Belesarius 01 An Oblique Approach by David Drake & Eric Flint

Author:David Drake & Eric Flint [Drake, David & Flint, Eric]
Format: epub
Tags: David Drake & Eric Flint
ISBN: 0-671-87865-4
Publisher: Baen Publishing Enterprises
Published: 1998-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

Once Photius drowsed off, early in the evening, Belisarius and Antonina were alone. They had never been separated for long, since the day they first met. Now, they would be separated for at least a year.

Future loss gave force to present passion. Belisarius got very little sleep that night.

Antonina did not sleep at all. Once her husband finally succumbed to slumber, from sheer exhaustion, she stayed awake through the few hours left in that night. That precious night. That—last night, she feared.

By the time the sun arose, Antonina was awash in grief. Bleak certainty. She would never see him again.

Her son rescued her from that bottomless pit. At daybreak, Photius wandered into the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Will Daddy be coming back?" he asked, timidly. His little face was scrunched with worry.

The boy had never called Belisarius by that name before. The sound of it drove all despair from her soul.

"Of course he will, Photius. He's my husband. And he's your father."

* * *

At midmorning, Belisarius and his companions rode out of the villa. At the boundary of the estate, they took the road which led to Antioch and, beyond, to Seleuceia on the coast. At Seleuceia they would board ship for the voyage to Egypt and, beyond, to Adulis on the Red Sea. And beyond, to Axum in the Ethiopian highlands. And beyond, to India.

Belisarius rode at the head of the little party. Eon rode on his left, Garmat on his right. Behind them rode the two sarwen. Behind the sarwen, the three cataphracts.

Ousanas traveled on foot. The dawazz, it developed, had a pronounced distaste for all manner of animal transport. Belisarius thought his attitude was peculiar, but—the man himself was peculiar, when you came right down to it. The cataphracts thought he was probably mad. The sarwen, from long experience, were certain of it.

Early on in the journey, young Menander made so bold as to ask the dawazz himself.

"Who is mad, boy? I? Not think so. Madmen place lives on top great beasts with good reason wish men dead. I be horse or donkey or camel, boy, you be squashed melon right quick. I be elephant, you be squashed seeds."

When Menander reported the conversation to his veteran seniors—not, be it said, without a certain concern, and a questioning glance at his own horse—Anastasius and Valentinian shrugged the matter off. They were far too deep into their own misery to fret over such outlandish notions.

"Perfect duty, it was," whined Valentinian.

"Ideal," rumbled Anastasius, with heartful agreement. "Best garrison post I ever saw."

"A villa, no less."

"Wine, women, and song."

"Fuck the songs."

"And now—!"

Mutter, mutter, mutter.

"What was that?"

"I think he said 'fuck adventurous leaders,' " replied Menander. The lad frowned. "But maybe not. I can't always understand him when he mutters, even though he does it a lot. Maybe he said: 'fuck avaricious feeders.' "

The frown deepened. "But that doesn't make a lot of sense either, does it? Especially on a trip—" A sudden thought; a sudden worry; a quick glance at his mount.

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