"May he never show himself again, not till Judgment Day," Anna said.

"Here is a question I know you will not want to answer, but I hope you will think on it," Father George said. "Who might have wanted Theodore dead?"

"Half the village," the dead man's widow said at once, "and you know it as well as I do. When Theodore and I married, he was working a miserable little plot, and we almost starved a couple of times. But he worked hard-n.o.body ever worked harder-and he always had a good eye for land that would yield increase, so he made himself a man to be reckoned with in Abrostola-even a man people had heard of in Amorion. That was plenty to make lazy people jealous of him."

The priest nodded again. Theodore had been a great ox in harness. But not everyone said such gracious things about the land deals he'd made, though Father George didn't tax Anna with that now. He already knew some of those tales; he could learn more later. In the smithy close by, Demetrios' hammer clanged on iron. George said, "I'll leave you to your mourning."

"Find the man who killed my husband," Anna said. "If you don't . . . If you don't, I'll have to go down to Amorion to see if the strategos strategos and his henchmen can help me." and his henchmen can help me."

"I understand." Father George bit the inside of his lower lip. With any luck, his luxuriant beard kept Theodore's widow from noticing. He couldn't blame her. Of course she wanted the murderer caught and punished. But if men from the capital of the Anatolic theme, men loyal to Constantine the iconoclast, started poking through Abrostola, George would have a thin time of it. The whole village would have a thin time of it, for supporting an iconophile priest. "I'll do everything I can."

Anna just waved him to the door, imperious as if she were an empress, not a peasant's widow. And George's retreat, to his own embarra.s.sment, was something close to a rout. After the gloom of candlelight inside Theodore's house, he blinked in the strong sunshine outside.

He almost ran into Kostas, who was coming toward the house. "Excuse me," he said, and got out of the farmer's way.

Kostas dipped his head. He was a lean gray wolf of a man, with hard, dark eyes and with scars on his cheeks and forearms that showed he'd done plenty of fighting against Arab raiders. "You're the man I came to see, Father George," he said. "Your wife told me you were here."

"Walk with me, then," the priest said, and Kostas did. They went past Demetrios' blacksmithery. The smith stopped hammering at whatever he was making. He raised his right hand from the tongs with which he held hot metal to the anvil to wave to the two men. Kostas nodded again. Father George waved back. As soon as Demetrios started clanking away with the hammer again, the priest gestured to Kostas. "Please, my friend-go on."

"Thanks." But Kostas didn't say anything right away. He stared at the brickwork houses of the village, some whitewashed, some plain; at their red tile roofs; at the flocks and vineyards and pasturage that lay beyond, as if he'd never seen any of them before. At last, when George was wondering if he'd have to prompt the farmer again, Kostas said, "That business between Theodore and me last year, that wasn't so much of a much, not really."

"Has anyone said it was?" Father George asked.

Kostas ignored that. "I still don't think the plot I got from Theodore was as good as the one I gave him in exchange for it, but I never even reckoned it was worth going to law about, you know. Farmers' Law says I could have, and I think I would've won, too. But n.o.body wants those nosy b.u.g.g.e.rs from Amorion mucking about here, and that's the Lord's truth."

"Seeing how things are these days, I'm glad you feel that way," George said.

Again, Kostas talked right through him: "If I wouldn't go to law over it, I wouldn't smash in Theodore's head over it, either, now would I?"

"I hope not," Father George answered. "But someone did."

"Not me," Kostas repeated, and walked, or rather loped, away. A lone wolf, sure enough A lone wolf, sure enough, the priest thought. He let out a long sigh. How many more denials would he hear over the next few days? And which villager would be lying like Ananias?

Like anyone else in the village, Father George kept a couple of pigs and some chickens. He was scattering barley for the chickens when Basil sidled up to him. Not even the chickens gave the scrawny little peasant much respect; he had to step smartly to keep them from pecking at his toes, which stuck out between the straps of his sandals.

"Good day, Basil." Father George tossed out another handful of grain.

"Same to you." Basil seemed to like the sound of the words. "Yes, same to you." He stood there watching the chickens for a minute or two, and kicked dirt at a bird that was eyeing his feet again. The hen squawked and fluttered back.

"You wanted something?" George asked.

Basil coughed and, to the priest's surprise, blushed red as a pomegranate. "You recall that business year before last, don't you? You know the business I mean."

"When you were tending Theodore's sheep?"

"That's right." Basil's head bobbed up and down. "People said I milked 'em without telling Theodore, and sold the milk and even sold off a couple of the sheep."

People said that because it was true. He'd got caught selling the milk and the sheep in the market square at Orkistos, more than ten miles northwest of Abrostola. Father George didn't bother mentioning that. With a grave nod, he said, "I remember."

"All right. All right, then," Basil said. "And after that, they gave me a good thumping and Theodore took away my wages. That's what the Farmers' Law says to do, and that's what they did. I got what they said was coming to me, and that's the end. Fair enough, right?"

"So far as I know, no one has troubled you about it since," the priest replied. No one had hired Basil as a shepherd since, either, one more thing George didn't say.

"That's true enough-so it is," the skinny peasant agreed. "But do you know what's going round the village now? Do you know?" He hopped in the air, not because a chicken was after his toes but from outrage. "They're saying I smashed in Theodore's head on account of that business, is what they're saying."

"You found him dead," Father George observed. Did you find him dead because you killed him? Did you find him dead because you killed him? he wondered. But he kept that to himself, too. he wondered. But he kept that to himself, too.

Basil dropped to his knees and clasped the priest's hand. "Not you, too!" he cried. "I couldn't've killed Theodore, not even with a club in my hand! He'd've grabbed it and thrashed me all over again. You know it, too."

"Not if you struck from behind." But George hesitated and shook his head. "No. The blow he got surely came from the front. I saw as much. I daresay he would have cried out against you, at any rate, if he saw you coming with a club in your hand."

"That's right! That's just right!" Basil said fervently. He kissed George's hand in an ecstasy of relief.

Is it? George wasn't so sure. Maybe Theodore wouldn't have taken scrawny Basil seriously till too late. But he lifted the peasant from the dirt and dusted him off. "Go your way. And stay away from sheep." George wasn't so sure. Maybe Theodore wouldn't have taken scrawny Basil seriously till too late. But he lifted the peasant from the dirt and dusted him off. "Go your way. And stay away from sheep."

"Oh, I do," Basil said. And the priest believed him. n.o.body in Abrostola let Basil near his sheep. Had Father George had sheep, he wouldn't have let Basil near them, either.

Theodore's funeral felt strange, unnatural. The procession to the burial ground outside the village seemed normal enough at first. Father George and the dead man's relatives led the way, all of them but the priest wailing and keening and beating their b.r.e.a.s.t.s. More villagers followed.

Some of them lamented, too. But others kept looking at one another. George knew what lay in their minds. It lay in his mind, too. They were wondering which of their number was a murderer. Was it someone they despised? Or was it a friend, a loved one, a brother? Only one man knew, and they were burying him.

No. Father George grimaced. Someone else knew, too: the killer himself. And he hoped to walk free, to escape human judgment. G.o.d would surely send him to h.e.l.l for eternal torment, but he must have despised that, too.

George chanted psalms over Theodore's body as it lay in the grave, to protect his soul from demons. "Let us pray that he goes from here to a better place, to paradise, to the marriage chamber of the spirit," he said, and he and the mourners and the whole crowd of villagers made the sign of the cross together.

As the funeral ended, they straggled back toward Abrostola. Behind Father George, the gravediggers shoveled the earth down onto Theodore's shrouded body. The priest sighed and shook his head. That was always such a final sound, and worse here today because some wicked man had cut short Theodore's proper span of years.

Later that day, Father George went to the dead man's house to console his widow and daughters. Anna met him at the door and gave him an earthenware cup of wine. She was dry-eyed now, dry-eyed and grim. "We are as well as we can be," she said when he asked. "I'll give you another few days to catch the killer. If you don't, I'm going down to Amorion." She sounded unbendably determined. In that, she'd been a good match for Theodore.

"I'm doing all I can, all I know how to do." George knew he sounded harried. His training was to fight sin, not crime. "If you go to Amorion ..."

"The holy images are dear to me, too," Anna said. "But justice and vengeance are dearer still."

Father George bowed his head. He had no good answer for that, and no way to stop her if she chose to go. "I'll do all I can," he repeated. He finished the wine, gave her the cup, and turned to go.

Demetrios was already hammering away again. When George walked past his house and the smithy by it, Sophia came out and stopped him. "Have you heard?" the smith's wife asked.

"I don't know," Father George said. "But I expect you'll tell me."

Sophia put her hands on her hips and c.o.c.ked her head to one side as she studied George. Her dark eyes flashed. She remained one of the prettier, and one of the livelier, women in Abrostola. Fifteen years before, she'd been the prize catch in the village, as Zoe was now. George had eyed her back before she married Demetrios. So had a lot of the young men in Abrostola. She knew it, too, and used it now, making him pay more attention to her than he would have were she plainer. "Why, the lies John's spreading, of course." Her tone was intimate, too, as if she were the priest's wife, not the smith's.

"You'd better tell me more," Father George said. "John hasn't said anything to me." That was true. It didn't mean George hadn't heard anything, though he hoped Sophia would think it did.

She tossed her head. "Oh, no. He wouldn't tell you. That's not his way. He'll put poison in other people's ears, and let them put it in yours."

"I haven't heard any poison I know of," George said.

Sophia went on as if he hadn't spoken: "The mill Demetrios built last year has been sitting idle ever since, because the water it took out of the Lalandos kept Theodore's wheatfields from getting enough."

The priest nodded. "That's what the Farmers' Law says you do if a mill takes too much water out of a river-not that the Lalandos is much of a river, especially in summertime. It's a fair law, I think."

"So do I." Sophia reached out and set a hand on his arm, a startling intimacy. "And so does Demetrios. He never said a word when he had to let it rest idle. And why should he have? We make a good living from the smithy as is." Pride rang in her voice, as Demetrios' hammer rang off hot metal.

"I'm sure you do," George said, truthfully enough: Sophia's earrings were gold, not bra.s.s, and her tunic of fine, soft wool from the sheep near Ankyra.

"Well, then-Demetrios wouldn't have any reason to hurt Theodore, and so he couldn't have." Sophia made it sound simple.

Father George wished it were. "By all the signs, n.o.body had any reason to hurt Theodore. But someone did."

"Someone certainly did," Sophia said sharply. "You might ask John about his his dealings with Theodore. Yes, you might indeed." dealings with Theodore. Yes, you might indeed."

"I intend to," George said. Sophia nodded. For a heartbeat, he thought she would kiss him. For half a heartbeat, he hoped she would. She didn't. She just turned and walked away. Shame filled him. Whosoever looketh on a woman to l.u.s.t after her hath committed adultery already with her in his heart Whosoever looketh on a woman to l.u.s.t after her hath committed adultery already with her in his heart. He repented of his sin, but he would have to do penance for it, too.

As soon as the sun rose the next day, Father George went looking for John. He wasn't astonished to discover John walking toward his house. The farmer nodded to him. Like Kostas, John was a scarred veteran. Unlike Kostas, he was actively bad-tempered. "All right," he said now, by way of greeting. "I know that miserable b.i.t.c.h Sophia's been spreading lies about me, but I don't know what kind yet. I suppose you'll tell me, though."

"You didn't think she was a miserable b.i.t.c.h before she married Demetrios," Father George said. "None of the young men did." I certainly didn't I certainly didn't. He remembered, and grimaced at, his own desirous thoughts the day before.

John dismissed that with a snort and a wave. "Just tell me what she said."

"That you were going on about Demetrios' mill, and why it's idle," the priest answered.

"By the Virgin, that's the truth," John said. "It's not like what she's she's been doing-talking about that ox of mine Theodore killed three years ago. He said it was in his field, and so he had the right, but the carca.s.s was on been doing-talking about that ox of mine Theodore killed three years ago. He said it was in his field, and so he had the right, but the carca.s.s was on my my land. Farmers' Law says he should have paid me, but he's a big sneeze here. Did I ever see a copper follis? Not me." land. Farmers' Law says he should have paid me, but he's a big sneeze here. Did I ever see a copper follis? Not me."

"Why tell me this?" George asked. "Do you want want me to think you bore a grudge?" me to think you bore a grudge?"

"Of I course I bore a grudge." John tossed his head in scorn. "Like I'm the only one in Abrostola who did." George had to nod; he'd already seen as much there. John went on, "I've had it for years. Why should I all of a sudden decide to smash in his stinking, lying head? One of these days, I'd've found a revenge to make his heart burn for years. I want to kill whoever did him in, is what I want to do, on account of now I won't get the chance." He spat in the dirt. "What do you think of that?"

"I believe you." It wasn't what Father George had intended to say, but it was true.

"All right, then. Don't waste your time coming after me. Don't waste your time at all." John stalked off, leaving the priest staring after him.

"He could have done it," Irene said that night, over a supper of hot cheese pie with leeks and mushrooms. "He could be covering his tracks."

"John? I know he could." Father George nodded to his wife. He wasn't so sure about John as he had been that morning. "But so could plenty of other people. The longer Theodore's dead, the more it seems everyone hated him."

"Who hated him enough to kill him?" Irene said. "That's the question."

"I don't know," George said unhappily. "And if I don't find out soon, Anna will go down to Amorion, and the strategos strategos or his people will come back up here, and ..." He sighed. "And Abrostola won't be the same." He didn't dwell on what would happen to him, even if the Emperor Constantine and his officials weren't kind to priests who venerated images. or his people will come back up here, and ..." He sighed. "And Abrostola won't be the same." He didn't dwell on what would happen to him, even if the Emperor Constantine and his officials weren't kind to priests who venerated images.

"It's not fair. It's not right," Irene said. Then she gave a small gasp and grabbed for their daughter, who was helping herself to cheese pie with both hands. "Wash yourself off!" she exclaimed. "You're a horrible mess."

"Mess." Maria sounded cheerful, no matter how glum her parents were. She grabbed a rag and did a three-year-old's halfhearted job of wiping herself off. "There!"

Irene shook her head. "Not good enough. See that big glob of cheese on your left hand?"

Maria looked confused. "My best hand, Mama?"

"No, your left left hand," Irene said, and cleaned it herself. The two words were close in Greek- hand," Irene said, and cleaned it herself. The two words were close in Greek-aristos and and aristeros aristeros. Aristeros Aristeros, the word for left, was a euphemism, Father George knew: in pagan days, the left side had been reckoned unlucky. He looked down at his own left hand, on which he wore a wedding ring-to him, a sign of good luck, not bad.

He stared at the ring in dawning astonishment. Then he crossed himself. And then, solemnly, he kissed his wife and daughter. Maria giggled. Irene looked as confused as Maria had a moment before, till George began to explain.

Abrostola hadn't seen such a procession since Theodore's funeral, and not since Easter before that. Father George led this one, too. Kostas and John followed him like a couple of martial saints: they both carried shields and bore swords in their right hands. Basil capered along behind them. He had a light spear, the sort a shepherd might use against wolves-not that he got much chance to herd sheep these days. Several other villagers, all armed as best they might be, also followed the priest.

They stopped not at the church, but at Demetrios'. As usual, the blacksmith was pounding away at something-a plowshare, by the shape of it. He looked up in surprise, sweat streaming down his face, when Father George and Kostas and John strode into the smith. "What's this?" he demanded.

Sadly, George answered, "We've come to take you to Amorion for trial and punishment for the murder of Theodore."

"Me?" Demetrios scowled. "You've got the wrong man, priest. I figure it's likely John here, if you want to know the truth."

But Father George shook his head. "I'm sorry-I'm very sorry-but I'm afraid not, Demetrios. Theodore wouldn't think anything of seeing you with a hammer or an iron bar in your hand, because you carry one so often. And it would have been in your left hand, too, for the blow that killed him was surely struck by a left-handed man."

Demetrios stood over the anvil, breathing hard. As always, the tongs were in his right hand, the hammer in his left. With a sudden shouted curse, he flung that hammer at Father George. Quick as a cat, Kostas leaped sideways to ward the priest with his oval shield. As the hammer thudded off it, Demetrios ran past Kostas and John and out of the smithy.

John swung his sword, but missed. "Catch him!" he shouted. He and Kostas and Father George all rushed after Demetrios.

The smith hadn't got far. He'd knocked one man aside with the tongs, but the rest of the villagers swarmed over him and bore him to the ground. "Get some rope!" somebody shouted. "We'll tie him up, throw him over a mule's back, and take him to Amorion for what he deserves."

"They'll put him to the sword, sure enough." That was Basil, brandishing his spear so fiercely, he almost stabbed a couple of the men close by him. "Sure enough."

From under the pile of men holding him down, Demetrios shouted, "I gave Theodore what he deserved, the son of a pimp. Thought his t.u.r.ds didn't stink, screwed me out of the profit I deserved for the mill. His soul's burning in h.e.l.l right now."

"And yours will keep it company." Three or four men said the same thing at the same time.

Kostas patted Father George on the back. "You did well here."

"Did I?" the priest asked. He wondered. Murder didn't come under the Farmers' Law, but this one had sprung from its provisions.

Just then, Sophia came out and started to shriek and wail and try to drag the villagers off her husband. A couple of them pulled her away from the pile, but not till after she'd raked them with her nails.

"What else could you have done?" Kostas asked.

Father George sighed. "That's a different question," he said, and started back toward his house.