inside, in the dining room. I wish you both well."

And a remarkably short amount of time later, he was gone, disappeared back into the green depths of the gardens. Like a faun or spirit. 

Hosius took a deep, shuddering breath, and turned to Theodotus. "I did not think this day could be more trying than those before..." He closed his eyes, then a moment later opened them, his face neutral again.

"I was not prepared to be taken so unawares; but Providence provided both my judgment and our cause's vindication. Sylvester respects honesty more than anything else, and he is impatient with men's follies. I would not have done so well. Have not done so well. I am grateful to you."

At the name, Theodotus started, and looked with a question in his eyes at Hosius. Hosius smiled. "Yes, that was Sylvester, the bishop of Rome. The Chair of Peter..." His eyes mutely followed the old man's track, and again he sighed. 

Theodotus was taken aback; he would never have thought to see the bishop of Rome dressed so plainly, visiting the Empress with only a single priest at his side. He spoke aloud the first thought in his mind: "He is quite like you."

Hosius smiled at that, despite himself; then his face fell, and he gestured to Theodotus to follow him. The little woman Melania, who had been standing in the background watching the scene with what could only be described as an amused grin, moved placidly ahead of them, and led the way into the house.

"Come; we must speak with Helena."