Eric Flint - An Oblique Approach

"Sorry," muttered Belisarius. Venandakatra's expression, for just a fleeting instant, was savage. But he said nothing. He simply placed the candle back in its holder and waved off the mishap with a casual flutter of the fingers.

Belisarius drained what was left in his cup. Venandakatra instantly poured him another.

Blearily, Belisarius grinned at the Malwa lord. Then, leering:

"She'll be a virgin, of course. Bound to be, a princess!" Guffaw, guffaw. "God, there's nothing like a virgin! Love the way they squeal when you stick 'em!"

He shook a sage, cautioning finger in Venandakatra's direction. A solemn look fell on his face—one experienced pedophile advising another.

"Make sure you watch her well, mind! A prize like that? Ha! Surround her with eunuchs, I would, or priests sworn to celibacy. Better yet—eunuch priests." Guffaw, guffaw. "And then I'd check under their robes!"

He half-choked on another swallow of wine, then added: "We have an old saying in Rome, you know: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? "

Venandakatra frowned. "I'm afraid I don't speak Latin."

"Ah. I assumed—my apologies—your Greek is excellent." Belch. "Well, it basically translates as: Who will guard the guardians? What it means is, how shall I—"

"I understand perfectly well what it means!" snapped Venandakatra.

Oh, my. Isn't he testy? Time to extract the blade.

And nick him elsewhere, so he doesn't notice that he's bleeding to death.

"But that's enough talk of women!" roared Belisarius. "Worthless cunts, all of 'em. Beneath our notice, except when we're in the mood for humping. We're men of affairs, you and I. Important men."

He reached over the table for the wine, lost his balance, fell to the floor. "Bitches, all of them," he muttered, staggering to his feet. "Treacherous sluts." He groped his way back into his chair.

"Good for fucking, and that's it," grumbled the general, glaring at the table. Venandakatra poured him another cup. From the corner of his eye, again, Belisarius caught Venandakatra's expression. Contempt, overlaying worry.

Now I have but to lay opportunity over contempt, and the worry will work its way to the heart, free of suspicion.

"Men of affairs, I say," he repeated, slurring the words. "Important men." He grit his teeth. "Important men."

Venandakatra slid in his own blade.

"So we are, my friend. Although"—slight hesitation, discreet pause—"not always appreciated, perhaps."

Belisarius' jaws tightened. "Isn't that the fucking truth? Isn't it just? My own—"

Careful. He's not stupid.

Belisarius waved his hand. "Never mind," he mumbled.

The Vile One struck again.

First, he took a sip from his own cup. The first sip in an hour, by Belisarius' estimation. (Never underestimate the foe, of course. Who knows? The Roman might not be quite as drunk as he looks.)

"I am fortunate in that regard," remarked Venandakatra idly. "The Emperor Skandagupta is always appreciative of my efforts on his behalf. Always fair, in his criticisms. Mild criticisms, never more than that. And he gives me his full trust, unstintingly."

Belisarius peered at him suspiciously. But it was obvious the suspicion was directed toward the statement, not the speaker of it.

"Oh, no—it's quite true, I assure you."

"Hard to believe," muttered Belisarius resentfully. "In my experience—"

He fell silent, again. "Ah, what's the use?" he mumbled. "Emperors are emperors, and that's that." He seemed lost in his own thoughts. Bleak, bitter thoughts. Black thoughts, drunken thoughts.

Time. As Valentinian says, be economical with the blade.

He lurched to his feet; planted his hands on the table to steady himself.

"I must be off," he announced. Belch. " 'Scuse me. Afraid I've had too much to drink. You'll forgive me, I trust?"

Venandakatra nodded graciously. "I've been known to do it myself, friend." A happy thought: "Men of affairs, you know. Much on our minds. Much to deal with. Bound to drink a bit, now and then."

"The truth, that!" Belisarius smiled at the Vile One. Never, in the history of the world, did a drunk bestow such a cheerful smile of camaraderie on a fellow sot.

"You are most pleasant company, Venandakatra," he said, carefully enunciating the words. A man deep in his cups, determined to project sincerity.

"Most pleasant. Sorry we got off to a bit of a bad start, back there—" The general waved his hand vaguely, more or less in the direction of the sea. Belch. "Back there, in the beginning. On the ship."

"Think nothing of it! Long forgotten, I assure you." Venandakatra rose to his feet. "May I call one of my servants? To assist you back—"

Belisarius waved off the offer.

"Not necessary!" he barked. "Can make it mack, byself—back, myself. Not a problem."

He bowed at Venandakatra, with exaggerated, careful stiffness, and reeled to the entrance. He pulled back the heavily embroidered drapery which served the Malwa lord's pavilion for a tent flap. By the studied care of his movements, he was obviously trying not to inflict damage on the precious fabric. As he was about to pass through into the darkness beyond, he paused, steadying himself with one hand on a tent pole. Then, he looked back at the Malwa lord.

For a few seconds, Venandakatra and Belisarius exchanged a stare. The expression on the Malwa's face registered a subtle invitation. The face of the Roman general was that of a man consumed by old grievances, brought to the surface by hours of heavy carousing.

Bleak, bitter thoughts. Black thoughts. Drunken thoughts.

Belisarius turned away, shook his head, and stumbled into the night.

He did not need to look back again. He knew what he would see on the Vile One's face. Calculation, overlaying contempt. Contempt, overlaying worry. Worry, buried, freed of suspicion, worming its way into a maggotty soul.

He managed to keep from smiling all the way back to his own tent. Spies, everywhere. He even managed to keep from glancing into the forest which surrounded the caravan. Spies, everywhere. And it would be pointless, anyway, for he would see nothing. In that darkness, there would be nothing to see except a grin. And the hunter never grins, when he is stalking the prey.

When he reached his own tent, he staggered within, and then straightened up. Good Roman leather, that tent. Impossible to see through.

"Well?" asked Garmat.

His next words, the general regretted for years, for he was a man who despised boasting. But he didn't regret them much. They were, after all, irresistible:

"Deadly with a blade, is Belisarius."

Early the next morning—even before daybreak—a party of Mahaveda priests and mahamimamsa "purifiers" left the caravan on horseback, escorted by a Rajput cavalry troop. They were being sent to the palace ahead of the caravan, on a special mission ordered by Lord Venandakatra.

In the heart of mighty Malwa, it did not occur to them to look back on the trail, to see if anyone followed. It would have made no difference if they had. The one who tracked them had been taught his skills by lionesses and pygmies, the greatest hunters in the world.

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Framed

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Chapter 22

Insofar as that term could ever be applied to that man, he was frantic.

An observer watching him would not have realized his state of mind, however. For the man seemed utterly calm and still, crouching in the thick foliage of the brush and trees which came within a few feet of the walls of Venandakatra's palace.

True, an observer might have wondered what he was doing there. A man of average height; black-haired; black-bearded, with a few grey hairs to indicate approaching middle age; barefoot; wearing nothing but a dirty loincloth. But, even there, the conclusion was obvious: a menial, from one of the lower sudra castes, relieving himself in the woods.