Eric Flint - An Oblique Approach

Once ashore, the man began to tear his tunic and bind up his wounds. They were many, those wounds, but none were either fatal or crippling. In time, they would become simply more scars added to an already extensive collection.

The wounds dressed, the man rested a bit. Then, still moving silently and almost invisibly, he faded away from the vicinity of the palace. Once in the forest, his pace quickened. Silent, still, and almost invisible. Like a wounded panther.

Back | Next

Contents

Framed

Back | Next

Contents

Chapter 14

DARAS

Spring, 529 AD

The good news, thought Belisarius, was that John of Rhodes was an extremely intelligent man.

That was also the bad news.

"Why are you lying to me?" demanded the retired naval officer. "How in the name of Christ do you expect me to accomplish whatever it is you want me to accomplish, when you are obviously keeping everything essential a secret from me?"

Belisarius gazed down at the man calmly.

John of Rhodes scowled. "Save the sphinx for someone else, Belisarius!" He stumped over to the worktable and made a disgusted gesture toward the various substances and implements strewn upon it.

"Look at this clutter! Trash and toys, that's all they are. I might as well be looking for the philosopher's stone, or the elixir of eternal life." His glare left the table and roamed about the room, encompassing the entire workshop in its condemnation.

Belisarius scratched his chin.

"Stop scratching your chin!" The naval officer flung himself into a nearby chair, exuding the quintessence of disgruntlement in his slumped posture. "Damn all mannerisms, anyway," he grumbled. He looked up, eyeing Belisarius balefully. "And there's another thing," he continued. "What's this nonsense you and your wife are trying to pull with me and that jackal Procopius?"

Before Belisarius could dredge up something suitable to put the man at ease, John of Rhodes was back on his feet, stumping about and gesticulating angrily.

"Don't bother! Please! Do I look like a cretin?"

Belisarius decided that, under the circumstances, straightforwardness was probably the only suitable tactic.

"Explain," he commanded. "And stop stumping about."

"I'm not stumping . I'm pacing, from vexation."

"Stop pacing from vexation. And explain."

John stood still. Somehow, despite his much shorter stature, the naval officer seemed to be glaring down at the general.

"Have you heard my reputation?" he demanded. "That I am a master of seduction?"

Belisarius nodded. John of Rhodes blew out his cheeks and then flung himself again into the chair.

"Well, the reputation's exaggerated. But not by much. The fact is, I've enjoyed considerable success with the ladies, over the years. Do you know my secret?"

Belisarius waited. For the first time since meeting John of Rhodes, not two hours earlier, the naval officer smiled.

"The secret to success in seduction, Belisarius, is the same as the secret to success in warfare. Never fight a battle you can't win."

"Your point?"

"My point's obvious. I hadn't spent more than an hour in Antonina's company before it was clear as day that she was quite unseducible. While you were off thrashing the Medes, she and I were often alone. At such times, she's all business and work. That's all . So why is it, the moment that foul creature Procopius hoves into view, that she suddenly acts as if she's smitten by me?"

Even sitting, he seemed to be glaring down at Belisarius. " What are you up to? "

Belisarius sighed and pulled up another chair. After sitting, he smiled crookedly. "We're engaged in a deep and dark conspiracy, John."

The naval officer's foul mood vanished. He grinned like a wolf—which, thought Belisarius, he rather resembled. A short, sinewy, handsome, blue-eyed, black-haired, grey-bearded, well-groomed wolf.

"Well!" he exclaimed. "That's more like it!" He leaned forward in his chair, rubbing his hands together cheerfully.

"Tell me all about it."

When Belisarius finished, John eyed him askance.

"You're still keeping something from me," he announced. "I don't believe for a minute that these— visions , to use your term—simply came to you out of nowhere. Someone, or something, is behind them."

Belisarius nodded.

"And you're not going to tell me who it is? Not now, at any rate."

Belisarius nodded again.

John looked away, frowning. A few seconds later, his face cleared.

"I can live with that," he said. "For a time, at least."

He stroked his beard. "But there's one other question I must have answered. Now. Is this conspiracy aimed at the throne? Against the Emperor?"

Belisarius shook his head firmly. John stared at him.

"Swear," he commanded. "I know your reputation, General. If I have your oath, I'll be satisfied."

"I swear to you before God, John of Rhodes, that the conspiracy of which you are a part is not aimed against the Emperor Justinian."

Again, the raffish grin. "But he doesn't know about it either, does he?"

"No."

"Does the Empress?"

"No. Not yet, at least."

John rose to his feet and resumed stumping about.

"Good. Let's keep it that way, shall we? Especially when it comes to Justinian." The naval officer grimaced. "Such a suspicious tyrant, he is."

After a moment, John blew out his cheeks again and looked toward the workbench. "Not, mind you, that there's much of a conspiracy here to begin with. Plenty of deep darkness, but precious little to hide."

"You've had no success at all?"

"None—beyond some minor improvements in the Greek fire we already had. But nothing that'd be in the slightest way suitable for land combat."

Belisarius rose. "Come outside," he said. "There are some people I want you to meet."

When he couldn't find the Axumites in the villa, Belisarius suspected he would find them in the barracks. And so he did.

The barracks were crowded full with soldiers, especially in the huge room which had served the former owner of the estate for a formal dining hall. Some of that population density was due to the quarters themselves. The Thracians had been reveling in the luxuriance of the "barracks" since they arrived at the villa. But most of it was due to the contest taking place at a table in the center of the hall.

Seeing him, his bucellarii drew aside and let him approach the table. Belisarius examined the scene, and sighed with exasperation.

Garmat, to his credit, was obviously trying to keep a lid on the situation. So was Maurice, of course. And the two soldiers of the Dakuen sarwe were behaving in the rational manner which one expects from experienced veterans surrounded by strange veterans. Politely. Cautiously.

But the prince, alas, was still a young man, full of pride and eager to show his mettle. And not all of the general's Thracian retinue were as relaxed in their experience as such veterans as Anastasius and Valentinian (both of whom, Belisarius noted, were lounging about amicably in nearby chairs). No, there were plenty of youngsters in the general's retinue, most of whom were every bit as full of pride as the prince, and not in the slightest intimidated by his royal lineage.

At the moment, the mutual pride was taking the form of an arm-wrestling match. A good-humored one, probably, in its origin. But the humor was now wearing thin.

The reason for the growing ill temper was obvious, and was demonstrated for the general himself almost immediately. With a grunt of anger and disgust, the fist of the Thracian lad named Menander slammed down onto the table. Eon's dark face was split by a grin.

Glancing about, Belisarius estimated that at least three other Thracian lads had already been trounced by the Axumite. And were none too happy about it.