His legs, however—even that part of his legs which still remained—were pitiful remnants of the powerful limbs which had once gripped a warhorse in the fury of a battlefield.
“Look at me,” he said. Not with anger so much as resignation.
Belisarius frowned. Scratched his chin. “It does not seem to me that Sudaba cares, Agathius. Judging from what I can see, I think she is not put off—”
“Not that,” growled Agathius. The man’s usual good humor made a brief re-entry. “Far as that goes, I think she’s happier than ever,” he chuckled. “I’m here all the time now, where she can get her hands on me. And there’s nothing wrong with my—”
He broke off, sighing. “The problem’s not with her, general. Or with me, for that matter. It’s—it’s—” He waved a hand, weakly. “It’s the way things are, that’s all. She’s a Persian noblewoman. I’m a fucking baker’s son with a battlefield rank in the military nobility.”
Agathius glanced around the luxurious chamber, for a moment, as if assessing its value.
“I’ve still got plenty of booty left, from Anatha—a damn little fortune, by my old standards. But it’s really not going to last more than a year or two. Not the way I have to live, if I’m to meet her expectations—and, even more, the expectations of her family.
“I’ve got to face facts, general. I’m a legless cataphract—which is the most ridiculous thing in the world—whose only other skill is baking bread. There’s no way I can—”
He gaped, then, seeing his general burst into riotous laughter.
Gaped. That was the last reaction he had been expecting.
With a fierce struggle, Belisarius forced his laughter down. “Oh, God, I am sorry,” he said weakly, wiping his eyes. “I feel so guilty, now. I wanted the pleasure of telling you myself. I had to come to Peroz-Shapur anyway, to refit the army, and so I thought I’d bring the news personally instead of just sending it by courier.”
Agathius’ face was a study in confusion. “News? What news?”
Belisarius was grinning now. And there was not a trace of crookedness in that expression, not a trace.
He hauled out the scroll. “As soon as it was clear that we’d driven the Malwa back to Charax, I sent—well, ‘recommendations’ is hardly the word. Emperor or no, he’s still my kid. I gave Photius firm and clear instructions, and, I’m pleased to say, the marvelous boy followed them to perfection.”
He handed over the scroll. “Here you are. The official document will arrive by courier, some weeks from now. This is a copy sent over the semaphore line. Doesn’t matter. It’s as good as gold.”
Gingerly, Agathius took the scroll. In an instant, Belisarius’ quick mind understood the expression on the man’s face.
“You can’t read,” he stated.
Agathius shook his head. “No, sir. Not really. I can sign my name well enough, as long as I’ve got some time. But—”
He fell silent. Not from embarassment so much as frustration.
The embarassment, in that moment, was entirely Belisarius’. The general should have remembered that a man of Agathius’ background was almost certain to be illiterate.
The general waved his hand, as if brushing aside insects.
“Well, that’ll have to change. Right off. I’ll send word to Patriarch Anthony to send one of his best monks to be your tutor. Two of them, now that I think about it. Sudaba’s probably not literate, either. Not a dehgan’s daughter.”
Grinning:
“Can’t have that. Not in the wife of a Roman Senator, recently enrolled in the ranks of the Empire’s illustres. By unanimous acclaim, mind you. I also got a private message from Sittas. He tells me the Emperor’s nomination was extremely—ah, firm. Sittas himself took the occasion to appear before the Senate in full armor. In recognition—or so he told those fine aristocratic fellows—of the valor of the Greek cataphracts at Anatha and the Nehar Malka.”
Grinning:
“The Emperor also saw fit to give the new Senator a grant of royal land, in keeping with his exalted status. An estate you’ve got now, Agathius, in Pontus. Quite a substantial one. Annual income’s in the vicinity of three hundred solidi. Tax-exempt, of course. As an imperial grant, it’s res privata.”