An oblique approach b-1

by David Drake

  No, he thought, remembering the head of a stubborn chiliarch; and the arrow-transfixed chests of Hun thugs, it never hurts.

  Three individuals only, of that great army returning in triumph, did not share in the general joy and good will.

  Two of them were brothers from Thrace. Who, though they had come through their recent experience essentially unharmed in body, were much aggrieved in their minds.

  As Belisarius had suspected, Bouzes and Coutzes were not actually stupid. They had had plenty of time, in their captivity at Nisibis, to ponder events of the past. And to draw certain conclusions about a never-found pay caravan.

  On the first night of the march back to Mindouos, the brothers had entered Belisarius’ tent. Quite forcefully. They had shouldered Maurice aside, which would indicate that their recent conversion from stupidity was still shaky and skin deep. Then, they had confronted the general with his duplicity and treachery.

  Within the next few minutes, Bouzes and Coutzes learned a lesson. Others had learned that lesson before them. Some, like a Hun clan chieftain, had even managed to survive the experience.

  So did they, barely.

  Belisarius gave them three simple choices.

  One: They could acquiesce to his triumph, pretend that nothing untoward had happened, and salvage what was left of their reputations. With Belisarius’ help, a suitable cover story would be manufactured. They would even come into their share of the booty.

  Two: They could leave now and trumpet their outrage to the world. Within a year, if Justinian was feeling charitable due to his victory over the Persians, they would be feeding the hogs back at their estate in Thrace. Pouring slops into the trough. If the Emperor was not feeling charitable-charity was not his most outstanding trait-they would be feeding the hogs at one of Justinian’s many estates. From inside the trough, since they themselves would be the slop.

  Or, finally, if their outrage was simply too great to bear, they could choose yet a third alternative:

  Valentinian.

  The brothers, in the end, bade farewell to stupidity. Not easily, true, and not without bitter tears and warm embraces to their departing friend. But, in the end, they managed to send stupidity on his way.

  By the very end of the evening, in fact, they were in quite a mellow mood. Large quantities of wine helped bring on that mellowness, as did the thought of large sums of booty. But, for the most part, it was brought by one small, fierce consolation.

  At least-this time-honest Thracian lads had been swindled by another Thracian. Not by some damned Greek or Armenian.

  After they left, Belisarius blew out the lantern and lay down on his cot.

  He was exhausted, but sleep would not come. There was something he needed to know. He let his mind wander through its own labyrinth, until he found the place he had come to think of as the crack in the barrier.

  He sensed the jewel’s presence.

  It was you, wasn’t it? Helping me in the battle?

  It was then that Belisarius discovered the third-individual? — who did not share in the general self-satisfaction of the army. The jewel’s thoughts were incoherent, at first. Strangely, there seemed to be some underlying hostility to them. Not reproach, or accusation, as there had been before. More like Yes. Exasperation.

  That’s odd. Why would-

  A thought suddenly came into focus. yes. helped. difficult.

  Then, with a definite sense of exasperation: very difficult.

  Then, much like a younger brother might say to a dimwitted elder: stupid.

  Stupid? What is stupid? you stupid.

  Belisarius sat up, astonished.

  Me? Why am I stupid?

  Extreme exasperation: not you you. all you. all stupid.

  Now, with great force: cretins.

  Belisarius was frowning fiercely. He couldn’t begin to think what might have so upset the jewel.

  He sensed a new concept, a new thought, trying to force its way through the barrier. But the thought fell away, defeated.

  Suddenly a quick vision flashed through his mind:

  A scene from the day’s battle. A mass of cavalrymen, hacking away at each other, falling from their mounts. Knees clenched tightly on the barrel chests of horses. Hands clutching pommels. Men falling from their horses every time they were struck or misjudged their own blows. cretins.

  Another vision. Nothing but a quick flashing image:

  A horseman galloping across the steppe. A barbarian of some kind. Belisarius did not recognize his tribe. He rode his horse with complete grace and confidence. The image flashed to his legs. His feet.

  The thought finally burst through. stirrups.

  Belisarius’ mouth fell open.

  “I’ll be Goddamned,” he whispered. “Why didn’t anybody ever think of that?” stupid.

  David Drake Eric Flint

  An oblique approach

  Chapter 9

  Constantinople

  Autumn, 528 AD

  “The man of the hour!” cried Sittas. “O hail the triumphant conq’rer!” He drained his cup in one quaff. “I’d rise to greet you, Belisarius, but I’m afraid I’d swoon in the presence of so august a personage.” He hiccuped. “I’m given to hero worship, you know. Terrible habit, just terrible.” He seized the flagon resting on the small table next to his couch and waved it about. “I’d pour you a drink, too, but I’m afraid I’d spill the wine. Trembling in the company of so legendary a figure, you understand, like a giddy schoolgirl.”

  Sittas refilled the cup. His meaty hand was steady as a rock.

  “Speaking of which,” he continued, “-giddy schoolgirls, that is-let me introduce you to my friend.” Sittas waved his other hand in the general direction of a woman sitting on the couch next to him. “Irene Macrembolitissa, I present you the famed General Belisarius. And his lovely wife, Antonina.”

  Belisarius advanced across the room and bowed politely-to the woman, not Sittas.

  Irene was quite striking in appearance. Not pretty, precisely, but attractive in a bold sort of way. She had a light complexion, chestnut hair, brown eyes, and a large aquiline nose. She appeared to be in her late twenties, but Belisarius thought she might be older.

  The calm, unreadable expression on Belisarius’ face never wavered. But he was more than a little surprised. Irene was quite unlike Sittas’ usual run of female “friends.” By about fifteen years of age and, the general estimated, twice the intelligence.

  “Don’t look at him too closely, Irene!” warned Sittas. “You never know what can happen with these mythical demigod types. Probably get you pregnant just from his aura.”

  Irene smiled. “Please ignore him. He’s pretending to be drunk.”

  “He’s good at it,” remarked Antonina. “As well he should be, as much practice as he gets.”

  A look of hurt innocence came upon Sittas’ beefy face. It fit very poorly.

  “I am mortified,” he whined. “Outraged. Offended beyond measure.” He drained his cup again, and reached for the flagon. “You see what your insults have done, vile woman? Driven me to drink, by God! To drink!”

  Irene rose and went over to a long table against the far wall of the salon. She returned with a cup in each hand, and gave them to Belisarius and Antonina.

  “Please have a seat,” she said, motioning to another couch nearby. The large room was well-nigh littered with couches, all of them richly upholstered. The colors of the upholstery clashed wildly with the mosaics and tapestries which adorned all the walls. The wall coverings looked to be even more expensive than the couches, for all that they were in exquisitely bad taste.

  After the general and his wife took a seat, Irene filled their cups from another flagon. She placed the flagon on a table and returned to her own couch.

  “Sittas has told me much about you,” Irene said.

  “Did I tell you he has much better taste in furnishings?” muttered Sittas. His beady eyes scanned the room admiringly.

  “Muskrats have better taste
in furnishings than you do, Sittas,” murmured Irene sweetly. She smiled at Belisarius and Antonina. “Isn’t this room hideous?” she asked.

  Antonina laughed. “It’s like a bear’s den.”

  “A very rich bear,” commented Sittas happily. “Who can well afford to ignore the petty artistic quibbling of the lesser sort. Plebeian envy, that’s all it is.” He leaned forward. “But enough of that! Let’s hear it, Belisarius. I want the full account, mind you, the full account. I’ll stand for none of your usual laconicness!”

  “There’s no such word, Sittas,” said Irene.

  “ ’Course there is! I just used it, didn’t I? How could I use a word that doesn’t exist?” He grinned at Belisarius and began to take another swallow of wine. “Now-out with it! How in the world did you swindle the terrible twins out of their army?”

  “I didn’t swindle the twins out of their army. The whole idea’s preposterous, and I’m astonished to hear you parroting it. Coutzes and Bouzes simply had the misfortune of being captured while leading a reconnaissance in force, and I was forced-”

  Sittas choked; spewed wine out of his mouth.

  “Even Justinian doesn’t believe that malarkey!” he protested.

  Belisarius smiled. “To the contrary, Sittas. I am just now returned from a formal audience with the Emperor, at which he indicated not the slightest disbelief in the official report of the battle.”

  “Well, of course he didn’t! Coutzes and Bouzes are Thracian. Justinian’s Thracian.” Sittas eyed Belisarius suspiciously. “You’re Thracian too, for that matter.” He looked at Irene. “They stick together, you know.” Another swallow. “Wretched rustics! A proper Greek nobleman doesn’t stand a chance anymore.” He glared at Belisarius. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  Then, to Irene: “He probably swore an oath. He’s always swearing oaths. Swore his first oath when he was four, to a piglet. Swore he’d never let anyone eat the creature. Kept his oath, too. They say the pig’s still around, roaming the countryside, devouring everything in sight. The Bane of Thrace, the thing’s called now. The peasants are crying out for a new Hercules to come and rid them of the monster.” A belch. “That’s what comes of swearing oaths. Never touch the things, myself.”

  He glared at Belisarius again, then heaved a sigh of resignation. “All right, then. Forget the juicy stuff. Tell me about the battle.”

  “I’m sure you’ve already heard all about it.”

  Sittas sneered. “That crap! By the time courtiers and imperial heralds get through with the tale of a battle, there’s nothing in it a soldier would recognize.” He scowled. “Unfortunately, whatever his other many talents, our Emperor is no soldier. The court’s getting worse, Belisarius. It’s getting packed with creatures like John of Cappadocia and Narses. And the most wretched crowd of quarreling churchmen you ever saw, even by the low standards of that lot.”

  “Don’t underestimate Narses and John of Cappadocia,” said Irene, lightly but seriously.

  “I’m not underestimating them! But-ah, never mind. Later. For the moment-” He set down his cup and leaned forward, elbows on knees. The keen eyes which now gazed at Belisarius had not the slightest trace of drunkenness in them.

  Most people, upon meeting Sittas, were struck by his resemblance to a hog. The same girth, the same heavy limbs, the same pinkish hide-unusually fair for a Greek-the same jowls, blunt snoutish nose, beady little eyes. Belisarius, gazing back at his best friend, thought the resemblance wasn’t inappropriate. So long as you remembered that there are hogs, and then there are hogs. There is the slothful domestic hog in his wallow, a figure of fun and feast. And then, there is the great wild boar of the forest, whose gaze makes bowels turn to water. Whose tusks make widows and orphans.

  “The battle,” commanded the boar.

  Belisarius made no attempt to cut short his recital of the battle. Sittas was himself an accomplished general, and Belisarius knew full well that his friend would not tolerate an abbreviated or sanitized version of the tale. And whatever minor aspects Belisarius overlooked, Sittas was quick to bring forward by his shrewd questioning.

  When he was done, Sittas leaned back in his couch and regarded Belisarius silently. Then: “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Don’t play with me, Belisarius! You provoked the Medes, when you could have stalled. And then you took enough chances to give the Fates themselves apoplexy. Why? There was no point to that battle, and you know it as well as I do.” He waved his hand disgustedly. “Oh, sure, as the courtiers never tire of saying, it’s the greatest victory over the Persians in a century. So what? We’ve been at war with Persia for two thirds of a millennia. Longer than that, for us Greeks. Never be an end to it, unless common sense suddenly rears its ugly head upon the thrones. We’re not strong enough to conquer Persia, and the Medes aren’t strong enough to conquer us. All this warring does is depopulate the border areas and drain both empires. That’s my opinion. And it’s your opinion, too, unless you’ve suddenly been seized by delusions of grandeur. So I ask again: why? ”

  Belisarius was silent. After a moment, Irene smiled faintly and rose.

  “May I show you the gardens, Antonina?”

  Once they were in the gardens, Antonina took a seat on a stone bench.

  “You needn’t bother,” she said. “I’ve seen them before.”

  Irene sat next to her. “Aren’t they something? I’m afraid Sittas’ taste in horticulture is every bit as grotesque as his taste in furnishings.”

  Antonina smiled. Her eye was caught by a statue. The smile turned to a grimace.

  “Not to mention his taste in sculpture.”

  The two women stared at each other for a moment.

  “You’d like to know who I am,” said Irene.

  Antonina nodded. Irene cocked her head quizzically.

  “I’m curious. Why do you assume that I’m something other than Sittas’ latest bedmate?”

  “Two reasons. You’re not his taste in women, not even close. And, if you were one of his usual bedmates, he’d never have invited you to sit in on this meeting.”

  Irene chuckled. “I’m his spy,” she said.

  Seeing the startled look on Antonina’s face, Irene held up a reassuring hand. “I’m afraid that didn’t come out right. I’m not spying on you.” She pursed her lips. “It would be more accurate to say that I’m Sittas’ spymaster. That’s why he asked me to join him in this-meeting. He is concerned, Antonina.”

  “About what? And since when has Sittas needed a spymaster?”

  It was Irene’s turn to look startled. “He’s had a spymaster since he was a boy, practically. All Greek noblemen of his class do.”

  Antonina snorted. “You mean Apollinaris? That pitiful old coot couldn’t find his ass with both hands.”

  Irene smiled. “Oh, I believe Apollinaris could manage that task well enough. In broad daylight, at least. At night, I admit, he would have considerable difficulty.” She brushed back her hair, hesitated, then said:

  “About a year ago, Sittas decided he needed a real spymaster. He inquired in various places, and my services came highly recommended. He retired Apollinaris-on a very nice pension, by the way-and hired me. My cover, so to speak, is that I am his latest paramour.”

  She pursed her lips. “As deceptions go, it has its weaknesses. As you say, I’m not really his type.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “Can you tell me what’s going on in there?” asked Irene, gesturing with her head toward the door to the mansion.

  “No,” replied Antonina. “Not yet, at least. Later-perhaps. But not now.”

  Irene accepted the refusal without protest. A servant appeared, bearing a platter of food and wine, which he set upon a nearby table. Antonina and Irene moved over to the table and spent the next few minutes in companionable silence, enjoying their meal. Whatever his lack of taste in furnishings, neither woman could fault the excellence of Sittas’ kitchen.

  P
ushing aside her plate, Antonina spoke.

  “Please answer the question I asked earlier.”

  Irene’s response was immediate. “The reason Sittas is concerned enough to hire me-and my services don’t come cheaply-is because there’s skullduggery in Constantinople.”

  Antonina snorted. “Please, Irene! Saying there’s skullduggery in Constantinople is like saying there’s shit in a pigsty.”

  Irene nodded. “True. Perhaps I should say: there’s a lot more skullduggery going on than usual, and, what’s of much greater concern, the nature of it’s unclear. Something is afoot in Constantinople, Antonina. Something deep, and well hidden, and cunning, and utterly treacherous. What it is, I have not yet been able to discover. But I can sense it, I can taste it, I can smell it.” Again, she groped for words. “It is- there. Trust me.”

  Antonina arose and began pacing about the garden. She glanced at the door which led back to the interior of the mansion.

  “Will they be finished yet?” asked Irene.

  Antonina shook her head. “No. Sittas will-need time to recover.”

  Irene frowned. “Recover from what?”

  Antonina held up a hand, stilling her. She continued to pace about, frowning. Irene, with the patience of a professional, simply sat and waited.

  After a while, Antonina stopped pacing and came over to Irene. She paused, took a deep breath. Hesitated again.

  A voice came from the doorway. A horrible, croaking voice.

  “Come inside, both of you.”

  Irene gasped. Sittas looked positively haggard. He seemed to have shed fifty pounds.

  Once they were back in the salon, seated on their couches, Sittas croaked: