by David Drake
He stopped, gazed down at Antonina.
"And Antonina will be the center of it all. She will set up residence at this villa near Daras and stay there. She will no longer accompany me with the army. She will assemble and oversee the weapons work. She will, when the time comes, take charge of training a new army."
He waved down her developing protest. "I will help, I will help. But you are more than capable of all this, Antonina. You are at least as intelligent as any man I ever met. And these weapons are new to all of us. The methods of using them, as well. I will help, but I will not be surprised if your untrained intelligence does a better job of devising new forces and methods than my well-trained experience does. You will not have your eyes blinkered by old habits."
He took a deep breath. "Finally, you are the perfect conduit through which all of our disparate efforts may be kept aligned and coordinated. Through you, we can all communicate, with no one suspecting our true purpose."
Antonina's intelligence was every bit as high as her husband proclaimed it to be. Her back grew rigid as a board, her face as stiff as a sheet of iron.
"Because everyone's suspicion will have another target," she said bitterly.
"Yes." The general's voice was calm; calm but utterly unyielding.
The bishop's eyes widened slightly. He looked from husband to wife, and back again. Then looked away, stroking his beard.
"Yes, that would work," he murmured. "Work perfectly, in fact. But—" He gazed up at the general. "Do you understand—"
"Leave us, Anthony," said Belisarius. Calmly, but unyieldingly. "If you please. And you also, Michael."
Michael and Cassian arose and made their way to the door. There, the bishop turned back.
"If you are still determined on this course, Belisarius, after discussing it with Antonina, there is a perfect way to implement it quickly."
Antonina stared straight ahead. Her dusky face was almost pale. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. Belisarius tore his gaze away and looked at the bishop.
"Yes?"
"A man approached me, recently, seeking my help in gaining employment. Newly arrived in Aleppo, from Caesaria. I know his reputation. He is a well-trained secretary, very capable by all accounts, and quite an accomplished writer. A historian. Such, at least, is his ambition. You have no secretary, and have reached the point in your career where you need one."
"His name?"
"Procopius. Procopius of Caesaria. In addition to serving as your secretary, I am quite certain he will broadcast your talents to the world at large and be of assistance to your career."
"He is a flatterer, then?"
"An utterly shameless one. But quite talented at it, so his flattering remarks are generally believed, by the world at large if not by his employer."
"And?"
The bishop looked unhappy. "Well—"
"Speak plainly, Anthony!"
Cassian's lips pursed. "He is one of the vilest creatures I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. A flatterer, yes, but also a spiteful and envious man, who complements his public flattery with the most vicious private rumor-mongering. A snake, pure and simple."
"He will do marvelously. Send him to me. I will hire him at once. And then I will give him all he needs, both for public flattery and private gossip."
After Cassian and Michael left, Belisarius sat by his wife and took her hand.
His voice was still calm, and still unyielding, but very gentle.
"I am sorry, love. But it is the only course I can see which will be safe. I know how much pain it will cause, to have people say such things about you, but—"
Antonina's laugh was as harsh as a crow's.
"Me? Do you think I care what people say about me?"
She turned her head and looked him in the eyes.
"I am a whore, Belisarius." Her husband said nothing, nor was there anything but love in his eyes.
She looked away. "Oh, you've never used the word. But I will. It's what I was. Everyone knows it. Do you think a whore gives a fig for what people say about her?" Another harsh laugh. "Do you understand why the Empress Theodora trusts me? Trusts me, Belisarius. As she trusts no one else. It is because we were both whores, and the only people whores really trust—really trust—are other whores."
For a moment, tears began to come back into her eyes, but she wiped them away angrily.
"I love you like I have never loved anyone else in my life. Certainly more than I love Theodora! I don't even like Theodora, in many ways. But I would not trust you with the knowledge of my bastard son. Yet I trusted Theodora. She knew. And I trusted another whore, Hypatia, to raise the boy." Her voice was like ice. "Do not concern yourself, veteran, about what I feel when people talk about me. You cannot begin to imagine my indifference."
"Then—"
"But I do care what people say about you!"
"Me?" Belisarius laughed. "What will they say about me that they don't already?"
"Idiot," she hissed. "Now they say you married a whore. So they mock your judgment, and your good taste. But they see the whore does not stray from your side, so they—secretly—admire your manhood." Incongruously, she giggled, then mimicked a whispering voice: " `He must be hung like a horse, to keep that slut satisfied.' " The humor vanished. "But now they will call you a cuckold. They will mock you, as well as your judgment. You will become a figure of ridicule. Ridicule, do you hear me?"
Belisarius laughed again. Gaily, to her astonishment.
"I know," he said. "I'm counting on it." He arose and stretched his arms. "Oh, yes, love, I'm counting on it." He mimicked the whispering voice himself: " `What kind of a man would let his wife flaunt her lovers in front of him? Only the most pathetic, feeble, weak, cowardly creature.' " His voice grew hard as steel. "And then word will get to the enemy, and the enemy will ask himself: and what kind of a general could such a man be?"
She looked up at him, startled.
"I hadn't thought of that," she admitted.
"I know. But this is all beside the point. You are lying, Antonina. You don't really care what people say about me, any more than I care what people say about you."
She looked away, her lips tight. For a moment, she was silent. Then, finally, the tears began to flow.
"No," she whispered, "I don't."
"You are afraid I will believe the tales."
She nodded. The tears began pouring. Her shoulders shook. Belisarius sat by her side and enfolded the small woman in his arms.
"I will never believe them, Antonina."
"Yes, you will," she gasped, between sobs. "Yes, you will. Not at once, not soon. Not for years, maybe. But eventually, you will. Or, at least, you will wonder, and suspect, and doubt, and distrust me."
"I will not. Never."
She looked up at him through teary eyes. "How can you be sure?"
He smiled his crooked smile. "You do not really understand me, wife. Not in some ways, at least." His eyes grew distant. "I think perhaps the only person who ever understood me, in this way, was Raghunath Rao. Whom I've never met, except in a vision. But I understand him, kneeling in the woods below Venandakatra's palace, praying with all his heart that the princess he loved would allow herself to be raped by the Vile One. More than allow it—would smile at her defiler and praise his prowess. I, too, would have done the same."
Belisarius took his wife's head in his hands and turned her face toward him.
"Raghunath Rao was the greatest warrior the Maratha produced in centuries. And the Maratha are the great warrior people of India, along with the Rajput. Yet this great warrior, kneeling there, cared nothing for those things warriors care for. Pride, honor, respect—much less virginity and chastity—meant nothing to him. And that is why he was so great a warrior. Because he was not a warrior, at bottom, but a dancer."
Antonina couldn't help laughing. "You're the worst dancer I ever saw!"
Belisarius laughed with her. "True, true." Then, he became serious. "But I am a craftsman. I never
wanted to be a soldier, you know. As a boy, I spent all my time at the smithy, admiring the blacksmith. I wanted to be one, when I grew up, more than anything." He shrugged. "But, it was not to be. Not for a boy of my class. So a soldier I became, and then, a general. But I have never lost the craftsman's way of approaching his work."
He smiled. "Do you know why my soldiers adore me? Why Maurice will do anything for me—such as this little trip to Antioch?"
Now on treacherous ground, Antonina kept silent.
"Because they know that they will never find themselves dying in agony, on a field of battle somewhere, because their general sent them there out of pride, or honor, or valor, or vainglory, or for any other reason than it was the best place for them to be in order to do the work properly." The smile grew crooked. "And that's why Maurice will see to it that a certain pimp named Constans gets his deserts."
Antonina was still. Very treacherous ground.
Belisarius started laughing. "Did you really think I wouldn't see past your scheme, once I had time to think about it?" He released her and stretched his arms languorously. "After I woke up, feeling better than I've felt in months, and could think without my thoughts clouded with fury?"
She glanced at him sideways. Then, after a moment, began laughing herself. "I thought I'd pulled it off perfectly. The little tremors, hesitations, the slight tinge of fear in the voice—"
"The enticing roll of the rump was particularly good," said Belisarius. "But it's what gave it all away, in the end. When we play our little game you always try to win, even if you enjoy losing. You certainly don't wave your delicious ass under my nose, like waving a red flag before a bull."
"And with much the same result," she murmured. A moment later: "You're not angry?"
"No," he replied, smiling. "I began to be, at first, until I remembered Valentinian's little whisper to Maurice: `You know he won't tell you himself.' "
"Maurice took Valentinian?"
"And Anastasius."
Antonina clapped her hand over her mouth.
"Oh, God! I almost feel sorry for that stinking pimp."
"I don't," snarled Belisarius. "Not in the slightest." He took a deep breath, blew it out.
"I pretended I didn't hear Valentinian, but—it is hard, for a quirky man like me, with my weird pride, to accept that people love him. And that he forces them to manipulate him, at times." He gave his crooked smile. "Would you believe, Anastasius actually said—" Here Belisarius' voice became a rumbling basso: " `violent characters, your pimps.' "
"Anastasius can bend horseshoes with his hands," choked Antonina.
"And then Valentinian whined: `stab you in the back in a minute.' "
Antonina couldn't speak at all, now, from the laughter.
"Oh, yes. Exactly his words. Valentinian—who is widely suspected to wipe his ass with a dagger, since nobody's ever seen him without one."
For a time, husband and wife were silent, simply staring at each other. Then, Antonina whispered:
"There will never be any truth to the tales, Belisarius. I swear before God. Never. A month from now, a year from now, ten years from now. You will always be able to ask, and the answer will always be: no."
He smiled and kissed her gently.
"I know. And I swear this, before God: I will never ask."
He rose to his feet.
"And now, we must get back to work." He strode to the door and called into the hallway beyond: "Dubazes! Fetch Michael and the bishop, if you would!"
Chapter 5
MINDOUOS
Summer, 528 AD
"Out." Belisarius' eyes were like dark stones, worn smooth in a stream. Cold, pitiless pieces of an ancient mountain.
"Out," he repeated. The fat officer standing rigidly before him began to protest again, then, seeing the finality in the general's icy gaze, waddled hastily out of the command tent.
"See to it that he's on the road within the hour," said Belisarius to Maurice. "And watch who he talks to on his way out. His friends will commiserate with him, and those friends will likely have the same habits."
"With pleasure, sir." The hecatontarch motioned to one of the three Thracian cataphracts who were standing quietly in the rear of the tent. The cataphract, a stocky man in his mid-thirties, grinned evilly and began to leave.
"On your way out, Gregory," said Belisarius, "send in that young Syrian you recommended." Gregory nodded, and exited the tent.
Belisarius resumed his seat. For a moment, he listened to the sounds of a busy military camp filtering into the tent, much as a musician might listen to a familiar tune. He thought he detected a cheerful boisterousness in the half-heard vulgarities being exchanged by unseen soldiers, and hoped he was right. In the first days after his arrival, the sounds of the camp had been sodden with resentment.
A different sound drew his attention. He glanced over at the desk in the corner of the tent where Procopius, his new secretary, was scribbling away industriously. The desk, like the chair upon which the secretary sat, was of the plainest construction. But it was no plainer than Belisarius' own desk, or chair.
Procopius had been astonished—not to mention disgruntled—when he discovered his new employer's austere habits. Within a week after their arrival, the secretary had attempted to ingratiate himself by presenting Belisarius with a beautifully-embroidered, silk-covered cushion. The general had politely thanked Procopius for the gift, but had immediately turned it over to Maurice, explaining that it was his long-standing custom to share all gifts with his bucellarii. The following day, Procopius watched goggle-eyed as the Thracian cataphracts used the cushion as the target in their mounted archery exercises. (Very briefly—the cruel, razor-sharp blades of the war arrows, driven by those powerful bows, had shredded the cushion within minutes.)
The secretary had been pale with fury and outrage, but had possessed enough wit to maintain silence in the face of Thracian grins. And, admitted Belisarius, since then—
"You've done well, Procopius," said Belisarius suddenly, "helping to ferret out these petty crooks."
The secretary looked up, startled. He began to open his mouth, then closed it. He acknowledged the praise with a simple nod and returned to his work.
Satisfied, Belisarius looked away. In the weeks since they had been together in the army camp near Daras, Procopius had learned, painfully, that his new employer gave flattery short shrift. On the other hand, he prized hard work and skillfulness. And, whatever his other characteristics, there was no question that Procopius was an excellent secretary. Nor was he indolent. He had been a great help in shredding the corruption which riddled Belisarius' new army.
A soldier entered the tent.
"You called for me, sir?"
Belisarius examined him. The man appeared to be barely twenty. He was quite short, but muscular. A Syrian, with, Belisarius judged, considerable Arab stock in his ancestry.
The soldier was wearing a simple, standard uniform: a mantle, a shirt, boots, and a belt. The belt held up a scabbarded spatha, the sword which the modern Roman army used in place of the ancient gladius. The spatha was similar to a gladius—a straight-bladed, double-edged sword suitable for either cutting or thrusting, but it was six inches longer.
The cloak, helmet, mail tunic and shield which were also part of the man's uniform were undoubtedly resting in his tent. In the Syrian daytime, cloaks made the heat unbearable. And the soldier's armor and shield were unneeded in the daily routine of the camp.
"Your name is Mark, I believe? Mark of Edessa."
"Yes, sir." Mark's face bore slight traces of apprehension mixed with puzzlement.
Belisarius allayed his concerns instantly.
"I am promoting you to hecatontarch of the third ala," he announced. His tone was stern and martial.
The man's eyes widened slightly. He stood a bit straighter.
"Peter of Rhaedestus, as I'm sure you know, is the regiment's tribune. You will report to him."
Then, in a softer tone:
"You are young to be assigned command over a hundred men, and somewhat inexperienced. But both Peter and Constantine, the cavalry's chiliarch, speak well of you. And so do the men of my own personal retinue." He motioned slightly toward the back of the tent, where Maurice and the two other cataphracts stood.
Mark glanced toward the Thracians. His face remained still, but the youth's gratitude was apparent.
"Two things, before you go," said Belisarius. All traces of softness vanished from his voice.
"Constantine and Peter—as well as the other tribunes of the cavalry—know my views on corrupt officers, and are in agreement with them. But I will take the time now to express them to you directly. As you are aware, I will not tolerate an officer who steals from his own men. Thus far, since I inherited this army from another, I have satisfied myself with simply dismissing such officers. In the future, however, with officers who take command knowing my views, the punishment will be considerably more severe. Extreme, in fact."
Belisarius paused, gauging the young Syrian, and decided that further elaboration on the matter was unnecessary. Mark's face sheened with perspiration, but the sweat was simply the product of the stifling heat within the tent. Belisarius took a cloth and wiped his own face.
"A final point. You are a cavalryman, and have been, I understand, since you first joined. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then understand something else. I will not tolerate the cavalry lording it over the infantry. Do you understand?"
Mark's face twitched, just a tiny bit.
"Speak frankly, Mark of Edessa. If you are unclear as to my meaning, say so. I will explain, and I promise there will be no censure."
The young Syrian glanced at his general, made a quick assessment, and spoke.
"I'm not quite sure I do, sir."