He broke off, sighing. "The problem's not with her, general. Or with me, for that matter. It's—it's—" He waved a hand, weakly. "It's the way things are, that's all. She's a Persian noblewoman. I'm a fucking baker's son with a battlefield rank in the military nobility."
Agathius glanced around the luxurious chamber, for a moment, as if assessing its value.
"I've still got plenty of booty left, from Anatha—a damn little fortune, by my old standards. But it's really not going to last more than a year or two. Not the way I have to live, if I'm to meet her expectations—and, even more, the expectations of her family.
"I've got to face facts, general. I'm a legless cataphract—which is the most ridiculous thing in the world—whose only other skill is baking bread. There's no way I can—"
He gaped, then, seeing his general burst into riotous laughter.
Gaped. That was the last reaction he had been expecting.
With a fierce struggle, Belisarius forced his laughter down. "Oh, God, I am sorry," he said weakly, wiping his eyes. "I feel so guilty, now. I wanted the pleasure of telling you myself. I had to come to Peroz-Shapur anyway, to refit the army, and so I thought I'd bring the news personally instead of just sending it by courier."
Agathius' face was a study in confusion. "News? What news?"
Belisarius was grinning now. And there was not a trace of crookedness in that expression, not a trace.
He hauled out the scroll. "As soon as it was clear that we'd driven the Malwa back to Charax, I sent—well, `recommendations' is hardly the word. Emperor or no, he's still my kid. I gave Photius firm and clear instructions, and, I'm pleased to say, the marvelous boy followed them to perfection."
He handed over the scroll. "Here you are. The official document will arrive by courier, some weeks from now. This is a copy sent over the semaphore line. Doesn't matter. It's as good as gold."
Gingerly, Agathius took the scroll. In an instant, Belisarius' quick mind understood the expression on the man's face.
"You can't read," he stated.
Agathius shook his head. "No, sir. Not really. I can sign my name well enough, as long as I've got some time. But—"
He fell silent. Not from embarassment so much as frustration.
The embarassment, in that moment, was entirely Belisarius'. The general should have remembered that a man of Agathius' background was almost certain to be illiterate.
The general waved his hand, as if brushing aside insects.
"Well, that'll have to change. Right off. I'll send word to Patriarch Anthony to send one of his best monks to be your tutor. Two of them, now that I think about it. Sudaba's probably not literate, either. Not a dehgan's daughter."
Grinning:
"Can't have that. Not in the wife of a Roman Senator, recently enrolled in the ranks of the Empire's illustres. By unanimous acclaim, mind you. I also got a private message from Sittas. He tells me the Emperor's nomination was extremely—ah, firm. Sittas himself took the occasion to appear before the Senate in full armor. In recognition—or so he told those fine aristocratic fellows—of the valor of the Greek cataphracts at Anatha and the Nehar Malka."
Grinning:
"The Emperor also saw fit to give the new Senator a grant of royal land, in keeping with his exalted status. An estate you've got now, Agathius, in Pontus. Quite a substantial one. Annual income's in the vicinity of three hundred solidi. Tax-exempt, of course. As an imperial grant, it's res privata."
Grinning, grinning:
"Oh, yes. There's real soldier business, too, in addition to all the Senatorial fooferaw. You've been promoted. You're the new Dux of Osrhoene. That post carries an excellent salary, by the way. Another four hundred solidi. In addition to the troops stationed in that province, you have complete authority over all Roman military units serving in Persian Mesopotamia which are not directly under my command. You report only to me, in my capacity as magister militum per orientem."
Grinning, grinning, grinning:
"As you can see, I've picked up a few new titles of my own. As Dux of Osrhoene, your official headquarters will be located at the provincial capital of Edessa. But I'd really prefer it if you based yourself here, in Peroz-Shapur. I've already discussed the matter with Baresmanas and Kurush, and they have no objection whatsoever. Quite the contrary, actually. They're even hinting that Khusrau will insist on presenting you with a palace. I think they would feel a lot more secure in Rome's allegiance if the commander of the Roman forces was planted right in their own territory. Along with his Persian wife and—"
Grinning, grinning, grinning, grinning:
"—soon enough, I've no doubt, a slew of children."
The grin finally faded, replaced by something which was almost a frown. "God in Heaven, Aga-thius! Did you really think I'd let one of the finest officers I've ever had go back to baking bread? On account of his legs?"
Agathius was speechless.
Belisarius rose, smiling crookedly.
"You're speechless, I see. Well, that's good enough for today. But make sure you've got your wits about you by tomorrow—Duke. I'll be coming by, first thing in the morning. We've got a new campaign to plan, against Malwa. You won't be riding any horses in that campaign—you'll be staying right here in Peroz-Shapur—but I'll be relying on you to organize the whole Roman effort to back me up."
"I won't fail you," whispered Agathius.
"No," agreed Belisarius. "I don't imagine you will."
He turned away. "And now, I'll go tell your wife she can come back in. Best thing for you, I think."
He left, then, murmuring a little verse.
"Think where man's glory most begins and ends
And say my glory was I had such friends."
A captor and his captives
Two hours later, Belisarius was enjoying a cup of wine with Vasudeva in the barracks where the Kushan captives were quartered. A very small cup of wine.
"The Persians are back to their stingy habits," groused Vasudeva. The Kushan commander cast a sour look around the dingy room. He, along with fifteen of his top officers, were crammed into a space that would have comfortably fit six.
"Crowded, crowded," he grumbled. "One man uses another for a pillow, and yet another for a bed. Men wail in terror, entering the latrines. Leaving, they blubber like babes."
Glumly:
"Nothing to wager on, except whether we will eat the rats or they, us. Every Kushan is betting on the rats. Ten-to-one odds. No takers."
Philosophically:
"Of course, our misery will be brief. Plague will strike us down soon enough. Though some are offering odds on scurvy."
Belisarius smiled. "Get to the point, Vasudeva."
The Kushan commander tugged his goatee. "It's difficult, difficult," he muttered. "There are the proprieties to consider. People think we Kushans are an uncouth folk, but they are quite mistaken. Naturally, we have no truck with that silly Rajput business of finding a point of honor in the way you trim your beard, or peel a fruit. Still—" He sighed. "We are slaves. War captives taken in fair battle. Bound to respect our position, so long as we are not belittled."
From lowered eyelids, he gave Belisarius a keen scrutiny. "You understand, perhaps?"
The Roman general nodded. "Most certainly. As you say, the proprieties must be observed. For instance—" He drained his cup, then, grimaced. "Nasty stuff! I've gotten spoiled on that good Roman campaign wine, I suppose."
He wiped his lips, and continued, "For instance, if I were to bring you along on my next campaign as a slave labor force, the situation would be impossible. War captives used for labor must be closely guarded. Everyone knows that."
All the Kushans in the room nodded solemnly.
"Unthinkable to do otherwise," agreed Vasudeva. "Foolish for the captor, insulting to the captive."