“Me?” Menander’s eyes widened in mock astonishment. “Nonsense. I’m the gunnery specialist. I am required to stay back while Axumite marines storm across the decks. My duties—”
The last occupant of the salon now spoke. “Bullshit, boy!” John of Rhodes rose from his divan and planted his arms akimbo. “The real gunnery specialist is Eusebius—who’s too nearsighted to storm a latrine, anyway. And since I’m the commander of the gunship fleet, that leaves you as the top Roman officer in the armada to show these haughty black fellows”—he and the two Africans exchanged grins—”how to wield hand weapons properly in the close quarters of a desperate boarding operation.”
“That’s nonsense, also,” said Antonina. She drained the rest of her goblet. “If all goes as planned, there won’t be any boarding operations. Just the dazzling maneuvers of warships firing cannons at long range, destroying the Malwa with precision and style.”
And that, of course, brought a storm of criticism and outrage.
Idiot! Have you learned nothing?
The First Law of Battle!
Every battle plan in history—
“—gets fucked up as soon as the enemy arrives,” she finished. “Men. Such slobs. Everything always has to be messy and untidy.” Serenely: “Fortunately, this expedition will have a woman’s hand on the rudder.”
Five pairs of male eyes, ranging in color from bright blue to deepest brown, joined in condemnation of such folly.
Antonina poured herself another goblet. “Trust me,” she said, still with absolute serenity. “You’ll see.”
* * *
Belisarius’ final meeting of the day took place late that night, in the back room of a small tavern to which he had come cloaked in secrecy.
“There’s nothing more I can tell you,” he concluded. “If we hear anything further, of course, I’ll let you know. But since you’ll be off as soon as Ezana can finish assembling his small fleet, I don’t imagine there’ll be anything else.”
Anastasius grunted. “Not if you’re right, and Narses is behind it all.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Speaking for myself, I hope he is. Information’s valuable, but I’d rather trust my life to Narses’ fine and subtle hand.”
Valentinian glared at him. Clearly enough, the weasel-thin cataphract did not share his giant companion’s equanimity.
“Speak for yourself,” he snarled. “I’d rather trust a scorpion than Narses.” The glare shifted to Belisarius. “And don’t repeat Irene’s fancy phrases to me. Fine for her to talk about trusting Narses’ so-called ‘craftsmanship.’ She’ll be on the other side of the Hindu Kush from the bastard, with thirteen thousand Kushan bodyguards.”
The last occupant of the room spoke up. “Ah, but you forget. She’ll be without me. And since I’ll be coming with you, I think that fairly evens the odds.”
Valentinian was now glaring at Kujulo. But, even for Valentinian, the glare was hard to maintain. After Belisarius’ rescue of then-princess Shakuntala from her captivity at Venandakatra’s palace in Gwalior, Valentinian had fought his way out of India with Kushans at his side—Kujulo among them. He had then spent two years fighting against Kushans and, after Vasudeva and his men took service with Belisarius, with them at his side. There were perhaps no soldiers in the world, beyond the general’s own Thracian bucellarii to whom Valentinian belonged, that he respected and trusted more than he did Kushans. And, of them, more than Kujulo himself.
Still—
“I’m not complaining,” he complained. He took his own quaff of wine, and then squinted bitterly at the Persian vintage as if all the sourness of the universe were contained therein. “If it can be done, we’ll get the girls out. Although I still don’t understand why Narses would go to all this trouble—not to mention huge risks for himself—just to get Dadaji’s daughters back to their father.”
Belisarius shrugged. “That part doesn’t make sense to any of us, Valentinian. Irene no more than me. But—”
His crooked smile made its appearance. “That’s all the more reason to investigate. There’s got to be more involved.”
“What do you think?” asked Anastasius.
Belisarius scratched his chin. “I have no idea.” He glanced at Valentinian. “But I can’t help remembering the last words Lord Damodara said to you, before he released you from captivity.”
Valentinian scowled. “That silly business about you having a proper respect for grammar?”