Fireball by John Christopher Page B

Stephanus in the tablinum.
    â€œTidy yourselves up,” Mandarus said. He was a large calm, observant man, as much a friend to Quintus Cornelius as a servant. “It’s a great honour, having a visit from His Holiness.”
    The tablinum opened out of the impluvium and was a sort of combined study and library. It was Quintus Cornelius’s sanctum, and Simon had not been there before. The two men were talking together, side by side at the table, when the boys were shown in and stood respectfully by the door. The Bishop held hishand out, and Brad and Simon did as Mandarus had instructed them and went forward to kneel and kiss the ring with the big carbuncle stone. The other hand moved above their heads in blessing.
    The Bishop was nothing like Simon’s expectation. He had imagined someone very old—older than Quintus Cornelius probably—venerable and . . . holy-looking. Bishop Stephanus had a face that was deeply lined, but Simon thought he was probably no more than about forty; he had a curly chestnut beard without a fleck of white, and the hand was not an old hand. His movements and gestures were vigorous, and the gaze he directed on them when they stood up was keen. It was the look of someone used to command.
    His voice was deep and seemed harsh, but after a few minutes Simon did not notice the harshness. He was too preoccupied with understanding and answering the fusillade of questions the Bishop proceeded to put to them both. He thought of asking him to slow down a bit, but didn’t have the nerve.
    He gradually worked out that the Bishop was testing the possibility that Quintus Cornelius might have been taken in by a couple of plausible youngrogues. His rapid alternation of questions from one to the other and back was his way of finding out if they had combined to make up their story. He was banking on the possibility that if they had, one of them would get confused and give the game away. And he would have been right, Simon thought, as the interrogation finally and abruptly came to an end and he was able to relax into an exhausted silence.
    The silence in turn seemed to last a long time. The Bishop ended it by turning to Quintus Cornelius.
    â€œThis is indeed interesting, Quintus. You were right to bring it to my attention.”
    He looked at the boys again. His face had no particular expression, but it made Simon feel weird. He felt as though if the Bishop had said, “Lie down—I want a footstool,” he would have done so and even been glad to do it. It was the eyes, he thought. He wanted to look away, but could not.
    â€œYou tell a strange story,” the Bishop said. “Of a world filled with wonders almost beyond imagining. Huge ships that cross the seas with neither sails nor oars. Others that ride the air like eagles, but big enough to carry hundreds of men and women. Or to carry death for hundreds of thousands.”
    His hand moved, making the sign of the cross.
    â€œA world, too, in which there is a bishop in Rome but no emperor. And yet in which the Church is divided, flock against flock, brother against brother. Such stories are not easy to believe. They sound like tales a madman might utter in his ravings. But there is this.”
    He took something from the pocket of his robe and held it up. Brad’s watch.
    â€œThe tales could be fantasies, but this is real. In this world there are no craftsmen who could forge such a thing, could make such a glass and seal it to metal, and could cause these strange shapes to flicker behind the glass. So it seems you are neither mad nor impostors. You tell me it is a kind of clock, and that, too, is a confirmation. Impostors would not have said anything so ridiculous.”
    He paused. “You come, you say, from a world that has the same lands and seas as this, lives in the same instant of time, the same space, and yet is wholly different. That is a mystery, but the centre of our faith is a mystery,