Belisarius II-Storm at Noontide

by Eric Flint

  Antonina shoved Belisarius aside. She sprang forward, raising her ugly and ungainly and detested handcannon.

  Trusted weapon, now.

  "Fuck you!" she screamed. Left hammer; rear trigger; fire. The first shot blew the monster's heart through its spine, spinning Antonina half-around. She spun back in an instant.

  "Fuck you!" Right hammer; front trigger; fire. The second shot splattered the monster's brains against the far wall.

  Antonina landed on her butt, driven down by the cuirass.

  Her ass hurt. Her hands hurt. Her arms hurt. Her shoulders hurt. Her breasts hurt.

  She raised her head, grinning up at her husband. "God, that feels great!"

  Belisarius beamed proudly at his cataphracts. "That's my lady," he announced. "That's my lady!"

  Epilogue

  An interruption and a conclusion

  The monster came to life. As the soul which had once inhabited a young woman's body was obliterated, the monster groped for consciousness.

  The moment of confusion was brief.

  Disaster was the first thought. There has been a disaster.

  The monster examined its memory, with lightning speed. Nothing. All was going well. What could have happened?

  There came an interruption.

  "Are you all right, Lady Sati?"

  A woman—plump, young, rather pretty—was staring at the monster, her face full of concern. "You seem—ill, perhaps. Your eyes—"

  The monster's thoughts, as always, raced with inhuman speed. In an instant, she had the interruption categorized. One of Lady Sati's maids. Indira was her name. She had developed a certain closeness with her mistress.

  That could be inconvenient. More interruptions might occur.

  The monster swiveled its head. Yes. The assassins were at their post.

  Kill her.

  By the time the knives ceased their flashing work, the monster's thoughts had reached a preliminary conclusion.

  Belisarius. No other explanation seems possible.

  There was no anger in the thought. There was nothing in the thought.

  A command and a choice

  "Are you insane?" demanded Nanda Lal, the moment he strode into Venandakatra's pavilion. "Why have you not already begun the withdrawal?"

  The Vile One clenched his jaws. Any other man but Nanda Lal—and the emperor, of course—would be caned for using that tone of voice to the Goptri of the Deccan. Caned, if he were lucky.

  But—

  Venandakatra controlled his rage. Barely. He thrust a finger at the ramparts of Deogiri. "I will have that city!" he screeched. "Whatever else, I will take it!"

  Nanda Lal seized the Vile One by a shoulder and spun him around. Venandakatra was so astonished—no one may touch me!—that he stumbled, almost sprawling on the carpet. Then, he did sprawl. Nanda Lal's slap across the face did for that. Physical power, partly—the Malwa Empire's spymaster was a strong man, thick with muscle. But, mostly, Venandakatra's collapse was due to sheer, utter shock. No one had ever laid hands on Lord Venandakatra. He was the emperor's first cousin!

  But, so was Nanda Lal. And the spymaster was in plain and simple fury.

  "You idiot," hissed Nanda Lal. "You couldn't take Deogiri even when it was possible. Today?"

  Angrily, the spymaster pointed through the open flap of the pavilion. Beyond lay the road to Bharakuccha. "I had to fight my way here, you imbecile! With a small army of Rajputs!"

  He reached down, seized Venandakatra by his rich robes, and hauled him to his feet. There came another buffet; hard open palm across flabby cheek.

  "If you move now—fool!—we can still extract your army with light casualties. By next week—the week after, for a certainty—half your soldiers will be dead by the time you reach Bharakuccha."

  Contemptuously, Nanda Lal released his grip. Again, Venandakatra collapsed to the carpet. His mouth was agape, his eyes unfocused.

  Nanda Lal turned away, clasping his hands behind his back. "We can hope to hold Bharakuccha, and the line of the Narmada. The large towns in the north Deccan. That is all, for the moment. But we must hold Bharakuccha. If it is lost, our army in Mesopotamia will starve."

  His heavy jaws tightened. Nanda Lal opened his mouth, as if to speak further, but simply shook his head. The spymaster was not prepared to share his still-tentative analysis of the likely situation in Mesopotamia. His fears about Mesopotamia. Certainly not with Venandakatra.

  "Do it," he commanded. He tapped the sash holding his own robes in place. An imperial scroll was thrust into that sash. "I have the full authority here to do anything I wish. That includes ordering your execution, Venandakatra."

  He turned his head, glowering down at the sprawled man at his feet. "The scroll is not signed by the emperor alone, by the way. It also bears Great Lady Sati's signature."

  Venandakatra's shock and outrage vanished instantly. His face, already pale, became ashen.

  "Yes," grated Nanda Lal. "Great Lady Sati."

  The spymaster looked to the northwest, through the open flap.

  Quietly: "The siege of Deogiri is over, Venandakatra. By tomorrow morning, this army will be on the road to Bharakuccha. That is a given. The only choice you have is whether you will lead it. Or simply your head, stuck on a pike."

  A desire and a decision

  "Where do we stand with the new warships?" asked the King of Kings, striding into the room which served Axum as its war center.

  Rukaiya looked up from her table in the center of the room. It was a large table, but little of its expanse was visible. Most of it was covered with scrolls and bound sheets of papyrus.

  The queen pointed to the sheet in front of her. "I was just finishing a letter to John of Rhodes, thanking him for the last shipment of guns. We have enough now to outfit the first two vessels."

  "Good, good," grunted Eon, coming up to the table. "I want to get them out to sea at once, so we can start ravaging the supply fleet as soon as it leaves Bharakuccha."

  He leaned over and nuzzled his wife's hair. Smiling, she reached up and drew his head alongside her own. "There is more good news," she whispered.

  Eon cocked his eyebrow. Rukaiya's smile widened.

  "We'll call him Wahsi, of course, if it's a boy. But you really should start thinking about girls' names, too."

  A question and an answer

  Kungas rose from the bed and padded to the window. Planting his hands on the sill, he stared out over Deogiri. The city was dark, except for the lamps glowing in one of the rooms of the nearby palace.

  His lips twitched. "It's a good thing for him that he has an understanding wife."

  Irene levered herself onto an elbow. "What? Is Dadaji working late again?"

  Seeing the Kushan's nod, she chuckled. " 'Understanding' is hardly the word for it, Kungas. She'll be sitting there herself, you know that. As patient as the moon."

  Kungas said nothing. Irene studied him, for a moment, reading the subtle signs in his face.

  "What is it, Kungas?" she asked. "You've been preoccupied with something all night."

  Kungas tapped the windowsill with his fingers. Irene stiffened, slightly. That was as close as the Kushan ever came to expressing nervous apprehension.

  "What is it?" she demanded. "And don't tell any fables. You've got the jitters, I know you do. Something which involves me."

  Kungas sighed. "There are disadvantages," he muttered, "to a smart woman." He turned away from the window and came back to the bed. Then, sitting on the edge, he gave Irene a level stare.

  Abruptly: "I spoke to Kanishka and Kujulo today. About Peshawar, and my plans for the future."

  She nodded approvingly. Kanishka and Kujulo were the key officers in the small army of Kushans serving Shakuntala. Irene had been pressing Kungas for weeks to raise the subject with them.

  "And?" she asked, cocking her head.

  "They have agreed to join me. They said, on balance, that they thought I would make a good king."

  Again, he si
ghed. "Nonetheless, they were critical. Rather harshly so, in fact. They feel that I have neglected the first requirement of a successful dynasty."

  He looked away. "They are quite correct, of course. So I promised them I would see to the matter immediately. If possible."

  Irene stared at him, for a moment. Then she bolted upright, clutching the sheets to her chest.

  "What?" she hissed. "You expect me—me, a Greek noblewoman accustomed to luxury and comfort—to go traipsing off with you into the wilds of Central Asia? Squat in some ruins in the middle of mountains and deserts, surrounded by barbarian hordes and God-knows-what other dangers?" Her eyes were very wide. "Be a queen for a bunch of Kushan mercenaries with delusions of grandeur? Spend the rest of my life in a desperate struggle to forge a kingdom out of nothing?"

  Other than a slight tightening of his jaws, Kungas' face was a rigid mask. "I don't expect," he said softly. "I am simply asking. Hoping."

  Irene flung her arms around his neck and dragged him down. Within a second, the huge, heavy bed was practically bouncing off the floor from her sheer energy. Quiver, shiver; quake and shake.

  "Oh, Kungas!" she squealed. "We're going to have so much fun!"

  A reminder and a distinction

  When he finished reading the letter from Emperor Skandagupta, Damodara turned his head and stared at the Tigris. For a moment, his gaze followed the river's course, north to Assyria—and Anatolia, and Constantinople beyond. Then, for a longer moment, the gaze came to rest on his army's camp. It was a well-built camp, solid, strong. Almost a permanent fort, after all the weeks of work.

  "That's it, then," he said softly. "It's over."

  He turned to the man at his side, folding the letter. "Prepare the army, Rana Sanga. We have been summoned back to India. The emperor urges great haste."

  Sanga nodded. He began to turn away, but stopped. "If I may ask, Lord—what is to be our new assignment?"

  Damodara sighed heavily. "Unrest is spreading all over India. The Deccan is in full revolt. Venandakatra has been driven back into Bharakuccha. He is confident that he can hold the city unaided, though he can't reconquer Majarashtra without assistance. That will end up being our task, no doubt. But first we must subdue Bihar and Bengal, while the emperor rebuilds the main army. He expects the Romans to attack our northwest provinces within a year. Two years, at the outside."

  Sanga said nothing. But his face grew tight.

  "It appears that you will be meeting Raghunath Rao again some day," mused Damodara. "After all these years. The bards and poets will be drooling."

  Damodara studied Sanga closely. Then said, very softly: "The day may come, Rana Sanga—may come—when I will have to ask you to remember your oath."

  Sanga's face, already tight, became as strained as a taut sheet. "I do not need to be reminded of honor, Lord Damodara," he grated harshly.

  Damodara shook his head. "I did not say I would ask you to honor your oath, Sanga. Simply to remember it."

  Sanga frowned. "What is the distinction?"

  There was no answer. After a moment, shrugging angrily, Sanga stalked off.

  Damodara remained behind, staring at the river. He found some comfort, perhaps, in the study of moving water.

  A concern and an explanation

  "I am your obedient servant, Lord," said Narses, bowing his head.

  As soon as Damodara left the tent, Narses' face broke into a grin. "We're on," he muttered, rubbing his hands.

  Ajatasutra looked up from the chess board. "What are you so excited about?"

  Narses stared at him. The grin faded, replaced by something which bordered on sadness.

  "You have become like a son to me," said Narses abruptly.

  Ajatasutra's face went blank. For a moment, no more. Then, a sly smile came. "That's not entirely reassuring, Narses. As I recall, the last time you adopted a spiritual offspring you tried to murder her."

  Narses waved his hand. "Not right away," he countered. "Not for many years, in fact. Besides—"

  The eunuch sat on the chair facing Ajatasutra. He stared down at the chess board. "Besides, the situation isn't comparable. She was an empress. You're just a poor adventurer."

  Ajatasutra snorted. Narses glanced at the small chest in the corner of the tent. "Well—relatively speaking."

  The assassin crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in the chair. "Why don't you just come out with it, Narses? If you want to know my loyalties, ask."

  The eunuch opened his mouth. Closed it. Ajatasutra laughed, quite gaily. "Gods above! I'd hate to live in your mind. You just can't do it, can you?"

  Narses opened his mouth. Closed it.

  Ajatasutra, still chuckling, shook his head. "Relax, old man. Like you said, I'm an adventurer. And I can't imagine anybody who'd provide me with more adventures than you."

  Narses sighed. "Thank you," he whispered. His lips twisted wryly. "It means a great deal to me, Ajatasutra. Whether I'm capable of saying it or not."

  Ajatasutra eyed the eunuch, for a moment. "I'm puzzled, though. Why the sudden concern?"

  The assassin nodded toward the entrance of the tent. "I didn't catch any of your conversation with Damodara. But I did hear his last sentence. 'You do not have my permission to do anything, Narses.' That sounds pretty definite, to me."

  Narses cackled. "What a novice! A babe in the woods!" He leaned forward. "You really must learn to parse a sentence properly, Ajatasutra. 'You do not have permission,' my boy, does not mean the same thing as: 'I forbid you.' "

  Ajatasutra's eyes widened. Narses cackled again. "It's mate in six moves, by the way," the eunuch added.

  A greeting and a grouse

  There was not much left of Charax, when Belisarius and Antonina returned from Adulis a few weeks later. But the Persians had managed to salvage enough of the docks for their ship to be moored.

  Emperor Khusrau was there to meet them, along with Baresmanas, Kurush and Agathius. The Persians were beaming happily. Agathius was not.

  Politely, the Persians allowed Agathius to greet the general first. The Duke of Osrhoene limped forward, aiding his wooden leg and foot with a pair of crutches. "Fine mess you left me," he grumbled, the moment Belisarius came up to him.

  Belisarius glanced around, frowning. "What did you expect? You knew I was going to wreck the place."

  "Not that," snorted Agathius. "It's all the irate letters I've been getting from the empress. Theodora is demanding to know how I could have been so careless. Letting the Persians get their hands on gunpowder technology."

  "Oh—that." Belisarius clapped Agathius on the shoulder. "You covered for me, I trust?"

  Agathius shrugged. "Sure, why not? I still know how to bake bread, when I get cashiered in disgrace." Gloomily: "Assuming she lets me keep my head."

  Belisarius turned to Antonina. "The two of you have never met, I believe. Antonina, meet one of my finest generals. Agathius, this is my wife. She is also, I might mention, Theodora's best friend."

  Agathius extended his hand. "Well. It's certainly a pleasure to meet you."

  A regret and a cheer

  Much later that night, after Khusrau and his entourage left, Belisarius stretched lazily.

  "There's something to be said for having Persians as allies," he announced. His admiring eyes roamed about the lavishly furnished pavilion which the Aryan emperor had provided for them.

  Antonina grinned. "Cut it out, soldier. Since when have you given a damn about luxuries? You just like the idea of dehgans hammering away at somebody else, that's all."

  Belisarius returned the grin with one of his own. "True, true," he admitted. "Fills me with pure glee, it does, thinking about the Malwa trying to retreat with those mean bastards climbing all over them."

  After a moment, his amusement faded. Within a very short time, it was gone completely.

  "It's not your fault, love," said Antonina gently.

  Belisarius blew out his cheeks. "No. It isn't. And if I had to do it over again, I wouldn'
t hesitate for a minute. But—"

  He sighed. "Most of them are just peasants, Antonina. Not more than twenty thousand will ever make it back to their families in India. Khusrau and Kurush will harry them mercilessly, all the way to the Indus valley." He rubbed his face. "And if Eon's new warships can keep the Malwa from landing supplies on the coast, there won't even be ten thousand survivors."

  It's not your fault, said Aide.

  Belisarius shook his head. "That's not the point, Aide. Antonina. I'm not concerned with fault. Malwa is to blame for the death of their soldiers, just as surely as they are for the crimes those soldiers committed while they were in Persia. No one else."

  His hands curled into fists. "It's just—"

  Belisarius turned his head, staring into the flame of a lamp. "It's just that there are times when I really wish I could have been a blacksmith."

  * * *

  Silence followed. A minute or so later, Maurice came into the pavilion. The chiliarch gazed on his general, still staring at the lamp.

  "Indulging in the usual triumphal melancholy, are we?" he demanded.

  Belisarius, not moving his eyes from the lamp, smiled crookedly. "Am I really that predictable?"

  Maurice snorted. He advanced into the pavilion and placed a hand on Belisarius' shoulder.

  "Well, cheer up, lad. I've got some good news. I'm expanding your bodyguard. You'll be leading a huge allied army on your next campaign. Got to have a more substantial bodyguard. Nothing else, the Persians will be miffed if you don't."

  Belisarius scowled. "For the sake of Christ, Maurice. If you give me a Persian-style bodyguard I won't be able to see my hand in front of my face."

  Maurice chuckled. "Oh, I wasn't thinking of anything that elaborate. Just going to add one more man, to give Anastasius, Isaac and Priscus a bit of a break. The new man's here, by the way, right outside the pavilion. I'd introduce you, except that it would be purely ridiculous. And I don't want to have to listen to him muttering about stupid formalities."