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!”
David Drake Eric Flint
An oblique approach
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.