by Eric Flint
Belisarius was out of his chair and gone in an instant.
"See?" demanded Maurice. "Didn't I say I'd cheer him up?"
An accusation and a reproof
"He just let me go, General," said Valentinian. The cataphract hooked a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the Persian camp. A wild revelry seemed to be going on. "He let all the Roman prisoners go. He told me to tell you that was in exchange for the Rajput prisoners you left in the qanat."
Belisarius scratched his chin. "That I can understand. But why you? I offered him a fortune for your ransom."
Valentinian's narrow face creased into a grin. "If I survive long enough, General, I'll be asking you to remember that ransom. When you decide on a suitable retirement bonus."
Belisarius smiled, nodding. "That I will, Valentinian. You can be sure of it."
There was still a question in his eyes. Valentinian shrugged. "I really don't know, General. But he did say something strange, when I left."
Belisarius cocked his eyebrow. Again, Valentinian shrugged.
"Meant nothing to me. Kind of silly, I thought. But the last thing Damodara said, just as I was getting on the horse, was that he hoped you were a man with a proper respect for grammar."
Belisarius laughed, then. The laughter went on so long that Valentinian started muttering.
That sounded like "cryptic fucking clowns" to me, pronounced Aide.
Me too, replied Belisarius, still laughing. But I'm sure we must be mistaken. Be terribly disrespectful of the high command!
Certainly would! The facets flashed. The crystalline rooster reappeared, its beady eyes filled with accusation. Speaking of which—
The laughter went on and on. Maurice and Antonina emerged from the tent.
"We're in trouble, girl," announced Maurice. "Deep trouble. That drooling idiot's supposed to lead us all to final victory."
Antonina stiffened. "Watch your mouth! That's my husband you're talking about." She frowned. "Even if he is a fucking clown."
THE END
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