Narses sighed, as much from the pain in his back as exasperation.
“I told you then,” he continued, “that you were grossly underestimating Belisarius.”
A rare moment of genuine anger heated his voice. “Who did you think you were playing with, for the sake of God?” he demanded. “The man is one of the greatest generals Rome has ever produced. And he’s still young. And vigorous. And famous for his bladesmanship. And has more combat experience than most soldiers twice his age.”
A glare at Balban. “Real combat experience, against real enemies. Not”—the sneer was back in full force—”the ‘seasoned killer’ experience of a thug backstabbing a merchant.” He stopped, hissing. Partly from aggravation; mostly from the sharp pain which streaked up his spine. He sagged back on his couch, closing his eyes.
Balban cleared his throat. “As it happens, it may have turned out for the best in any event. The report which we just received—from the hand of Lord Venandakatra himself—also says that Lord Venankatra believes Belisarius may be open to treas—to our mutual cause. He has developed a friendship with Belisarius, he says, and has had many conversations with him in the course of their long voyage to India. The general is filled with bitter resentment at his treatment by Justinian, and has let slip indications of a willingness to seek another patron.”
His eyes still closed, fighting the pain, Narses listened to the conversation which suddenly filled the dining chamber. An agitated conversation, on the part of the Romans. A mixture of cold calculation, babbling nonsense, scheming analysis, wild speculation, and—most of all—poorly hidden fear.
All of the Romans in the room, except Narses, were torn and uncertain. To win Belisarius to their plot would greatly increase its chance for success. So they all said, aloud. But to do so would also make their own personal prospects that much the dimmer. So they all thought, silently.
Narses said nothing. Nor, after a minute or so, did he pay any attention to the words. Let them babble, and play their witless games.
Pointless games. The Grand Chamberlain, old as he was, eunuch that he was, knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that there was no more chance of Belisarius betraying his oath to Justinian—less chance; much, much less chance—than that a handful of street thugs could cut him down from ambush.
The image of Belisarius came to his mind, as sharp as if the Thracian were standing before him. Tall, handsome, well-built. The archetype of the simple soldier, except for that crooked smile and that strange, knowing, subtle gaze.
Narses stared up at the ceiling, oblivious to the chatter around him, grimly fighting down the pain.
Balban’s voice penetrated.
“So, that’s it. I think we’re all agreed. We’ll hope for the success of Lord Venandakatra’s effort to win over Belisarius. In the meantime, here in Constantinople, we’ll step up our efforts to turn his wife Antonina. As you all know, she arrived a month ago from their estate in Syria. Ajatasutra has already initiated contact with her.”
Narses’ eyes remained fixed on the ceiling. He listened to Ajatasutra:
“It went well, I think, for a first approach. She was obviously shaken by my hint that Emperor Justinian is plotting with the Malwa to assassinate Belisarius while he is in India, far from his friends and his army. I am to meet her again, soon, while she is still in the capital.”
John of Cappadocia’s voice, coarse, hot:
“If that doesn’t work, just seduce the slut. It seems the supposedly reformed whore hasn’t changed her ways a bit. Not according to Belisarius’ own secretary Procopius, at any rate. I had a little chat with him just the other day. She’s been spreading her legs for everybody since the day her doting husband left for India.”
Lewd laughter rippled around the room. Narses rolled his head on the couch, slightly. Just enough to bring John of Cappadocia under his reptilian gaze.
Not for you, she hasn’t. And never will. Or for anyone, I suspect. Only a cretin would believe that malicious gossip Procopius.
Narses levered himself upright, and onto his feet.
“I’m leaving, then,” he announced. He nodded politely to all the men in the room, except John of Cappadocia. Courtesy was unneeded there, and would have been wasted in any event. The Praetorian Prefect was oblivious to Narses. His eyes were blank, his mind focussed inward, on the image of the beautiful Antonina.