Fortune's Stroke

"Assuming, of course, that I reach old age," he said, smiling ruefully. "And that my wife doesn't flee in terror, when she sees the ogre coming through her door."

Again, for a moment, the fingers of his right hand clenched the sword hilt. Powerful fingers. Sanga's smile vanished.

"I would not trade her for a goddess." The words were as steely as his blade.

"I didn't think so," murmured Belisarius. He slipped Aide back into his pouch, and refastened the tunic.

"I didn't think so," he repeated. He rose, and bowed to Damodara. "Our business is finished, I believe."

Belisarius was a tall man. Not as tall as Sanga, but tall enough to loom over Damodara like a giant. He was a big man, too. Not as powerful as Sanga, to be sure, but a far more impressive figure than the short and pudgy Malwa lord sitting on a cushion before him.

It mattered not at all. Lord Damodara returned the Roman general's gaze with the placidity of a Buddha.

"Yes, I believe it is," he agreed pleasantly. Damodara now rose himself, and bowed to Belisarius. Then, he turned slightly and pointed to Narses. "Except—"

Damodara smiled. The very image of a Buddha.

"You requested that Narses be present. I assume there was a reason."

Belisarius examined the eunuch. Throughout the parley, Narses had been silent. He remained silent, although he returned Belisarius' calm gaze with the same glare with which he had first greeted him.

"I would like to speak to Narses alone," said Belisarius. "With your permission."

Seeing the distrust in Damodara's eyes, Belisarius shook his head.

"I assure you, Lord Damodara, that nothing I will discuss with Narses will cause any harm to you."

He waited, while Damodara gauged the thing. Measured the angles, so to speak.

That was a beautifully parsed sentence, said Aide admiringly.

I had an excellent grammarian. My father spared no expense on my education.

Damodara was still hesitating. Looking for the oblique approach, wherever the damn thing was. That it was there, Damodara didn't doubt for an instant.

"I will give you my oath on it, if you wish," added Belisarius.

Oh, that's good. You're smart, grandpa. Don't let anybody tell you different.

Belisarius almost made a modest shrug. But long experience had taught him to keep his conversations with Aide a secret from those around him.

I am a man of honor. But I've never seen where that prevents me from using my honor practically. We Romans are even more practical than the Malwa. Way more, when push comes to shove.

The offer seemed to satisfy Damodara. "There's no need," he said pleasantly. Again, he bowed to Belisarius. Then, taking Sanga by the arm, he left the pavilion.

Belisarius and Narses were alone. Narses finally spoke.

"Fuck you. What do you want?"

* * *

Belisarius grinned. "I just want to tell you your future, Narses. I think I owe you that much, for saving Theodora's life."

"I didn't do it for you. Fuck you." The old eunuch's glare was a thing of wonder. As splendid, in its own way, as Aide's coruscating glamour. Sheer hostility, as pure as a diamond, forged out of a lifetime's malice, envy and self-hatred.

"And what do I care?" demanded the eunuch. Sneering: "What? Are you going to tell me that I'm an old man, right on the edge of the grave? I already know that, you bastard. I'll still make your life as miserable as I can. Even while they're fitting me for the shroud."

Belisarius' grin was its own thing of marvel. "Not at all, Narses. Quite the contrary." He tapped the pouch under his tunic. "The future's changed, of course, from what it would have been. But some things will remain the same. A man's natural lifespan, for instance."

Narses glared, and glared. Belisarius' grin faded, replaced by a look of—sorrow?

"Such a waste," he murmured. Then, more loudly: "I will tell you the truth, Narses the eunuch. I swear this before God. You will outlive me, and I will not die young."

His crooked smile came. "Not from natural causes, anyway. In this world, which we're creating, who knows what'll happen? But in the future that would have been, I died at the age of sixty. You were still alive."

Narses jaw dropped. "You're serious?" For a moment, a lifetime's ingrained suspicion vanished. For that moment—that tiny moment—the scaled and wrinkled face was that of a child again. The infant boy, before he had been castrated and cast into a life of bitterness. "You're really telling me the truth?"

"I swear to you, Narses, before God Himself, that I am speaking the truth."