Eric Flint - An Oblique Approach

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.

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Framed

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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."