by Eric Flint
* * *
"What are you playing at?" Holkar demanded, after he and Kungas left the Empress' chamber. "You know how critical this question is! You and I have spoken on the matter before—many times."
Kungas stopped abruptly. Dadaji did likewise. The two men stood in the corridor for a moment, staring at each other. The peshwa, angry. The Bhatasvapati—amused, perhaps.
"Not quite, Dadaji," came the mild response. "You have spoken to me on this matter, that is true. Many times. But all I ever said was that I agreed that Shakuntala's marriage—whenever and however it comes—will be a decisive moment for our struggle."
Holkar frowned. "Yes. And so?"
Kungas twitched his shoulders. It might have been called a shrug.
"So—that does not mean I agree that she should marry the youngest son of the King of Tamraparni. I think she can do better."
Holkar, scowling: "With whom? Chola? If, of course, the Cholas even—"
"Who is to say, who is to say?" interrupted Kungas. Again, that little vestige of a shrug. The Bhatasvapati took his friend by the arm. "You should have more confidence in the Empress, Dadaji. When the time comes, she will know what to do. I am sure of it."
Silence followed, as the two men resumed their progress down the corridor. On the part of Kungas, it was an inscrutable sort of silence. On the part of Holkar, an irritable one.
Had the peshwa known the thoughts of the Bhatasvapati, at that moment, he would have been considerably more than irritated.
Dig in your heels, girl, dig in your heels. Stall. Make excuses. Dither. I will help, I will help. When the question of marriage is finally posed, you will know what to do. Then, you will know.
The Bhatasvapati shook his head, slightly, thinking of the strange blindness in the people around him.
So obvious!
A general and his officer
Within a minute of his arrival in Agathius' room, Belisarius knew that the crippled officer was preoccupied with something. The cataphract was plucking at the sheets of his bed, as if distracted. The motion seemed to make his wife nervous. Or perhaps it was just that the young girl was fussing over her injured husband, the way she kept fluffing his pillows and stroking his hair.
Belisarius decided that he should come to the point. He began pulling a scroll from his tunic.
At that moment, however, Agathius turned to his wife and said, "Would you leave us for a moment, Sudaba? I have something I must discuss privately with the general."
Sudaba nodded. Then, after a last fluff of the pillows and a quick smile at Belisarius, scurried from the room. Belisarius was struck by the way Agathius watched her as she went. Odd, really. He seemed like a man trying to burn an image into his memory.
Once the Persian girl was gone, Agathius took a deep breath and looked to the general.
"I need your advice," he said abruptly. "I will have to divorce Sudaba, now, and I want to make sure—if it can be done—that the divorce does not cause problems for you. With your alliance with the Persians, I mean."
He spoke the sentences quickly, but clearly, in the way a determined man announces a decision which he does not like but must carry out.
Belisarius' jaw dropped. It was the last thing he had been expecting to hear.
"Divorce Sudaba?" His eyes wandered about, for an instant, as if searching for rhyme and reason hidden away in a corner of the room.
"But—why?"
Agathius' face grew pinched. With a sudden, quick flip of his muscular wrist, the cataphract twitched aside the blankets covering his body. From the hips and above, that body was still as broad-shouldered and thick-chested as ever. A bit wasted, perhaps, from his long weeks of bed-ridden recovery, but not much.
His legs, however—even that part of his legs which still remained—were pitiful remnants of the powerful limbs which had once gripped a warhorse in the fury of a battlefield.
"Look at me," he said. Not with anger so much as resignation.
Belisarius frowned. Scratched his chin. "It does not seem to me that Sudaba cares, Agathius. Judging from what I can see, I think she is not put off—"
"Not that," growled Agathius. The man's usual good humor made a brief re-entry. "Far as that goes, I think she's happier than ever," he chuckled. "I'm here all the time now, where she can get her hands on me. And there's nothing wrong with my—"
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. Tha
t 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."
"Yes. But since I will be undertaking a campaign of rapid maneuvers—feints, forced marches, counter-marches, that sort of thing—it would be impossible to detail any troops to waste their time overseeing a lot of surly, disgruntled slaves. Who would slow us down enormously, in any event, since they'd have to march on foot. Can't have slaves riding horses! Ridiculous. They could escape."
"Most improper," intoned Vasudeva. "Grotesque."
Belisarius scratched his chin. "It's difficult, difficult."
He raised his hand.
"A moment, please, while I consider the problem."
He lowered his head, as if in deep contemplation. Sent a thought inward.
Aide?
Piece of cake.
* * *
When Belisarius raised his head, a familiar expression had returned to his face. Seeing that crooked smile, the Kushans grinned.
He gave Vasudeva—and then, the other Kushan officers—a keen scrutiny of his own.
"You have heard, perhaps, that I have some small ability to see the future."
Vasudeva snorted. "You are a witch! Everyone knows that. Not even thumb-sucking Persians will take our wagers on that subject. And we offered very excellent odds. Twelve to one."
Belisarius chuckled.
"Slavery is an interesting condition, Vasudeva. It takes many forms. Different in the past than in the present. And different still, in the future. Many forms."
He leaned forward. Sixteen Kushans did likewise.
"Let me tell you about some slaves of the future."
Leaned forward. Leaned forward.
"They will be called—Mamelukes."
A message and a promise
When Antonina opened the door, Koutina hurried into her bedroom.
"I was hoping you'd still be awake," said the maid, "even though you left the birthday celebration so early."
Her young face was eager, almost avid. She held out a sheet of papyrus.
"It's a message! A message! For you! They say it came by the semaphore network—all the way from Mesopotamia!"
As she passed the paper over, Koutina added, "I think it's from your husband. I'm not sure. I can't read."
Uncertainly:
"Though it seems awfully short."
Antonina studied the message. Koutina was quite right, she saw. It was a very short message.
Just long enough. Her heart soared.
Next year, love. Next year.
"Yes," she whispered. "I will be there. I promise."
An emperor and his people
The morning after his birthday party, Emperor Photius made his way to the servant quarters of his palace.
Trudge, trudge, trudge.
Some of the nine-year-old boy's gloom came from simple weariness. The birthday party had been a tense, unhappy, and exhausting affair. What with the huge crowd, and the presentation of the Senators, and the ever-critical eye and tongue of the Empress Regent, Photius had enjoyed himself about as much as a sheep enjoys its shearing. Or a lamb, its slaughter.
Mostly, though, his black and dispirited thoughts came from The News.
Theodora had told him last night, just before the party began. Much as Photius imagined a farmer tells his piglet, "How marvelous! Aren't you just the fattest little thing?"
Reaching his destination, Photius knocked on the door. That was the only door which the Emperor of Rome ever knocked upon. All others were opened on his command.
The door to the modest apartment in the palace's servant quarters swung open. A young woman stood in the doorway. She was quite a pretty woman, despite the scars on her face.
"Oh, look! It's Photius!"
She smiled and stepped aside.
"Come in, boy, come in."
As he stepped through the door, Photius felt his melancholy begin to li
ft. Entering the living quarters of Hypatia and her husband Julian always cheered him up. It was the only place in the world where Photius still felt like himself. Hypatia had been his nanny since he was a toddler. And, though Julian had only become his chief bodyguard recently, Photius had known him for years. Julian had been one of Belisarius' bucellarii.
Julian himself now appeared, emerging into the small salon from the kitchen. He held a cup of wine in one hand.
Grinning cheerfully. The same cheerful grin the man had worn the first time Photius met him, at the estate in Daras. Photius had been six years old, watching wide-eyed from his bed while a burly cataphract climbed through his window and padded over to the door leading to Hypatia's quarters. Cheerfully urging the boy to keep quiet. Which Photius had, that night and all the nights which followed.
"Welcome, Emperor!" boomed Julian.
"Don't call me that," grumbled Photius.
Julian's grin widened.
"Feeling grouchy, are we? What's the matter? Did your tutors criticize your rhetoric? Or did the Empress Regent find some fault with your posture?"
"Worse," moaned Photius. "Terrible."
"Well, lad, why don't you come into the inner sanctum and tell us all about it?" Julian placed a large hand on the boy's shoulder and guided him into the kitchen. Hypatia followed on their footsteps.
The room—the largest in the apartment, by a goodly measure—was crowded, as usual. Two of Julian's fellow cataphracts were lounging about the huge wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. Wine cups in hand, as usual. Their wives and mothers busied about preparing the midday meal, while a small horde of children scampered in and out of the room, shrieking in play.
As usual.
"Hail, Photius! Rex Imperator!" cried out one of the cataphracts, lifting his cup. Marcus, that was.
The other, Anthony by name, matched the gesture. And the words, though he slurred them badly.
Julian plunked himself down at the table and said, "Ignore them, lad. They're already drunk. As usual, on their day off."
