The servants of the two bishops had set up the tables fifty feet apart on either side of the cave's entrance. Neither side wished the expedition to turn into a brawl. So the bishops sat at their respective tables under the hot Syrian sun and waited, as they waited each day for a week. Each table was piled high with all manner of food and drink but neither bishop touched a morsel. They sat and sweated in their finery. Each watched the cave intently, occasionally sparing a glance of unbridled hatred toward the other bishop.

They waited, sweated, and watched as the food spoiled in front of them. Flies picked over the roast lamb, the plump figs, the honeyed grapes, and ripe olives. The pickled fish, spiced chicken, and fried veal attracted still more insects with their pungent smell.

At last, the bishops heard a slow tread from within the cave, and the hermit emerged. He was old, grey, and lean, wearing the simple robe of an ascetic monk. He raised his hands to the sky, his lips moved in silent prayer. Looking neither left nor right he knelt on the sand, bowing his head to the ground.

Bishop Demetrius broke first. "Blessed Macarius! Will you dine with me, in honour of God and his Son, whom he created before all things?"

Bishop Theodore did not bother to hide his sneer. "I have fine figs, olives, and fish. Eat with me in honour of God and his Son, co-eternal and equal in majesty."

Macarius ignored them both, finished his prayer, and returned to his cave.

"Has he eaten yet?" asked Simeon.

"No. Macarius has not yet broken his holy fast. He refused the food offered by both our blessed Bishop and Demetrius the heresiarch," said Gregory. He sounded pleased.

Simeon sighed and tried to spit. His mouth was too dry. "So we have to stay in this God-forsaken desert another day. Bugger."

He reached for his wine-skin. It seemed lighter than it should have.

Gregory frowned. "No place on this fair earth is forgotten, or forsaken, by the Almighty. And some of us should remember that as well as seeing all things he also hears all things. And only God knows when the hermit will eat. If you recall, Melestanes the hermit fasted for a year, sustained only by water and the love of Christ."

Simeon shook his wine-skin. It was almost empty.

"Have you been drinking my wine?"

"I have foresworn wine and meat until we return to the city. Unlike some, I am taking this matter seriously. I have been drinking only from the holy spring."

Simeon wrinkled his nose. "Hence the foul odour. I don't understand why you think diarrhoea will bring you closer to God. And, by the way, you didn't quite manage to lift your robe in time on your last visit to the latrine pit."

Gregory's face turned red with embarrassment or rage. He spluttered something incoherent, went a deeper shade of red and fled the tent.

Simeon smiled and drained the last mouthful of his wine. It was weak and astringent but washed the dust from his throat. He settled back on his camp bed and chuckled. Irritating Gregory was almost the only pleasure he had these days. There were no women in the camp, and he had not been in the desert long enough for the sheep to look attractive. Bishop Theodore did not allow gambling, and was known to disapprove of the Persian vice, so Simeon had decided to steer clear of both. His position was secure enough to bait Gregory in safety, but it was not wise to anger the Bishop himself.

At least he rated a bed, he thought. One of the novices had awoken with dozens of sand flea bites all over him. The poor fellow had contracted a fever and died two days later. Not the best of omens for their mission.

He reached for the wine-skin again before remembering that it was empty. Time to stretch his legs.

Simeon approached the store wagons carefully. He could not remember whether he had insulted Hieronymus, the store-master, last time they had met, but the odds were good. He could not remember because he had been filthy drunk. And when he was drunk his manners inexorably returned to his youth on the docks of Constantinople.

"Caught you, you thief. You son of a desert whore!" The cry came from the other side of one of the high wagons. It was Hieronymus, the unmistakeable Phrygian accent bellowing from massive lungs.

Simeon peered under the wagon. On the other side he could see a pair of lion-skin boots. It was said that Hieronymus had killed the lion himself, with his bare hands to avoid damaging the skin. Simeon couldn't see anyone else. Maybe Hieronymus had finally snapped under the Syrian sun and had started talking to himself? Either way, he was occupied, and less likely to notice a thirsty man helping himself to a flagon of Cyprian wine.

Simeon tip-toed to the end of the wagon and glanced around it. Hieronymus, fully six feet six in his boots, was holding a young boy in one outstretched arm and shaking him like a doll. As Simeon watched, the boy's tunic tore, the cheap fabric giving way under Hieronymus's grip. The boy, not more than ten years old, fell to the ground in a heap. He whimpered in pain and fear.

Simeon cursed softly. A dock-child's curse. The curse of one who had been on the receiving end of punches and kicks from the likes of Hieronymus too many times. The curse of someone who knew they were about to do something stupid. Again.

Hieronymus drew back one great boot to kick the child.

"What's going on here, store-master?" Simeon was surprised how confident his voice sounded to his own ears.

Hieronymus forgot about his kick and turned to face Simeon. He scratched his wispy beard and scowled.

"The boy was stealing. He needs a beating," he said.

"Is there any proof of this?" said Simeon.

"He was prowling round the camp. I know his like. As I'm sure you do, deacon. Probably better than I."

Simeon ignored the slight.

"Nevertheless, Hieronymus, we are on a spiritual mission, seeking the favour of the Christ and the saints. It would not do to falsely accuse anyone. Especially a child. Did not the Christ say 'suffer the little children to come unto me'?"

"He's a thief, he needs a beating."

Simeon paused, warming to his role as the voice of restraint. And then he paused a mite longer, for another reason.

"I would say that he needs education, and salvation within the Church. But, in any case, the matter is moot, as the child has taken advantage of your distraction to flee."

Hieronymus spluttered a curse and turned to where the child had been.

"I believe he went that way." Simeon pointed off in a direction leading off into the outskirts of the camp. He was careful not to glance at the boy's foot peeking out from under the wagon.

Hieronymus took a moment to glare at Simeon, then lumbered off through the wagons and tents.

Simeon watched him go. He opened the spigot of one of the wine casks and filled his wine-skin with fine Cyprian wine. When he looked up, the boy had gone.

It was late. The desert heat had fled after sunset and Simeon was getting cold. He had borrowed Gregory's blanket but it was not helping much. Gregory was out praying in the desert, scourging his body and soul for the good of the mission. Simeon had encouraged him to go, but had pleaded a previous engagement with some business for the Bishop.

And so the night was due to be spent in consideration of Cyprian wine and a copy of a Greek text that Simeon had managed to bring along secreted in amongst his other papers. He had read it enough times to remember it outright, but Greek pornography always seemed better when you had the parchment in your hand. Bishop Theodore had commanded that candles could only be used for important Church business, but no one would think it unusual that the Bishop's deacon was up late at night refuting heresies and studying the Gospels. Just so long as no one found out it was the Gospel of Irene and the Lusty Sailor.

But even the wine and the story were not keeping him warm.

"Excuse me, sir, priest?" The whisper seemed very loud in the quiet of the tent. And very close to him.

Simeon started violently, sending his glassful of wine over himself, the gospel of Irene, and the blankets. He cursed and shook the parchment to try to dry it off. The thought of losing his only entertainment was too much to bear. The flailing document caught the candle that he had positioned close to his bed. The candle fell and extinguished itself in the sand, plunging the tent into darkness.

The wages of sin, thought Simeon.

"Have I come at a bad time, sir?" He did not recognise the voice. It was the voice of a child, the Greek halting and heavily accented with the local Syriac dialect.

"I was… working."

Simeon gave up on the parchment and set it down on the side table. He tossed the wine sodden blankets onto Gregory's bed, and rearranged his tunic. Then he remembered.

"You're the boy that Hieronymus caught. What are you doing here? If he catches you, he'll tear your legs off."

"Yes, sir. But I am not a thief. I came to thank you. That man is very angry."

Simeon bent down and retrieved the candle. No point in relighting it, they could talk just as well in the dark.

"They say that before following the Christ, Hieronymus was a priest of Cybele. Doubtless he lost his sense of humour when he lost his stones. Even more so when he discovered that Cybele was a false goddess. Apt to make anyone angry, don't you think?"

The boy gasped. "Lost his stones? He is a eunuch?"

"So they say. I have no intention of checking for myself. You're a local, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir. I am from the village. My name is Aram."

"And a goatherd by the smell of you. Shouldn't you be looking after your goats?"

"They are penned up, sir. We need to keep them in. Since the two bishops arrived. Yours, and the one in the other camp. Some goats have gone missing, and we have been warned away from the oasis."

"Warned? By who?"

"The bishops. They say the oasis is holy. We have to take the goats to the other spring. It is a long walk. The goats are tired and give less milk. My father is angry, but he does not dare upset the bishops. Are they right, is the oasis holy?"

Simeon rubbed his eyes and picked up his wine-skin. He took a deep swig of wine. As the bishop's deacon he did not want to call him a liar. Maybe the oasis was holy. It was very close to the cave of Macarius the hermit, a man holy enough that two bishops had traipsed a hundred miles to gain his favour concerning an obscure doctrinal point. Not that any doctrinal points were too obscure or petty to stop a bishop excommunicating someone over. Especially another bishop.

"All water is holy in the desert, boy, and even goats should get the chance to partake of that holiness. Goats are creatures of God, after all, as are goatherds."

A thought struck him. "You speak good Greek for a Syrian goatherd."

"Macarius taught me. He is a good man. He likes our cheese."

"Macarius, the hermit, the holy man? Cheese, you say?"

"Yes, the man in the cave. Father lets me bring him the food. Father says that it is our duty to feed the holy man."

"Does he pay you?"

"Father says that we will receive a reward in heaven. The old man teaches me Greek, and tells me stories. And eats the cheese."

The inkling of an idea began to form in Simeon's mind. He smiled in the darkness.

"The hermit sounds like a very wise man, Aram. Sit down for a moment, I've got an idea."

The following morning was hot from the very first rays of dawn. A wind blew from the east bringing a fine cloud of sand and an oppressive heat. Gregory had staggered in from his night of prayer shortly after dawn and slumped onto his bed. He did not even notice the wine stains on his blanket or the heady smell of Cyprian red that still filled the tent.

Simeon had not stayed in the tent for long. The snores and the heat drove him out. He decided to play the dedicated deacon for a while. He helped scribe a few letters for the bishop, correcting him discreetly on a few matters of doctrine. He oversaw the cooking of the food that was supposed to lure Macarius to support orthodoxy.

He even listened dutifully and respectfully to Hieronymus's complaints. Yes, the stocks of Cyprian wine were being drunk too fast. Yes, some of the clergy were drinking too much. Maybe Gregory had an opinion. Where was he? Oh, sleeping off the previous night. On his bed.

Simeon smiled as Hieronymus headed off to the unsuspecting Gregory. With the store-master gone he had free reign, none of the camp servants would interfere with a deacon. He sauntered over to the barrels and refilled his wine-skin. A nonchalant amble took him to the table of herbs and spices. He gathered a pouch of vine leaves, ignored by the cooks and servants busy preparing the feast for the hermit.

He left the camp, heading up the hill toward the cave. From the higher vantage point he could see the camp of Bishop Demetrius over the other side of the oasis, hidden from Theodore's camp by a low rise. Half a dozen thin plumes of smoke drifted up from the fires as they cooked up another feast. Simeon watched the smoke as it was caught by the wind and scattered to the west toward the local village, carrying the rich scents of food to people more used to simpler fare. The village was half obscured by the sand in the air, but Simeon could see the black smudge of a herd of goats as it was driven away to a brackish spring to the north. He could also see a tiny speck of white coming away from the village, skirting both camps but heading over towards the hill where he stood.

Turning back up the hill again he walked on until he found a large boulder. He sat in its shade and unstoppered his wine-skin. Aram would be at least another half an hour, no point in being uncomfortable while he waited.

The servants set up the two tables in the same places as before. The food came up a little later, every dish a succulent masterpiece on a plate of silver or gold. Out of respect for the heat and dust, silk windbreaks and parasols were erected around the tables to keep the food as fresh as possible.

Simeon and Aram watched the proceedings from behind their boulder. They were not noticed. The servants were too busy to look behind rocks. Nor did they pay any attention to the small parcel wrapped in vine leaves which lay about ten feet outside the cave. The wind had covered the leaves with a fine layer of dust, making it all but indistinguishable from the surrounding sand.

The bishops, Demetrius and Theodore, came up shortly after the food. Neither wished to arrive first, that would be to appear too eager, but nor did either wish to arrive last in case the hermit emerged from his cave before he arrived. The result was a curious procession of stops and starts with each bishop glaring at each other over the narrowing distance between them. They arrived at the same time, spared each other a final venomous glance, and settled down to wait.

They did not have to wait long. The honeyed grapes had barely enough time to grow a dry crust before the hermit emerged from the cool of his cave. As before, he kept his eyes averted from the two bishops, but his nose twitched almost imperceptibly as he whispered his prayer.

Bishop Theodore noticed the twitch and tried to seize upon the moment of temptation.

"Blessed Macarius. Please sit with me and we shall praise God and His eternal Son together. I have splendid fruit and vegetables from Antioch, the best of God's bounty."

The hermit continued in his prayer but the twitching of his nose was becoming greater. Bishop Demetrius took his chance.

"Brother in Christ, sit with me in the Grace of God and His own born Son. I have dried fish from Galilee, olives from Bethlehem, honey from the patriarch's own bees."

"Liar!"

"Dog!"

"Arian filth!"

"Modalist scum!"

As the two bishops raged at one another, the hermit finished his silent prayer and knelt low to the ground. His frail hands picked up the parcel of vine leaves and brushed off the fine sand. He put he nose to the parcel inhaling the powerful scent of ripe goats cheese. His fingers moved slowly, peeling the leaves off with reverent care. He broke a piece of cheese from the rest. It oozed between his fingers. He lifted it to his lips, savouring every moment. With eyes closed, his face a picture of rapture, he put the morsel into his mouth.

The bishops fell silent. They stared in wonder at the hermit gathering cheese from the desert sand. Demetrius crossed himself. Theodore uttered a prayer of thanks for the witnessing of a miracle.

"I do not need your figs, olives, or honey. God shall provide. Return to the city, both of you. Your bickering is disturbing the goats."

And with that, Macarius returned to his cave, his fast broken.