An Oblique Approach

"Because they know that they will never find themselves dying in agony, on a field of battle somewhere, because their general sent them there out of pride, or honor, or valor, or vainglory, or for any other reason than it was the best place for them to be in order to do the work properly." The smile grew crooked. "And that's why Maurice will see to it that a certain pimp named Constans gets his deserts."

Antonina was still. Very treacherous ground.

Belisarius started laughing. "Did you really think I wouldn't see past your scheme, once I had time to think about it?" He released her and stretched his arms languorously. "After I woke up, feeling better than I've felt in months, and could think without my thoughts clouded with fury?"

She glanced at him sideways. Then, after a moment, began laughing herself. "I thought I'd pulled it off perfectly. The little tremors, hesitations, the slight tinge of fear in the voice—"

"The enticing roll of the rump was particularly good," said Belisarius. "But it's what gave it all away, in the end. When we play our little game you always try to win, even if you enjoy losing. You certainly don't wave your delicious ass under my nose, like waving a red flag before a bull."

"And with much the same result," she murmured. A moment later: "You're not angry?"

"No," he replied, smiling. "I began to be, at first, until I remembered Valentinian's little whisper to Maurice: `You know he won't tell you himself.' "

"Maurice took Valentinian?"

"And Anastasius."

Antonina clapped her hand over her mouth.

"Oh, God! I almost feel sorry for that stinking pimp."

"I don't," snarled Belisarius. "Not in the slightest." He took a deep breath, blew it out.

"I pretended I didn't hear Valentinian, but—it is hard, for a quirky man like me, with my weird pride, to accept that people love him. And that he forces them to manipulate him, at times." He gave his crooked smile. "Would you believe, Anastasius actually said—" Here Belisarius' voice became a rumbling basso: " `violent characters, your pimps.' "

"Anastasius can bend horseshoes with his hands," choked Antonina.

"And then Valentinian whined: `stab you in the back in a minute.' "

Antonina couldn't speak at all, now, from the laughter.

"Oh, yes. Exactly his words. Valentinian—who is widely suspected to wipe his ass with a dagger, since nobody's ever seen him without one."

For a time, husband and wife were silent, simply staring at each other. Then, Antonina whispered:

"There will never be any truth to the tales, Belisarius. I swear before God. Never. A month from now, a year from now, ten years from now. You will always be able to ask, and the answer will always be: no."

He smiled and kissed her gently.

"I know. And I swear this, before God: I will never ask."

He rose to his feet.

"And now, we must get back to work." He strode to the door and called into the hallway beyond: "Dubazes! Fetch Michael and the bishop, if you would!"

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Framed

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Chapter 5

MINDOUOS

Summer, 528 AD

"Out." Belisarius' eyes were like dark stones, worn smooth in a stream. Cold, pitiless pieces of an ancient mountain.

"Out," he repeated. The fat officer standing rigidly before him began to protest again, then, seeing the finality in the general's icy gaze, waddled hastily out of the command tent.

"See to it that he's on the road within the hour," said Belisarius to Maurice. "And watch who he talks to on his way out. His friends will commiserate with him, and those friends will likely have the same habits."

"With pleasure, sir." The hecatontarch motioned to one of the three Thracian cataphracts who were standing quietly in the rear of the tent. The cataphract, a stocky man in his mid-thirties, grinned evilly and began to leave.

"On your way out, Gregory," said Belisarius, "send in that young Syrian you recommended." Gregory nodded, and exited the tent.

Belisarius resumed his seat. For a moment, he listened to the sounds of a busy military camp filtering into the tent, much as a musician might listen to a familiar tune. He thought he detected a cheerful boisterousness in the half-heard vulgarities being exchanged by unseen soldiers, and hoped he was right. In the first days after his arrival, the sounds of the camp had been sodden with resentment.

A different sound drew his attention. He glanced over at the desk in the corner of the tent where Procopius, his new secretary, was scribbling away industriously. The desk, like the chair upon which the secretary sat, was of the plainest construction. But it was no plainer than Belisarius' own desk, or chair.