An oblique approach b-1 Read online

  The thing in Belisarius’ hand grew dull, dull, dull. It almost seemed lightless, now, though it was still impossible to discern clear shapes within it, or even the exact shape of the thing itself.

  “It will not be back, for a time,” said Belisarius.

  “How do you know?” asked Cassian.

  The general shrugged. “I just do. It is very-tired, you might say.” He closed his eyes and concentrated. “It is so foreign, the way it-can you even call it thinking? I’m not sure. I’m not sure it is even alive, in any sense of that term that means anything.”

  He sighed. “But what I am sure of is that it feels. And I do not think that evil feels.”

  He looked to the bishop. “You are the theologian among us, Anthony. What do you think?”

  “Heaven help us,” muttered Michael. “I am already weary, and now must listen to the world’s most loquacious lecturer.”

  Cassian smiled. “Actually, I agree with Michael. It has been an exhausting night, for all of us, and I think our labors-whatever those might be-are only beginning. I believe it would be best if we resumed in the morning, after some sleep. And some nourishment,” he added, patting his ample belly. “My friend needs only the occasional morsel of roasted iniquity, seasoned with bile, but I require somewhat fuller fare.”

  The Macedonian snorted, but said nothing. Cassian took him by the arm.

  “Come, Michael.” To Belisarius: “You will be here tomorrow?”

  “Yes, of course. I was planning to return to Daras, but it can be postponed. But-”

  “Stay here,” interjected Antonina. “There are many unused rooms, and bedding.”

  Anthony and Michael looked at each other. Michael nodded. Antonina began bustling about to make things ready for their guests. But Cassian called her back.

  “Go to bed, Antonina. Gubazes will take care of us.” He bestowed upon her and her husband a kindly but stern gaze. “The two of you have something to discuss. I think you should do so now. Tomorrow, I fear other concerns will begin to overwhelm us.”

  He turned away, turned back.

  “And remember my advice. In private, I will confess I share Michael’s opinion of the good will of the majority of my theological cohorts. But you are not churchmen carving points of doctrine in each other’s hides at a council. You are husband and wife, and you love each other. If you start from that point, you will arrive safely at your destination.”

  In their bedchamber, husband and wife attempted to follow the bishop’s advice. But it was not easy, for all their good will. Of all the hurts lovers inflict upon each other, none are so hard to overcome as those caused by equal justice.

  To Belisarius, the point that he had done nothing, never, at no time, to cause his wife’s distrust and dishonesty was paramount. It was a sharp point, keen-edged and clean, and easy to make. Nor could Antonina deny its truth. Her own point was more difficult to make, for it involved not one man and one woman, but the truth of men and women in general. That her dishonesty had been occasioned, not by a desire to consummate an advantageous marriage, but by a desire to protect a beloved husband from further disgrace, only added bitterness to the brew. For he believed her, but did not care a whit for his reputation; and she believed him, but cared deeply for the pain that his unconcern would cause him. And all this was made the worse by their difference in age. For though Belisarius was shrewd beyond his years, he was still a man in his mid-twenties, who believed in promises made. And Antonina was a woman in her mid-thirties, who had seen more promises made than she could recall, and precious few of them kept.

  In the end, oddly enough, the Gordian knot was cut by a dagger. For, in the course of stalking about the room, expounding his point much like a tiger might expound the thrill of the hunt to a deer, Belisarius’ eye happened to glance at the drawer of his bed table.

  He froze in his tracks. Then, slowly, walked over and opened the drawer. From within, he drew forth a dagger.

  It was a truly excellent dagger. Armenian made, perfectly balanced, with a razor-sharp blade and a grip that seemed to fit his hand like a glove.

  “This is the dagger I gave him,” he whispered. “This is the very one.”

  Interest cut through resentment. Antonina came over and stared down at the weapon. She had seen it before, of course, and had even held it, but had never given it much thought. After a moment, uncertainly, her hand stroked her husband’s arm.

  He glanced down at it, began to stiffen, and then suddenly relaxed.

  “Ah, love,” he said tenderly, “let us forget the past. It can’t be untied, only cut.” He gestured with the dagger. “With this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is the dagger of my vision, and it is proof that the vision was true. All that matters, in the end, is that I love Photius, and I would have him as our son. Let us bring him here, and we will begin from there.”

  She gazed up at him, still with a trace of uncertainty.

  “Truly?”

  “Truly. I swear before God, wife, that I will cherish your son as my own, and that I will never reproach you for his existence.” The crooked smile. “Nor for hiding his existence.”

  Now they were embracing, fiercely, and, very soon thereafter, dissolving all anger with the most ancient and reliable method known to man and woman.

  Later, her head cradled on Belisarius’ shoulder, Antonina said:

  “I am concerned about one thing, love.”

  “What’s that?”

  Antonina sat up. Her full breasts swayed gently, distracting her husband. Seeing his gaze, she smiled.

  “You’re having delusions of grandeur,” she mocked.

  “Fifteen minutes,” he pronounced. “No more.”

  “Half an hour,” she replied. “At best.”

  They grinned at each other. It was an old game, which they had begun playing the first night they met. Belisarius usually won, to Antonina’s delight.

  She grew serious. “Photius has been cared for by a girl named Hypatia. For over two years, now. He is only five. I have visited him as often as I could, but-she has been very good to him, and he would miss her. And the money I give her is all she has to live on.” Her face was suddenly stiff. “She can no longer ply her old trade. Her face is badly scarred.”

  Antonina fell silent. Belisarius was shocked when he understood how much rage she was suppressing. Then, understanding came. He could not help glancing at his wife’s belly, at the ragged scar on her lower abdomen. The scar that had always prevented them from having children of their own.

  He arose from the bed and walked about, very slowly, very stiffly. That was his own way of repressing rage. A rage that was perhaps all the greater, because Antonina had long since removed its object.

  Five years before, seeing that Antonina had no pimp, an ambitious young fellow had sought to make good the lack. Upon hearing Antonina’s demurral, he had insisted with a knife. Unfortunately for him, he had failed to consider her parentage. True, her mother had been a whore, but her father had been a charioteer. A breed of men who are not, by any standard, inclined to pacifism. The charioteer had not taught his daughter much (at least, not much worth knowing), but he had taught her how to use a knife. Better, in the event, than the young fellow had taught himself. So the budding entrepreneur had found an early grave, but not before making his foul mark.

  “We will bring them both here,” said Belisarius. “It would be good to have a nanny for Photius, anyway. And once he is too old for that, we will keep her on in some other capacity.” A stiff little gesture. “Any capacity, it doesn’t matter. Whatever she is happy with.”

  “Thank you,” whispered Antonina. “She is a sweet girl.”

  Again, Belisarius made the stiff little gesture. His wife knew him, and knew how much he prided his self-control. But there were times, she thought, he would be better off if he could rend like a shark.

  She, on the other hand, had no such qualms.

  “Who were you going to send-to fe
tch Photius?”

  “Eh? Oh. Dubazes, I suppose.”

  Antonina shook her head vigorously. “Oh, no, you mustn’t.” Softly, softly, catchee sharkee.

  “Whyever not?”

  “Well-” She was quite pleased with the little flutter of her eyelids. Just a trace of apprehension, no more. More would arouse her husband’s intelligence.

  “Her pimp’s still around, you see. He sends her an occasional customer. Forces them on her, actually. Pimps-well, he’ll object if she’s taken away.”

  Her heart glowed to see her husband’s back straighten. True, she was lying, and if Belisarius caught her at it there’d be hell to pay. But it was just a little white lie, and anyway, who’d believe a pimp? She’d have to coach Hypatia, of course.

  “His name is Constans,” she said. A very, very, very faint little tremor in the lips; perfectly done, she thought. “He’s such a violent man. And Dubazes-he’s not young anymore, and-”

  “I shall send Maurice,” Belisarius announced.

  “Good idea,” murmured Antonina. She yawned, lest she grin like a shark herself. Constans, in actual fact, had ceased having any interest in the whore Hypatia after he carved her face. But he was still around, plying his trade in Antioch.

  “Good idea,” she murmured again, rolling over and presenting a very enticing rump to her husband. Best to distract him quickly, before he started thinking. She estimated that fifteen minutes had passed.

  It had, and, as usual, Belisarius won the game.

  Shortly thereafter, Antonina fell asleep. Belisarius, however, found sleep eluded him. He tossed and turned for a time, before arising from his bed. He knew he would not sleep until the matter was attended to.

  Maurice made no objection upon being awakened at that ungodly hour. Times enough in the past, on campaign, his general had awakened him in the early hours of the morning.

  Although never, he thought, after hearing Belisarius’ instructions, for quite such a mission.

  But Maurice was a hecatontarch, what an older Rome called a centurion. A veteran among veterans, was Maurice, whose beard was now as gray as the iron of his body, and so he had no difficulty keeping his face solemn and attentive. Quickly, he awakened two other members of Belisarius’ bucellarii, his personal retinue of Thracian cataphracts. He chose two pentarchs for the mission, Anastasius and Valentinian. Veterans also, though younger than Maurice. They were not the most cunning of troop leaders, true; hence their relatively low rank. But there were none in Belisarius’ personal guard who were more frightful on the battlefield.

  As they readied the horses, Maurice explained the situation. He held nothing back from them, as Belisarius had held nothing back from him. The Thracian cataphracts who constituted Belisarius’ personal bodyguard were utterly devoted to him. The devotion stemmed, as much as anything, from the young general’s invariable honesty. And all of them adored Antonina. They were well aware of her past, and not a one of them gave a fig for it. They were quite familiar with whores, themselves, and tended to look upon such women, in their own way, as fellow veterans.

  The expedition ready, Maurice led his men and their horses out of the stable, to the courtyard where Belisarius waited. The first hint of dawn was beginning to show.

  Seeing his general’s stiff back, Maurice sighed. His two companions, glancing from Maurice to the general, understood the situation at once.

  “You know he won’t tell you himself,” whispered Valentinian.

  Maurice spoke up. “There’s one thing, General.”

  Belisarius turned his head toward them, slightly.

  “Yes?”

  Maurice cleared his throat. “Well, this pimp. It’s like this, sir. He might be hanging around, and, well-”

  “Violent characters, your pimps,” chimed in Anastasius.

  “Stab you in the back in a minute,” added Valentinian.

  “Yes, sir,” said Maurice firmly. “So, all things considered, it might be best if we knew his name. Just so we can keep an eye out for him in case he tries to start any trouble.”

  Belisarius hesitated, then said: “Constans.”

  “Constans,” Maurice murmured. Valentinian and Anastasius repeated the name, committing it to memory. “Thank you, sir,” said Maurice. Moments later, the three cataphracts were riding toward Antioch.

  Once they were out of hearing range, Maurice remarked cheerfully: “It’s a wonderful thing, lads, to have a restrained general. Keeps his temper under control at all times. Maintains iron self-discipline. Distrusts himself whenever he feels the blood boil. Automatically refuses to follow his heart.”

  “A marvelous thing,” said Anastasius admiringly. “Always cool, always calm, never just lets himself go. That’s our general. Best general in the Roman army.”

  “Saved our asses any number of times,” agreed Valentinian.

  They rode on a little further. Maurice cleared his throat.

  “It occurs to me, lads, that we are not generals.”

  His two companions looked at each other, as if suddenly taken with a wild surmise.

  “Why, no, actually,” said Anastasius. “We’re not.”

  “Don’t believe we bear the slightest resemblance to generals, in fact,” concurred Valentinian.

  A little further down the road, Maurice mused, “Rough fellows, pimps.”

  Valentinian shuddered. “I shudder to think of it.” He shuddered again. “See?”

  Anastasius moaned softly. “Oh, I hope we don’t meet him.” Another moan. “I might foul myself.”

  A week later, they were back, with a somewhat bewildered but very happy five-year-old boy, and a less bewildered but even happier young woman. The Thracian cataphracts took note of her, and smiled encouragingly. She took note of them, and did not smile back.

  But, after a time, she ceased turning her face when one approached. And, after a time, several cataphracts showed her their own facial scars, which were actually much worse than hers. And, after they confessed to her that they were cataphracts in name only, because although they possessed all the skills they, sadly, sadly, lacked the noble ancestry of the true cataphract-were, in fact, nothing but simple farm boys at bottom, she began to show an occasional smile.

  Antonina kept an experienced and vigilant eye on the familiar dance, but for the most part, she did not interfere. An occasional word to Maurice, now and then, to restrain the overenthusiastic. And when Hypatia became pregnant, she simply insisted that the father take responsibility for the child. There was some doubt on the subject, but one of the cataphracts was more than happy to marry the girl. The child might be his, after all, and besides, he wasn’t a true cataphract but just a tough kid from Thrace. What did he care for the worries of nobility?

  Nor did his friends chaff him. A sweet girl was Hypatia, a man could do much worse. Who were they to fret over such things, when their general didn’t?

  Long before Hypatia became pregnant, however, not six weeks after Maurice and his two companions returned from their mission, a young man was released from the care of the monks in a local monastery in Antioch. Examining his prospects in the cold light of a new day, he decided to become a beggar, and began to ply his new trade in the streets of the city. He did quite well, actually, by the (admittedly, very low) standards of the trade. And his friends (acquaintances, it might be better to say) assured him that the scars on his face gave him quite the dashing look. A pity, of course, that he couldn’t dash. Not without knees.

  Chapter 4

  “So what do we conclude?” asked Belisarius.

  Cassian pursed his lips. He pointed to the thing in the general’s hand.

  “Has there been-?”

  Belisarius shook his head. “No. I don’t think there will be, for some time. Not much, at least.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s-hard to explain.” He shrugged slightly. “Don’t ask me how I know. I just do. The-jewel, let’s call it-is very weary.”

  Antonina spoke up:

  �
��What were your own visions, Anthony? You did not speak of them yesterday.”

  The bishop looked up. His pudgy face looked almost haggard.

  “I do not remember them very well. My visions-and Michael’s even more so-had none of the clarity and precision of your husband’s. I sensed at the time that the-the jewel-would fit Belisarius much better. I cannot explain how I knew that, but I did.”

  He straightened his back, took a deep breath.

  “I saw only a vast ocean of despair, mute beneath a-a church, can you call it? — that was the essence of godlessness. A church so foul that the world’s most barbarous pagans would reject it without a thought, and find in their savage rituals a cathedral of pity compared to that monstrosity of the spirit.”

  His face was pale. He wiped it with a plump hand.

  “I saw myself, I think. I am not sure. I think it was me, squatting in a cell, naked.” He managed a croaking laugh. “Much thinner, I was!” A sigh. “I was awaiting the Question, with a strange eagerness. I would die beneath their instruments soon, for I would not give them the answer they demanded. I would refuse to interpret scripture as a blessing for the slaughter of the innocent. And I was satisfied, for I believed in the truth of my faith and I knew I would not yield to the agony because I had-”

  He gasped, his eyes widened. “Yes! Yes-it was me! I remember now! I knew I would have the strength to resist the torment because I had the image of my friend Michael always before me. Michael, and his unyielding death, and his great curse upon Satan from the flames of the stake.”

  He looked at the Macedonian and wept gentle tears. “All my life I have thanked God that Michael of Macedonia has been my friend since boyhood. And never more than on that day of final hopelessness. On my own, I am not certain I would have had the courage I needed.”

  “ Ridiculous.” As ever, Michael’s voice carried the finality of stone.