An Oblique Approach

The general found it a bit hard not to laugh. Then, thinking it over, he did laugh—a drunken, besotted kind of laugh. Meaningless. He drained his cup and poured himself yet another. From the corner of his eye he caught the Vile One's faint smile.

I'm from Thrace, you jackass. A simple farm boy, at bottom. Raised in the countryside, where there's not much to do but drink. I could have drunk you under the table when I was ten.

"You'll be seeing her soon, then," he exclaimed. "Lucky man!"

He fell back into his seat, hastily grabbing the table to keep from falling. Half the wine sloshed out of his cup, most of it onto the gorgeous rug covering the floor. The candelabra in the center of the table teetered. Venandakatra steadied it hastily with a hand, but not in time to prevent one of the candles from falling.

"Sorry," muttered Belisarius. Venandakatra's expression, for just a fleeting instant, was savage. But he said nothing. He simply placed the candle back in its holder and waved off the mishap with a casual flutter of the fingers.

Belisarius drained what was left in his cup. Venandakatra instantly poured him another.

Blearily, Belisarius grinned at the Malwa lord. Then, leering:

"She'll be a virgin, of course. Bound to be, a princess!" Guffaw, guffaw. "God, there's nothing like a virgin! Love the way they squeal when you stick 'em!"

He shook a sage, cautioning finger in Venandakatra's direction. A solemn look fell on his face—one experienced pedophile advising another.

"Make sure you watch her well, mind! A prize like that? Ha! Surround her with eunuchs, I would, or priests sworn to celibacy. Better yet—eunuch priests." Guffaw, guffaw. "And then I'd check under their robes!"

He half-choked on another swallow of wine, then added: "We have an old saying in Rome, you know: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"

Venandakatra frowned. "I'm afraid I don't speak Latin."

"Ah. I assumed—my apologies—your Greek is excellent." Belch. "Well, it basically translates as: Who will guard the guardians? What it means is, how shall I—"

"I understand perfectly well what it means!" snapped Venandakatra.

Oh, my. Isn't he testy? Time to extract the blade.

And nick him elsewhere, so he doesn't notice that he's bleeding to death.

"But that's enough talk of women!" roared Belisarius. "Worthless cunts, all of 'em. Beneath our notice, except when we're in the mood for humping. We're men of affairs, you and I. Important men."

He reached over the table for the wine, lost his balance, fell to the floor. "Bitches, all of them," he muttered, staggering to his feet. "Treacherous sluts." He groped his way back into his chair.

"Good for fucking, and that's it," grumbled the general, glaring at the table. Venandakatra poured him another cup. From the corner of his eye, again, Belisarius caught Venandakatra's expression. Contempt, overlaying worry.

Now I have but to lay opportunity over contempt, and the worry will work its way to the heart, free of suspicion.

"Men of affairs, I say," he repeated, slurring the words. "Important men." He grit his teeth. "Important men."

Venandakatra slid in his own blade.

"So we are, my friend. Although"—slight hesitation, discreet pause—"not always appreciated, perhaps."

Belisarius' jaws tightened. "Isn't that the fucking truth? Isn't it just? My own—"

Careful. He's not stupid.

Belisarius waved his hand. "Never mind," he mumbled.

The Vile One struck again.

First, he took a sip from his own cup. The first sip in an hour, by Belisarius' estimation. (Never underestimate the foe, of course. Who knows? The Roman might not be quite as drunk as he looks.)

"I am fortunate in that regard," remarked Venandakatra idly. "The Emperor Skandagupta is always appreciative of my efforts on his behalf. Always fair, in his criticisms. Mild criticisms, never more than that. And he gives me his full trust, unstintingly."

Belisarius peered at him suspiciously. But it was obvious the suspicion was directed toward the statement, not the speaker of it.

"Oh, no—it's quite true, I assure you."

"Hard to believe," muttered Belisarius resentfully. "In my experience—"

He fell silent, again. "Ah, what's the use?" he mumbled. "Emperors are emperors, and that's that." He seemed lost in his own thoughts. Bleak, bitter thoughts. Black thoughts, drunken thoughts.

Time. As Valentinian says, be economical with the blade.

He lurched to his feet; planted his hands on the table to steady himself.