An Oblique Approach by David Drake and Eric Flint

The bishop’s eyes widened slightly. He looked from husband to wife, and back again. Then looked away, stroking his beard.

“Yes, that would work,” he murmured. “Work perfectly, in fact. But—” He gazed up at the general. “Do you understand—”

“Leave us, Anthony,” said Belisarius. Calmly, but unyieldingly. “If you please. And you also, Michael.”

Michael and Cassian arose and made their way to the door. There, the bishop turned back.

“If you are still determined on this course, Belisarius, after discussing it with Antonina, there is a perfect way to implement it quickly.”

Antonina stared straight ahead. Her dusky face was almost pale. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. Belisarius tore his gaze away and looked at the bishop.

“Yes?”

“A man approached me, recently, seeking my help in gaining employment. Newly arrived in Aleppo, from Caesaria. I know his reputation. He is a well-trained secretary, very capable by all accounts, and quite an accomplished writer. A historian. Such, at least, is his ambition. You have no secretary, and have reached the point in your career where you need one.”

“His name?”

“Procopius. Procopius of Caesaria. In addition to serving as your secretary, I am quite certain he will broadcast your talents to the world at large and be of assistance to your career.”

“He is a flatterer, then?”

“An utterly shameless one. But quite talented at it, so his flattering remarks are generally believed, by the world at large if not by his employer.”

“And?”

The bishop looked unhappy. “Well—”

“Speak plainly, Anthony!”

Cassian’s lips pursed. “He is one of the vilest creatures I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. A flatterer, yes, but also a spiteful and envious man, who complements his public flattery with the most vicious private rumor-mongering. A snake, pure and simple.”

“He will do marvelously. Send him to me. I will hire him at once. And then I will give him all he needs, both for public flattery and private gossip.”

After Cassian and Michael left, Belisarius sat by his wife and took her hand.

His voice was still calm, and still unyielding, but very gentle.

“I am sorry, love. But it is the only course I can see which will be safe. I know how much pain it will cause, to have people say such things about you, but—”

Antonina’s laugh was as harsh as a crow’s.

“Me? Do you think I care what people say about me?”

She turned her head and looked him in the eyes.

“I am a whore, Belisarius.” Her husband said nothing, nor was there anything but love in his eyes.

She looked away. “Oh, you’ve never used the word. But I will. It’s what I was. Everyone knows it. Do you think a whore gives a fig for what people say about her?” Another harsh laugh. “Do you understand why the Empress Theodora trusts me? Trusts me, Belisarius. As she trusts no one else. It is because we were both whores, and the only people whores really trust—really trust—are other whores.”

For a moment, tears began to come back into her eyes, but she wiped them away angrily.

“I love you like I have never loved anyone else in my life. Certainly more than I love Theodora! I don’t even like Theodora, in many ways. But I would not trust you with the knowledge of my bastard son. Yet I trusted Theodora. She knew. And I trusted another whore, Hypatia, to raise the boy.” Her voice was like ice. “Do not concern yourself, veteran, about what I feel when people talk about me. You cannot begin to imagine my indifference.”

“Then—”

“But I do care what people say about you!”

“Me?” Belisarius laughed. “What will they say about me that they don’t already?”

“Idiot,” she hissed. “Now they say you married a whore. So they mock your judgment, and your good taste. But they see the whore does not stray from your side, so they—secretly—admire your manhood.” Incongruously, she giggled, then mimicked a whispering voice: ” ‘He must be hung like a horse, to keep that slut satisfied.’ ” The humor vanished. “But now they will call you a cuckold. They will mock you, as well as your judgment. You will become a figure of ridicule. Ridicule, do you hear me?”

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