Belisarius I Thunder at Dawn

by David Drake

  Irene's eyes appealed to Antonina. Antonina sighed.

  "I will tell you everything, Theodora. Tonight. But you're not going to believe me."

  "Tell."

  When Theodora left the villa, Irene and Antonina escorted the Empress to the palanquin drawn up in the courtyard. After she climbed into the palanquin, Theodora leaned forward and whispered:

  "You were right, Antonina. I don't believe it. It's absurd! Belisarius has a talisman from God? A messenger from the future?"

  Antonina shrugged. "You didn't believe Irene, either, when she told you about Narses. But still you came here, to see for yourself."

  The two old friends stared at each other. The Empress was the first to look away.

  "No, I didn't. And, yes, I did."

  She leaned back into the plush cushions. Antonina could barely make out Theodora's face in the dark interior of the enclosed vehicle, but she couldn't miss the grimace.

  "I hate to travel," growled the Empress.

  A sigh.

  "Yes, Antonina, I will. I will come to Daras and see for myself. This summer."

  Another sigh.

  "I hate Syria in the summer."

  A great, imperial sigh.

  "Now that I think about it, I hate Syria any time of the year."

  After the gate closed behind the departing palanquin, Antonina and Irene stood for a moment in the courtyard, admiring the clear night sky.

  "I'm curious about something, Antonina," said Irene.

  "Yes?"

  "I don't really understand. Well, let's just say that I was surprised how hard Theodora took it, to find out that Narses is a traitor. I knew he was one of her closest advisers, but—"

  "He was a lot more than that, Irene," replied Antonina, shaking her head sadly. "Much, much more."

  The short Egyptian woman looked up at her tall Greek friend.

  "You've heard, I'm sure, all the stories about Theodora's past?"

  Irene shrugged. "Of course. I can't say I paid much attention to them. People are always quick—"

  Antonina shook her head. "The fact is, they're mostly true. At least, insofar as the tales report what she did."

  She looked away, her jaws tight, before adding: "Where they lie is in the heart of the thing. Theodora, as a girl, was as great a whore as you'll ever find. What she never was, was a wanton slut." A little laugh, barely more than a chuckle. "It's ironic, actually. Fair-minded, respectable, proper people, when they compare her and me, are prone to give me the benefit of their doubt. True, before I met Belisarius I gave my favors for money. But only to the most carefully selected men, and not many of those. Whereas Theodora—"

  Harshly: "If there's to be a comparison, by rights it should go the other way. I did what I did through choice. Not much of a choice, mind you, for a dirt-poor girl on the streets of Alexandria, with a whore for a mother and charioteer for a father. But—I can't honestly claim that anyone forced me into it."

  She took a breath, then looked her friend straight in the eyes. Irene winced.

  "I don't think I want to hear what's coming next."

  "You asked, woman. Theodora never took pleasure in her whoring, and she never had a choice. Her pig of a father raped her when she was nine, and kept doing it until he sold her to a pimp at the age of twelve. And her pimp was even worse. That stinking—"

  She stopped abruptly, made a short chopping motion with her hand. "Never mind. There's nothing in it but nausea." She took another deep breath, let it out. "The point is, Irene, that Narses was the closest thing to a real father that woman has ever had. When she first met him, she was just a poor ambitious young woman helping her poor ambitious young lover to claw his way to the top. Narses took her under his wing, and helped her along. With money, sometimes; other times, with privy information; other times, with introductions to the right people. But, mostly, he helped her the way a father helps his daughter. The way a good father helps his daughter. He simply—taught her."

  She paused for a moment. Irene interjected:

  "I'm sure he was just—"

  Antonina shook her head. "No. No. Well, that's too bald. A man like Narses always has an eye out for the main chance. But that wasn't it, Irene. Believe me, it wasn't. Narses is brilliant, but he's not God Almighty. And only the Lord Himself, in those days, could have known that Theodora would someday be Empress of the Roman Empire. She and Justinian didn't know it, then. Didn't even think of it."

  She took Irene by the arm and began slowly leading her out of the courtyard.

  "No, I think—I think, in his own way, Narses saw Theodora as the child he never had. Could never have. So, what childlike trust remained in a girl who distrusted all men, was given to an elderly eunuch. And what paternal care existed in a man who could have no children, was given to a young whore."

  She halted, fighting tears. Stared blindly at the sky.

  "Dear God in heaven," she whispered, "I so hoped Narses wouldn't be at that meeting. I so hoped you'd be wrong, even though I knew you weren't." Now the tears flowed. "Theodora will never recover from this."

  "You can't say that," protested Irene. "She still has Justinian."

  Antonina shook her head. "No, Irene. It's not the same. Theodora loves Justinian, but she has never trusted him. Not the way she trusted Narses." She wiped her eyes. Again, Antonina took Irene's arm and led her out of the courtyard. Her steps, now, were quick.

  Ten feet from the door, she said: "Theodora's harder than steel, and she prides herself on not making the same mistake twice. She'll never give her trust to another man again. No matter who he is. Never."

  Five feet from the door, Irene said sadly: "God, that poor woman."

  At the door itself, Antonina stopped. Turned to her friend, and looked her squarely in the face. There was no trace of sorrow, now, in those beautiful green eyes. Just emptiness.

  "Poor woman?" she demanded. "Don't ever think it, Irene. Give Theodora your love, if you can. But never think to give her your pity." Her eyes were like the green gaze of an asp. "If you thought the story of her father and her pimp was nauseating, someday I'll tell you what happened to them. After Theodora mounted the throne."

  Irene felt her throat tighten.

  "Whatever you do in this world, Irene, don't ever cross that poor woman. Go down to Hell, instead, and spit in the face of Satan."

  She started through the door. Over her shoulder, like a serpent's hiss:

  "Poor woman."

  * * *

  Two hours—and many bottles of wine—later, Antonina lowered her head onto the arm of her couch and asked:

  "I'm curious about something myself, Irene." Her words were spoken in that slow, careful, precise manner which indicates that a moment of solemnity has—briefly, briefly—interrupted the serious business of getting blind drunk.

  "Ask anything!" commanded the spymaster from her own couch, waving her arm grandly. The just-emptied bottle in her hand detracted, a bit, from the majesty of the gesture. The hiccup which followed detracted quite a bit more.

  Antonina grinned, then tried to focus her thought.

  "Everything you said—" Her own grand gesture; pitifully collapsing in midair. "Back then, earlier tonight—whenever—made sense."

  She managed to restrain her own hiccup, beamed triumphantly at her friend, continued:

  "About remaining on Sittas' payroll. But—weren't you even tempted? I mean, Theodora is stinking rich. Makes Sittas look like a pauper. She really would pay you a lot more. A whole lot more."

  Irene reached out her hand, grasped the arm of the couch, and levered herself up slowly. She tried to focus her eyes, but couldn't quite manage the feat. So she satisfied herself with her own beaming, triumphant grin.

  "You don't really understand me, dear friend. Not here, at least, not in—this thing. You and Theodora grew up—you know. Poor. Money means something to you. I was raised in a rich family—" A very grand sweep of the arm. Too grand, much too grand. She overbalanced and slipped off the couch onto he
r knee. Then, laughing, stumbled back onto it. Then, raising her head high with pride, demonstrated to a doubting universe that she hadn't lost her train of thought:

  "—and so I take money for granted. The truth is—" Suppressed belch; grim face; bitter struggle against the slanderous hint of insobriety.

  "Truit is—truth is—I don't even spend half the money Sittas pays me." Again, suppressed belch; again—the short, chopping blows of desperate battle:

  "Personally. I mean. On myself. Don't need it."

  Victorious against all odds, she flopped against the back of the couch, staring blearily at one of the magnificent tapestries on the opposite wall. She couldn't really see it, anymore, but she knew it was magnificent. Incredibly magnificent.

  In the way that it happens, at such times, exultant triumph collapsed into maudlin tears.

  "What matters to me is that the Empress of Rome wants me for her spymaster. That's"—hiccup—"enormously gratifying to my vanity, of course. But it also means I now have access tomb pelear—to imperial—resources. Resources."

  She twirled her finger in a little gesture which encompassed the entire villa.

  "Look at this! It's nothing but a damned stake-out, for Chrissake."

  She beamed upon her friend, beamed upon the tapestry, sprang to her feet, and spread her arms in a great gesture of pure exultation.

  "Oh, God—I'm going to have so much fun."

  Antonina tried to catch her on the way down, but only succeeded in flopping onto the floor herself. From her belly, cheek pressed against the parquet, she did manage to focus on Irene long enough to be sure her friend was not hurt. Just, finally, dead drunk.

  "Woman can't handle her liquor," she muttered; although, to a cold-hearted observer, the word "liquor" would have sounded suspiciously like a snore.

  "Come on, Hermogenes, let's get them to bed."

  Maurice bent, scooped the little figure of Antonina into his thick arms, and carried her through the door. He padded down the corridor effortlessly. Hermogenes followed, with like ease. Irene was taller than Antonina, but, slim rather than voluptuous, weighed not a pound more.

  Antonina's room came first. Maurice, turning backward, pushed his way through the door and lowered Antonina onto her bed. Like every other piece of furniture in the villa, the bed was splendid. Very well made, very luxurious, and—very large.

  Maurice turned and looked at Hermogenes. The young general was standing in the doorway, Irene cradled in his arms. Maurice gestured him in.

  "Bring her here, Hermogenes. We may as well let them sleep it off together."

  Hermogenes hesitated for an instant, looking down at Irene's slack, lolling head. A tiny little twitch in his mouth gave away his regrets.

  "Come on," chuckled Maurice. "You won't be enjoying her company tonight. If you put her in her own bed, you won't get any sleep yourself, since you're sharing it with her. You'll just wind up sleeping on a couch. She'll be snoring like a pig, you know it as well as I do."

  Hermogenes smiled, ruefully, and brought Irene into the room. Gently, he lowered her onto the bed next to Antonina. On that huge expanse, the two women looked like children.

  "I've never seen her get drunk before," said Hermogenes softly. There was no reproach in his voice, just bemused wonder. "I've never even seen her get tipsy."

  Maurice glanced at Irene. "She's a spymaster," he grunted. "Greek nobility, to boot."

  He then gave Antonina a long, lingering, considering stare. There was no reproach in his gaze, just love. "I've seen this one get drunk before," he murmured. "Twice."

  He began ushering Hermogenes out of the room.

  "Once, the first time Belisarius went on campaign. I stayed behind, for a few days, organizing the logistics. She got plastered the night he left. The next morning, she climbed onto a horse and rode off to join him in camp. I sent five cataphracts with her as an escort. Anastasius was in command. He told me later he thought he'd have to tie her onto the horse to keep her from falling off. But she made it, all on her own."

  He stopped in the doorway, looking back fondly. "I was impressed, when he told me."

  Hermogenes nodded, smiling. "That's tough, riding a horse with that kind of hangover. I know. I've done the same thing myself."

  Maurice eyed him scornfully.

  "No, you haven't. You already knew how to ride a horse. It was the first time she'd ever been in a saddle."

  Hermogenes gaped. Maurice grinned.

  "Oh, yes. A very tough little woman, in her own way. Though you wouldn't think it, just looking at her." He reached out and closed the door.

  "What was the second time?"

  The humor faded from Maurice's face.

  "The second time was the day after he left for India. The next morning, she stumbled down to the stables and spent four hours there. Just sitting on a pile of hay, staring at a horse."

  Hermogenes puffed his cheeks, blew out the air.

  "Christ."

  Maurice shrugged. "Ah, hell. I wish she'd do it more often."

  He started down the corridor.

  "That's too great a pain to keep in such a small body."

  When Irene awoke the next morning, it took her a full minute to focus her eyes. The first thing she saw was Antonina, dressed in a robe, staring out the window onto the street below.

  Irene watched her for ten minutes, never once moving her eyes away.

  At first, simply because she couldn't move her eyes. Then, when she could, because she immediately encountered pain. Then, after pain had been properly introduced, because she hoped it would go away if she ignored it politely. Then, after pain made clear it was settling in for a nice long visit, because she wanted to think about anything else. Then, finally, because she started to think.

  "What in the hell are you doing?" she croaked.

  "Nothing much," came the soft reply. "Just looking at a horse."

  Chapter 5

  Ranapur

  Spring 530 AD

  On the tenth day after their arrival at Ranapur, as Belisarius and his cataphracts rode out to the small knoll where they usually observed the siege, their Rajput escorts intercepted them before they had gone more than half a mile. The cavalrymen seemed tense and edgy, although their unease did not seem to be directed toward the Romans.

  Rana Sanga himself, when he drew his horse alongside Belisarius, exhibited nothing beyond his usual reserved, courteous manner. But his first words made clear that today would be out of the ordinary.

  "You and your men will not be watching the siege from your normal vantage point, General Belisarius."

  Belisarius frowned. "If you move us further back, Rana Sanga, we might as well watch the battle from the moon!"

  Sanga scowled. "You need have no fear on that account, General!" he snapped. "Quite the contrary." The Rajput shook his head in a sharp, short manner. "Excuse me," he muttered. "I am being impolite. I am—somewhat aggravated. I fear I am lashing at you for lack of a better target. Please accept my apology."

  Belisarius smiled. "Gladly, Sanga. Gladly. But—well, it's none of my business, but—"

  Again, Sanga shook his head.

  "You will see for yourself, soon enough. The high commander of the army, Lord Harsha, has decreed that Ranapur will fall today. The Emperor himself has come out to observe the conquest of the rebel city. You have been invited to watch the crushing of the rebellion from the Emperor's own pavilion. I have been instructed to escort you there."

  "Ah," said Belisarius. Since they had arrived at Ranapur, the Roman delegation had been studiously ignored by the emperor and his entourage. Even Venandakatra had not sent so much as a formal note. The diplomatic discourtesy, Belisarius was certain, was calculated to impress upon the Romans their humble place in the Malwa scheme of things. He was equally certain that the sudden invitation to share the emperor's august presence was calculated to impress the foreigners with the Malwa empire's might and ruthlessness.

  There was no point in lodging a protest against th
is shameful treatment. Certainly not to Rana Sanga, who was himself consigned to the periphery of the Malwa court. (Except, Belisarius suspected, when the clash of arms required the Rajput's skill.)

  But—where protest would be futile, irony would be at least entertaining. Belisarius frowned, deep in thought, and allowed his jaw to gape with wonder.

  "Such a brilliant stratagem! To conclude a siege by simply decreeing it at an end! I confess with shame that I never thought of it myself, despite the many sieges I have undertaken."