He had no holy children, no Madonnas.

But he loved this Christ, this exquisitely imagined dead, drooping figure, which, roused into life by an act of noble renunciation, bent down and kissed the armed hero who had been great enough to forgive his enemy.

He loved those weary, tender lips, those faded limbs, the sacred tenuity of the ascetic figure, the wonderful posture of benign familiarity that was more majestic than any reserve.

Yes, Valentine loved this Christ, and Julian knew it well.

Often, late at night, Julian had leaned back lazily listening while Valentine played, improvising in a light so dim as to be near to darkness.