Justinian resumed his seat. "Enough of that," he said. "There's something else I want to raise. Belisarius, I am a bit concerned about Antonina's expedition to Egypt."
The general cocked an eyebrow. "So am I!" he exclaimed. "She's my wife, you know. I'm not happy at the idea of sending her into a battle with only—"
"Nonsense!" snapped the former emperor. "The woman'll do fine, as far as any battles go. Don't underestimate her, Belisarius. Any woman that small who can slaughter half a dozen street thugs in a knife fight can handle that sorry bastard Ambrose. It's the aftermath I'm worried about. Once she's crushed this mini-rebellion, she'll be moving on. To the naval side of your campaign. What then?" He leaned forward, fixing Belisarius with his eyeless gaze.
"Who's going to keep Egypt under control?"
"You know our plans, Justinian. Hermogenes will assume command of the Army of Egypt and—"
The former Emperor snorted. "He's a soldier, man! Oh, a damned fine one, to be sure. But soldiers aren't much use, when it comes to suppressing the kind of religious fanatics who keep Egypt in a turmoil." He sighed heavily. "Trust me, Belisarius. I speak from experience. If you use a soldier to squash a monk, all you create is a martyr."
Justinian now turned to face Michael. "You're the key here, Michael. We will need your religious authority."
"And Anthony's," qualified the monk.
Justinian waved his hand impatiently. "Yes, yes, and the Patriarch's help, of course. But you are the key."
"Why?" demanded Michael.
Belisarius replied. "Because changing an empire's habits and customs—built through the centuries—will require religious fervor. A popular movement, driven by zeal and conviction. I don't disagree with Justinian, on that point. He's right—soldiers just create martyrs." He cleared his throat. "And, for the other—well, Anthony is as kindly, even saintly, a man as I ever hope to meet. The ideal Patriarch. But—"
A wintry smile came to the monk's gaunt face. "He is not given to smiting the unrighteous," concluded Michael. The Macedonian shifted position in his chair, much like a hawk sets his talons on a tree limb. "I have no such qualms, on the other hand."
"Rather the contrary," murmured Justinian.
The former Emperor smiled grimly. He quite approved of Michael of Macedonia. The Stylite monk was a holy man, which Justinian most certainly was not. Yet they shared a certainly commonality of spirit. A Thracian peasant and a Macedonian shepherd, as youths. Simple men, ultimately. And quite savage, each in their own way.
Belisarius spoke again, shaking his head. "We've already decided to send Michael's monks to Egypt, Justinian. I agree that they'll help. The fact remains, however, that without military force those monks will just wind up another brawling faction in the streets. Our military forces were already stretched—and now, I will be taking what few troops we can spare to combat the Malwa in Persia. We cannot divert those forces, Justinian, and the imperial treasury is too bare to finance the creation of a new army."
Suddenly, images flashed through Belisarius' mind.
Ranks of cavalrymen. Their weapons and armor, though well made, were simple and utilitarian. Over the armor, they wore plain tunics. White tunics, bearing red crosses. Parading through the main thoroughfare of a great city. Behind them marched foot soldiers, also wearing that simple white tunic emblazoned with a huge red cross.
The general burst into laughter.
Thank you, Aide!
He turned to Michael. "Have you chosen a name for your new religious order?"
The Macedonian grimaced. "Please, Belisarius. I did not create that order. It was created by others—"
"Inspired by your teachings," interjected Justinian.
"—and practically foisted upon me." The monk scowled. "I have no idea what to do with them. As much as anything else, I offered to send them with Antonina to Egypt because they were demanding some holy task of me and I couldn't think of anything else to do with them."
The general smiled. For all his incredible—even messianic—force of character, Michael of Macedonia was as ill-suited a man as Belisarius had ever met for the executive task of leading a coherent and disciplined religious movement.
"Someone must have brought them together," he said. "Organized them. It wasn't more than a month after you began your public sermons in the Forum of Constantine that bands of them began to appear in the streets spreading your message."
The Macedonian snorted. "Three of them, in fact. Their names are Mark of Athens, Zeno Symmachus, and Gaiseric. Zeno is an Egyptian, from the Fayum; Gaiseric, a Goth. Mark, of course, is Greek. Mark is orthodox, Zeno is a Monophysite, and Gaiseric is an Arian."
"And they get along?" asked Belisarius lightly.
Michael began to smolder, then relaxed. "Yes, Belisarius. They regard the issue of the Trinity as I do—a decoy of the Devil's, to distract men while Satan does his work." He smiled. "Not, mind you, that any room they jointly inhabit isn't occasionally filled with the sound of disputatious voices. But there is never any anger in it. They are each other's brothers, as they are mine."
"And what position do you advance, in these occasional disputes?" queried Justinian.
"You know perfectly well my position," snapped Michael.
The former emperor smiled. Justinian adored theological discussion. Other than Theodora's care, it had been the company of Michael and Patriarch Cassian which, more than anything, had enabled him to find his way through the darkness of the soul, in the months after his blinding.
"My opinion on the Trinity is orthodox, in the same way as Anthony's," stated Michael. "Though more plainly put." He snorted. "My friend Anthony Cassian is Greek, and is therefore not satisfied with simple truth until he can parse it with clever Greek syllogisms and make it dance to dialectical Greek tunes. But I am not Greek. I am Macedonian. True, we are a related people. But to the Greeks God gave his intellect, and to us he gave his common sense."
Here, a wintry smile. "This, of course, is why the great Philip of my ancestry lost his patience and decided to subdue the whole fractious lot of quarreling southron. And why his son, the Macedonian Alexander, conquered the world."
"So the Greeks could inherit it," quipped Justinian.
"Place them in charge of the order, then," said Belisarius. "And find women with similar talents. There must be some."
Michael stroked his great beard. "Yes," he said, after a moment's thought. "Two, in particular, come immediately to mind. Juliana Syagrius and Helen of Armenia."
"Juliana Syagrius?" demanded Justinian. "The widow of—?"
Michael nodded. "The very same. Not all of my followers are common folk, Justinian. Any number of them are from the nobility—although usually from the equestrian order. Juliana is the only member of the senatorial classes who has responded to my teachings. She has even offered to place her entire fortune at my disposal."
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Justinian. "She's one of the richest people in the empire!"
Michael glared. "I am well aware of that, thank you! And what am I supposed to do with it? I have lived on alms since I was a youth—a habit I have no intention of changing."
The sour look on his face made plain the monk's attitude toward wealth. He began to mutter various phrases concerning camels and the eye of a needle. Unkind phrases. Very unkind phrases, in point of fact.