Below, the knot of Persian notables watched the operation with slack jaws and open eyes. They had seen it done before, of course—many times—but still . . .
Unseemly! Servants’ work! The top commander of the greatest army since Darius should not—
At the first landing, Belisarius and Maurice set the contraption down and took a few deep breaths. Agathius looked from one to the other, scowling fiercely. “I can climb stairs myself, you know. I do it at home all the time.”
Belisarius managed a grin. “Justinian, remember? You think the Roman Empire’s Grand Justiciar—not to mention Theodora’s husband—is going to settle for a secondhand account?”
“He’s way off in Adulis,” protested Agathius. “And he’s completely preoccupied with getting his beloved new steam-powered warships ready.” But it was weak, weak.
Belisarius shrugged. “Yes—and he’s blind, to boot. So what? You think he doesn’t have spies?”
Maurice snorted sarcastically. “And besides, Agathius, you know how much Justinian loves designing his gadgets. So just shut up and resign yourself to the inevitable.” Sourly: “At least you don’t have to lift this blasted thing. With an overgrown, over-muscled ex-cataphract in it.”
They’d rested enough. With a heave and a grunt, Belisarius and Maurice lifted Agathius and the wheelchair and staggered their way upward. When they reached the top of the stairs and were in the corridor leading to Agathius’ private chambers, they set the wheelchair down.
“All . . . right,” puffed Belisarius. “You’re on your own again. Justinian wants to know how the hand grips work also.”
“They work just fine,” snapped Agathius. To prove the point, he set off down the corridor at a pace which had Belisarius and Maurice hurrying to catch up—puffing all the while. Agathius seemed to take a malicious glee in the sound.
At the entrance to his chambers, Agathius paused. He glanced up at Belisarius, wincing a bit and clearing his throat.
“Uh—”
“I’ll speak to her,” assured Belisarius. “I’m sure she’ll listen to reason once—”
The door was suddenly jerked open. Agathius’ young wife Sudaba was standing there, glaring.
“What is this insane business?” she demanded furiously. “I insist on accompanying my husband!” An instant later, she was planted in front of Belisarius, shaking her little fist under his nose. “Roman tyrant! Monstrous despot!”
Hastily, Maurice seized the wheelchair and maneuvered Agathius into the room, leaving Belisarius—Rome’s magister militum per orientem, Great Commander of the Allied Army, honorary vurzurgan in the land of Aryans—to deal alone with Agathius’ infuriated teenage wife.
“A command responsibility if I ever saw one,” Maurice muttered.
Agathius nodded eagerly. “Just so!” Piously: “After all, it was his decision to keep the baggage train and camp followers to a minimum. It’s not as if we insisted that the top officers had to set a personal example.”
“Autocrat! Beast! Despoiler! I won’t stand for it!”
“Must be nice,” mused Maurice, “to have one of those meek and timid Persian girls for a wife.”
But Agathius did not hear the remark. His two-year-old son had arrived, toddling proudly on his own feet, and had been swept up into his father’s arms.
“Daddy go bye-bye?” the boy asked uncertainly.
“Yes,” replied Agathius. “But I’ll be back. I promise.”
The boy gurgled happily as Agathius started tickling him. “Daddy beat the Malwa!” he proclaimed proudly.
“Beat ’em flat!” his father agreed. His eyes moved to the great open window, staring toward the east. The Zagros mountains were there; and then, the Persian plateau; and then—the Indus valley, where the final accounts would be settled.
“They’ll give me my legs back,” he growled. “The price of them, at least. Which I figure is Emperor Skandagupta’s blood in the dust.”
Maurice clucked. “Such an intemperate man you are, Agathius. I’d think a baker’s son would settle for a mere satrap.”
“Skandagupta, and nothing less,” came the firm reply. “I’ll see his empty eyes staring at the sky. I swear I will.”
* * *
When Belisarius rejoined them, some time later, the Roman general’s expression was a bit peculiar. Bemused, perhaps—like a stunned ox. Quite unlike his usual imperturbable self.
Agathius cleared his throat. “It’s not as if I didn’t give you fair warning.”
Belisarius shook his head. The ox, trying to shake away the confusion.