“Where is she?”
Belisarius shrugged. “The plan was for her to seek exile in south India. Her grandfather’s the King of Kerala. Whether she’s there or not, however, I don’t know. I’ve received no word. That’s the very reason Irene is accompanying Antonina to Egypt. She’ll try to re-establish contact with Shakuntala and Rao through the Ethiopians.”
“I can’t say I’m happy about that, by the way,” grumbled Justinian. “I didn’t oppose the idea at the council, since you seemed so set upon it. But—Irene’s a fiendishly capable spymaster. I’d be a lot happier if she were here at Theodora’s side in the capital, keeping an eye on traitors.”
Skeptically:
“Do you really think this little rebellion you took so much time—and money—to foster is anything but wishful thinking?”
Belisarius studied the blind man for a moment, before replying. Justinian, for all his brilliance, was ill-equipped by temperament to gauge the power of a popular rebellion. The man thought like an emperor, still. Belisarius suspected that he always had, even when he was a peasant himself.
“I know the girl, Justinian. You don’t. For all her youth, she has the potential to be a great ruler. And in Rao she has one of the finest generals in India.”
“So?” grunted Justinian. “If the success of your rebellion hinges so completely on two people, the Malwa can take care of that with a couple of assassinations.”
Belisarius laughed.
“Assassinate Rao? He’s the best assassin in India himself! God help the Malwa who tries to slip a knife into that man’s back!” He shook his head. “As for Shakuntala—she’s quite a proficient killer in her own right. Rao trained her, from the time she was seven. And she has the best bodyguards in the world. An elite Kushan unit, led by a man named Kungas.”
The skepticism was still evident on the former emperor’s face. Belisarius, watching, decided it was hopeless to shake Justinian’s attitude.
He was not there, as I was—to see Shakuntala win the allegiance of the very Kushans who had been assigned by Malwa to be her captors. God, the sheer force in that girl’s soul!
He turned away. Then, struck by a memory, turned back.
“Aide did give me a vision, once, while I was in India. That vision confirmed me in my determination to set Shakuntala free.”
Justinian cocked his head, listening.
“Many centuries from now, in the future—in a future, it might be better to say—all of Europe will be under the domination of one of history’s greatest generals and conquerors. His name will be Napoleon. He will be defeated, in the end, brought down by his own overweening ambition. That defeat will be caused, as much as anything, by a great bleeding wound in Spain. He will conquer Spain, but never rule it. For years, his soldiers will die fighting the Spanish rebellion. The rebels will be aided by a nation which will arise on the island we call Britannia. The Peninsular War, those islanders will call it. And when Napoleon is finally brought down, they will look back upon that war and see in it one of the chief sources of their victory.”
Still nothing. Skepticism.
Belisarius shrugged. Left.
Outside, in the corridor, Aide spoke in his mind.
Not a nice man, at all.
The facets flashed and spun into a new configuration. Like a kaleidoscope, the colors of Aide’s emotion shifted. Sour distaste was replaced by a kind of wry humor.
Of course, the Duke of Wellington was not a nice man, either.
In the room, Justinian remained in his chair. He spent some time pondering the general’s last words, but not much. He was far more interested in contemplating a different vision. Somewhere, in the midst of the horror which the jewel had shown him, Justinian had caught a glimpse of something which gave him hope.
A statue, he had seen. Carved by a sculptor of the figure, to depict justice.
The figure had been blind.
“In the future,” murmured the former emperor, “when men wish to praise the quality of justice, they will say that justice is blind.”
The man who had once been perhaps the most capable emperor in the long history of the Roman Empire—and certainly its most intelligent—rubbed his empty eye-sockets. For the first time since his mutilation, the gesture was not simply one of despair and bitterness.