The joint was in the theater district on the north side of the Capitoline. The “music” was furnished by a young woman who twanged a harp and sang songs in Calabrian dialect, which the cash customers seemed to find very funny.
“Let’s drink to --” Thomasus started to say “success” for the thirtieth time, but changed his mind. “Say, Martinus, we’d better buy some of this lousy wine, or he’ll have us thrown out. How does this stuff mix with wine?” At Padway’s expression, he said: “Don’t worry, Martinus, old friend, this is on me. Haven’t made a night of it in years. You know, family man.” He winked and snapped his fingers for the waiter. When he had finally gotten through his little ceremony, he said: “Just a minute, Martinus, old friend, I see a man who owes me money. I’ll be right back.” He waddled unsteadily across the room.
A man at the next table asked Padway suddenly: “What’s that stuff you and old one-eye have been drinking, friend?”
“Oh, just a foreign drink called brandy,” said Padway uneasily.
“That’s right, you’re a foreigner, aren’t you? I can tell by your accent.” He screwed up his face, and then said: “I know; you’re a Persian. I know a Persian accent.”
“Not exactly,” said Padway. “Farther away than that.”
“That so? How do you like Rome?” The man had very large and very black eyebrows.
“Fine, so far,” said Padway.
“Well, you haven’t seen anything,” said the man. “It hasn’t been the same since the Goths came.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially: “Mark my words, it won’t be like this always, either!”
“You don’t like the Goths?”
“No! Not with the persecution we have to put up with!”
“Persecution?” Padway raised his eyebrows.
“Religious persecution. We won’t stand for it forever.”
“I thought the Goths let everybody worship as they pleased.”
“That’s just it! We Orthodox are forced to stand around and watch Arians and Monophysites and Nestorians and Jews going about their business unmolested, as if they owned the country. If that isn’t persecution, I’d like to know what is!”
“You mean that you’re persecuted because the heretics and such are not?”
“Certainly, isn’t that obvious? We won’t stand – What’s your religion, by the way?”
“Well,” said Padway, “I’m what in my country is called a Congregationalist. That’s the nearest thing to Orthodoxy that we have.”
“Hm-m-m. We’ll make a good Catholic out of you, perhaps. So long as you’re not one of these Maronites or Nestorians–”
“What’s that about Nestorians?” said Thomasus, who had returned unobserved. “We who have the only logical view of the nature of the Son – that He was a man in whom the Father indwelt --”
“Nonsense!” snapped Eyebrows. “That’s what you expect of half-baked amateur theologians. Our view – that of the dual nature of the Son – has been irrefutably shown --”
“Hear that, God? As if one person could have more than one nature --”
“You’re all crazy!” rumbled a tall, sad-looking man with thin yellow hair, watery blue eyes, and a heavy accent. “We Arians abhor theological controversy, being sensible men. But if you want a sensible view of the nature of the Son --”
“You’re a Goth?” barked Eyebrows tensely.
“No, I’m a Vandal, exiled from Africa. But as I was saying” – he began counting on his fingers – “either the Son was a man, or He was a god, or He was something in between. Well, now, we admit He wasn’t a man. And there’s only one God, so He wasn’t a god. So He must have been --”
About that time things began to happen too fast for Padway to follow them all at once. Eyebrows jumped up and began yelling like one possessed. Padway couldn’t follow him, except to note that the term “infamous heretics” occurred about once per sentence. Yellow Hair roared back at him, and other men began shouting from various parts of the room: “Eat him up, barbarian!” “This is an Orthodox country, and those who don’t like it can go back where they --” “Damned nonsense about dual natures! We Monophysites --” “I’m a Jacobite, and I can lick any man in the place!” “Let’s throw all the heretics out!” “I’m a Eunomian, and I can lick any two men in the place!” Padway saw something coming and ducked, the mug missed his head by an inch and a half. When he looked up the room was a blur of action. Eyebrows was holding the self-styled Jacobite by the hair and punching his face; Yellow Hair was swinging four feet of bench around his head and howling a Vandal battle song. Padway hit one champion of Orthodoxy in the middle; his place was immediately taken by another who hit Padway in the middle. Then they were overborne by a rush of men.
