by Eric Flint
Eventually, however, he emerged. A new sense of duty had fallen on the boy's little shoulders, and he knew that his stepfather had many responsibilities of his own that day.
"All right," he sighed, after closing the door behind him. "Let's go. What's first?"
Julian grinned down at him. "Your tutor in rhetoric insists—insists—that you must see him at once. Something to do with tropes, I believe. He says your slackness in mastering synecdoche has become a public scandal."
Glumly, Photius began trudging down the corridor. "That's great," he muttered. "Just great." The boy craned his neck, looking up at Julian's homely, ruddy-hued face. "Do you have any idea how boring that man is?"
"Look at it this way, Emperor. Some day you'll be able to have him executed for high tedium."
Photius scowled. "No I won't. I think he's already dead."
Trudge, trudge.
"Life was a lot more fun, before they made me Emperor."
Trudge, trudge.
* * *
Before mounting his horse, Belisarius gave Antonina a last, lingering embrace.
"How long, do you think?" she whispered.
Her husband shrugged. "Impossible to tell, love. If things go as we've planned—and that's a big if—we won't see each other for a year and a half, thereabouts. You'll have to wait until July of next year for the monsoon to be blowing the way we need it."
She grimaced. "What a way to meet."
Belisarius smiled. "That's if things go as planned. If they don't—who knows? We may meet sooner."
Staring up at him, Antonina found it impossible to match his smile. She knew the unspoken—and far more likely—corollary.
If our plans fail, one or both of us will probably be dead.
She buried her face into his shoulder. "Such a long time," she murmured. "You've only been back for a few months since your trip to India. And that lasted a year and a half."
Belisarius stroked her long black hair. "I know. But it can't be helped."
"Damn Theodora," hissed Antonina. "If it weren't for her obsession with keeping the gunpowder weapons under female control, I wouldn't have to—"
"That's nonsense!" snapped Belisarius. He took his wife by the shoulders and held her away from him. Then, with none of his usual whimsy, said:
"Even if Theodora didn't have her foibles, I'd insist that you command the Theodoran Cohort. You're the best person for the job. It's that simple."
Antonina stared back at him for a moment, before lowering her eyes. "So long," she whispered. "A year and a half." Suddenly, unexpectedly, she smiled. "But at least we'll be able to stay in touch. I almost forgot—a present came from John of Rhodes yesterday."
She turned and summoned a servant standing nearby in the courtyard. The man advanced, bearing a package wrapped in heavy layers of wool.
Antonina took the package from him and unfolded the cloth. Within, carefully nestled, were two identical objects.
She held one of them out to her husband.
"Here they are. John's first telescopes. One for you and one for me."
Grinning delightedly, Belisarius immediately began looking through the telescope. He became so entranced with the marvelous contrivance that he momentarily forgot everything else, until Antonina's little cough brought him back.
"Wonderful," he said, wrapping the telescope back into the woolen cloths. "With these, and the new semaphore stations, we'll be able to communicate within days."
Antonina chuckled. "Once the stations are built, that is. And assuming John can produce enough of the telescopes."
"They will and he will," said her husband confidently. He stroked her cheek. "Count on it, love. Within a few months, you'll get your first message from me."
There was nothing more to be said. For a moment, husband and wife gazed at each other. Then, a last embrace; a last kiss. Belisarius mounted his horse and rode out of the courtyard, Maurice at his side. His two personal bodyguards, Anastasius and Valentinian, followed just behind.
At the gate, Belisarius turned in his saddle and waved. Antonina did not wave back. She simply held up the telescope.
"I'll be waiting for your message!" she shouted.
An hour later, Irene arrived, bearing her own cloth-wrapped gifts.
"Don't drop them!" she warned Antonina, as she passed the bundle over. "I stole them from Theodora's own wine cellar. Best vintage in the Roman Empire."
Antonina staggered a bit, from the weight.
"Mother of God, how many bottles did you bring?"
Irene propelled her little friend down the corridor. "As many as we need to get you through the day. Tradition, girl, tradition. The last time Belisarius went off on one of these quests, you and I got blind drunk. Well, you did. I was simply there to lend a comforting shoulder."
"Lying wench!" squawked Antonina. "You passed out before I did."
"A fable," stated Irene firmly. "I fell asleep, that's all."
Antonina snorted. "Sure. On the floor, flat on your belly."
"I've only got your word for that," came the dignified response. "Hearsay, pure hearsay."
Once in the salon, Antonina lined up the bottles on a side table. "Like so many soldiers," she murmured admiringly.
Irene seized the first bottle. "It'll be a massacre. Get the goblets."
Two hours later, well into the carnage, Antonina hiccuped.
"'Nough o' this maudlinnininess!" Another hiccup. "Le'ss look t'the future! Be leaving soon, we will. For Egypt. 'S'my homeland, y'know?" Hiccup. "Land o' my birt. Birth."
Studiously, she poured more wine into her goblet. "I'm still s'prised Theodora agreed t'let you go," she said. "Never thought she let her chief spy"—giggle—"spy-ess, should say, out of her zight. Sight."
Irene's shrug was a marvel—a simple gesture turned into a profound, philosophical statement.
"What else c'ld she do? Somebody has to go to India. Somebody 'as to rish—re-ish—" Deep breath; concentration. "Re-es-ta-blish contact with Shakuntala."
Irene levered herself up on the couch, assuming a proud and erect stance. The dignity of the moment, alas, was undermined by flatulence.
"How gross," she pronounced, as if she were discussing someone else's gaucherie. Then, breezed straight on to the matter at hand. Again, a pronouncement:
"I am the obvious person for the job. My qualifications are immense. Legion, I dare say."
"Ha!" barked Antonina. "You're a woman, that's it. Who else would Theodora trust for that kind of—of—of—" She groped for the words.
"Subtle statecraft," offered Irene. "Deft diplomacy."
Antonina sneered. "I was thinking more along the lines of—of—"
"Sophisticated stratagems. Sagacious subterfuges."
"—of—of—"
"Dirty rotten sneaky—"
" 'At's it! 'At's it!"
Both women dissolved into uproarious laughter. This went on for a bit. Quite a bit. A sober observer might have drawn unkind conclusions.
Eventually, however, they settled down. Another bottle was immediately brought to the execution block. Half the bottle gone, Antonina peered at Irene solemnly.
"Hermogenes'll be staying wit' me, you know. In Egypt. After we part comp'ny and you head off t'India. You'll be having your own heartbreak then. But we prob'ly won' be able to commimmi—commiserate—properly. Then. Be too busy. Ressaponzabilities. So we better do it now."
Irene sprawled back on her couch. "Too late. 'S'already done." She shook her head sadly. "Hermo-genes and I are hic—" Hiccup. "Are hic— Dammit! Hist—hicstory. Dammit! History."
Antonina's eyes widened.
"What? But I heard—rumor flies—he asked you to marry him."
Irene winced. "Yes, he did. I'd been dreading it for months. That was the death-knell, of course."
Seeing her friend's puzzled frown, Irene laughed. Half-gaily; half-sadly.
"Sweet woman," she murmured. "You forget Hermogenes's not Belisarius." She spread her hands ruefully. Then, remembering too late
that one hand held a full wine goblet, stared even more ruefully at the floor.
"Sorry about that," she muttered.
Antonina shrugged. "We've got servants to clean it up. Lots of 'em."
"Don't care about th'floor! Best wine in the Roman Empire." She tore her eyes from the gruesome sight. Tried to focus on Antonina.
"Something about Hermogenes not being Belisarius," prompted the little Egyptian. "But I don't see the point. You don't have a disreputable past to live down, like I did." Giggle. "Still do, actually. That's the thing about the past, you know? Since it's over it never goes away and you're always stuck with the damned thing." Her eyes almost crossed with deep thought. "Hey, that's philosophical. I bet even Plato never said it so well."
Irene smiled. "It's not the past that's the problem. With me and Hermogenes. It's the future. Hermogenes—" She waved her hand again, but managed to restrain the gesture before adding further insult to the best vintage in the Roman Empire. "—Hergomenes," she continued. "He's a sweet man, no doubt about it. But—conventional, y'know? Outside of military tactics, anyway. He wants a proper Greek wife. Matron. Not—" She sighed, slumping back into the couch. "Not a spymaster who's out and about doing God knows what at any hour of the day and night."
Irene stared sadly at her half-filled wine goblet. Then, drained away her sorrows.
Antonina peered at her owlishly.
"You sure?" she asked. Irene lurched up and tottered over to the wine-bearing side-table. Another soldier fell to the fray.
"Oh, yes," she murmured. She turned and stared down at Antonina, maintaining a careful balance. "Do I really seem like the matron-type to you?"
Antonina giggled; then, guffawed.
Irene smiled. "No, not hardly." She shrugged fatalistically. "Fact is, I don't think I'll ever marry. I'm jus—I don' know. Too—I don' know. Something. Can't imagine a man who'd live wit' it."
She staggered back to her couch and collapsed upon it.
Antonina examined her. "Does that bother you?" she asked, very slowly and carefully.
Irene stared at the far wall. "Yes," she replied softly. Sadly.
But a moment later, with great vehemence, she shook her head.
" 'Nough o' this maudilinitity!" she cried, raising her goblet high. " 'Ere's to adaventureness!"
Two hours later, Antonina gazed down at Irene in triumph. "Belly down, onna floor, jus' like I said."
She lurched to her feet, holding the last wine bottle aloft like a battle standard. "Vittorous again!" she cried. Then, proving the point, collapsed on top of her friend.
The servants who carried the two women into Antonina's bedroom a short time later neither clucked with scandal nor muttered with disrespect. Not with Julian and three other grinning bucellarii following close behind, ready to enforce Thracian protocol.
"Let 'em sleep it off together," commanded Julian.
He turned to his comrades.
"Tradition."
Thracian heads nodded solemnly.
The next morning, after he entered the bedchamber, Photius was seized with dismay.
"Where's my mother?" he demanded.
Irene's eyes popped open. Closed with instant pain.
"Where's my mother?" he cried.
Irene stared at him through slitted eyelids.
"Who're you?" she croaked.
"I'm the Emperor of Rome!"
Irene hissed. "Fool boy. Do you know how many Roman emperors have been assassinated?"
"Where's my mother?"
Her eyelids crunched with agony. "Yell one more time and I'll add another emperor to the list."
She dragged a pillow over her head. From beneath the silk-covered cushion her voice faintly emerged:
"Go away. If you want your stupid mother—the drunken sot—go look for her somewhere else."
"Where's my mother?"
"Find the nearest horse. Crazy woman'll be staring at it."
After the boy charged out of the room, heading for the stables, Irene gingerly lifted the pillow. The blinding sight of sunrise filtering through the heavy drapes immediately sent her scurrying back for cover. Only her voice remained at large in the room.
"Stupid fucking tradition."
Moan.
"Why can't that woman just commit suicide like any reasonable abandoned wife?"
Moan.
Chapter 7
MESOPOTAMIA
Summer, 531 a.d.
When he encountered the first units from the Army of Syria, just outside Callinicum, Belisarius heaved a small sigh of relief.
Baresmanas, riding next to him at the head of the column, said nothing. But the very stillness of his face gave him away.
"Go ahead and laugh," grumbled Belisarius.
Baresmanas did not take Belisarius up on the offer. Diplomatic tact was far too ingrained in his habits. He simply nodded his head, and murmured in return:
"There are certain disadvantages to elite troops from the capital, accustomed to imperial style. It cannot be denied."
The sahrdaran twisted in his saddle and looked back at the long column. The cavalrymen were riding along a road near the right bank of the Euphrates. The road was not paved, but it was quite wide and well-maintained. The road ran from Callinicum to the Cilician Gates, passing through the river towns of Barbalissus and Zeugma. It was the principal route bearing trade goods between the Roman Empire and Persia.
Belisarius' own bucellarii rode at the head of the column—a thousand cataphracts, three abreast, maintaining good order. Behind them came the small contingent of artillery wagons and ambulances, along with the ten rocket-bearing chariots which the general had dubbed katyushas. These vehicles were also maintaining a good order.
Then—
Straggling and straying, drifting and disjointed, came the remaining twenty-five hundred heavy cavalry in Belisarius' little army.
The majority of these—two thousand men—were from the Constantinople garrison. The remainder were from Germanicus' Army of Illyria. The Illyrians had maintained a semblance of good order for the first few hundred miles of their forced march. Unlike the troops from the capital, they had some recent experience on campaign. But even they, by the time the army passed through the Cilician Gates into the northern desert of Syria, had become as disorganized as the Greek cataphracts.
Disorganized—and exceedingly disgruntled.
The troops were much too far back for Baresmanas to hear their conversations, but he had no difficulty imagining them. He had been listening to their grousing for days, even weeks. The troops from Constantinople, in particular, had not been hesitant in making their sentiments known, each and every night, as they slumped about their campfires.
Crazy fucking Thracian.
How did this lunatic ever get to be a general, anyway?
By the time we get there, a litter of kittens could whip us, we'll be so worn out.
Crazy fucking Thracian.
How did this lunatic ever get to be a general, anyway?
"You have been pushing them rather hard," said Baresmanas.
Belisarius snorted. "You think so?" He turned in his own saddle, scowling. "In point of fact, Bares-manas, the pace we've been maintaining since we left Constantinople is considerably less than my own troops are accustomed to. For my bucellarii, this has been a pleasant promenade."
His scowl deepened. "Two months—to cover six hundred miles. Twenty miles a day, no better. For a large infantry army, that would be good. But for a small force of cavalrymen—on decent roads, most of the time—it's disgraceful."
Now, Barasmanas did laugh. More of a dry chuckle, perhaps. He pointed to the small group, led by two officers, trotting toward them from the direction of Callinicum.
"I take it you think these Syrian lads will be a good influence."
Belisarius examined the approaching Roman soldiers. "Not exactly. Those damned garritroopers are too full of themselves to take a bunch of scruffy border troops as an example. But I do believe I can use them to
shame the bastards."
The oncoming officers were now close enough to discern their individual features.
"If I'm not mistaken," commented Baresmanas, "the two in front are Bouzes and Coutzes. The same brothers whom we captured just a few days before the battle at Mindouos. While they were—ah—"
"Leading a reconnaisance in force," said Belisarius firmly.
"Ah. Is that what it was?"
The sahrdaran's eyebrows lifted.
"At the time, I had the impression the headstrong fellows were charging about trying to capture a mysterious pay caravan which, oddly enough, was never found by anyone."
Belisarius shook his head sadly. "Isn't it just terrible? The way vicious rumors get started?"
Very firmly:
"Reconnaissance in force."
Less than a minute later, the oncoming Romans reached Belisarius. The general reined in his horse. Behind him, the long column came to a halt. A moment later, Maurice drew up alongside.
Bouzes and Coutzes sat in their saddles stiff-backed and erect. Their young faces were reasonably expressionless, but it took no great perspicacity to deduce that they were more than a bit apprehensive. Their last encounter with Belisarius had been unfortunate, to say the least.
But Belisarius had known that the brothers would be leading the troops from the Army of Syria, and he had already decided on his course of action. Whatever hotheaded folly the two had been guilty of in the past, both Sittas and Hermogenes had been favorably impressed by the brothers in the three years which had elapsed since the battle of Mindouos.
So he greeted them with a wide smile and an outstretched hand, and made an elaborate show of introducing them to Baresmanas. He was a bit concerned, for a moment, that the brothers might behave rudely toward the sahrdaran. Bouzes and Coutzes, during the time he had worked with them leading up to the battle of Mindouos, had been quite vociferous regarding their dislike for Persians. But the brothers allayed that concern immediately.
As soon as the introductions were made, Coutzes said to Baresmanas:
"Your nephew Kurush has already arrived at Callinicum. Along with seven hundred of your cavalrymen. They've set up camp just next to our own."
