Eric Flint - An Oblique Approach

"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 fetch 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.