The priest’s grey nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly. I will not sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go.

A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning the curve he waved his hand. It called again. A sleek brown head, a seal’s, far out on the water, round.

Usurper.

―You, Cochrane, what city sent for him?

―Tarentum, sir.

―Very good. Well?

―There was a battle, sir.

―Very good. Where?

The boy’s blank face asked the blank window.