“A hundred.”
“I am seven-and-twenty, Roman.”
The soldier laughed and stared.
“Bearest thy years ill. Since when beganst to age?”
“Since I began to starve.”
“And when was that?”
“When one said to me, ‘Feed on the illusions of the flesh until I come again.’”
“One—one? What one?”
“A strange white man. They called him Jesus of Nazareth about here.”
The soldier, his cheek bulged with fish, stopped masticating a moment to stare, then burst into a hoarse laugh.