David Drake - Belisarius 2 - In The Heart Of Darkness

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In the Heart of Darkness

by Eric Flint & David Drake

[this book ripped from Baen Free Library. Please go to

http://www.baen.com/library/ for more]

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this

book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely

coincidental.

thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-87885-9

Cover art by David Mattingly

First printing, August 1998

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Typeset by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

To Kathy and Laura

Prologue

When the lavish dinner was finished, and the servants sent away, the spymaster

broke the bad news.

"Belisarius is alive," he said curtly.

There were seven other men in the room. One, like the spymaster, was foreign.

From the blankness of his face, it was obvious he had already heard the news.

Of the Romans in the room, five rose up on their couches, their faces

expressing various degrees of consternation.

The seventh man, the last of the Romans, simply curled his lip, and satisfied

himself with shifting his weight to the other elbow.

He had been disgusted the entire evening.

The two churchmen in the room disgusted him with their sanctimonious prattle.

Glycerius of Chalcedon and George Barsymes were deacons, acting on behalf of

Rufinus Namatianus, Bishop of Ravenna. They were rabidly orthodox. But, at

bottom, their orthodoxy was nothing but a veil for ambition. The Bishop of

Ravenna sought the papacy, and his underlings sought the patriarchates of

Constantinople and Alexandria.

Ambition was the seventh man's motive also, but he did not disguise it with

false piety. (A ridiculous piety, to boot -- allying with Hindu heathens

against Christian heretics.) The seventh man counted many sins against his

soul, mortal and venial alike. But hypocrisy was not among them.

The two noblemen in the room disgusted him with their swaggering braggadocio.

Their names were Hypatius and Pompeius. They were brothers, the nephews of the

former emperor Anastasius. By any formal dynastic criterion, they were the

rightful heirs to the imperial throne. But Romans had never worshipped at the

altar of heredity. Competence was the ultimate standard for wearing the

purple. And if there were two more feckless creatures in the entire Roman

empire, they were hiding themselves well.

The other high Roman official in the room disgusted him. John of Cappadocia,

his name was, and he was Emperor Justinian's Praetorian Prefect. A ruthless

and capable man, to be sure. But one whose rapaciousness and depravity were

almost beyond belief. Murderer, thief, extortionist, torturer, rapist -- all

these things John of Cappadocia had been named. The names were all true.

The two Malwa spies in the room disgusted him -- Balban the oily spymaster

even more than Ajatasutra the assassin -- partly for their false bonhomie and

pretense of comradeship, but mostly for their claim of disinterested concern

for the best interests of Rome, which no one but an idiot would believe for an

instant. The seventh man was very far from being an idiot, and he took the

Malwa air of innocence as an insult to his intelligence.

The seventh man was disgusted with himself. He was the Grand Chamberlain of

the Roman Empire. He was one of the most valued and trusted advisers of

Emperor Justinian, whom he planned to betray. He was the close personal friend

of the Empress Theodora, whom he planned to murder. He would add the count of

treason to his sins, and increase the counts of murder, and all for the sake

of rising one small rung in power. He was a eunuch, and so could never aspire

to the throne himself. But he could at least become the Grand Chamberlain of a

feckless emperor, instead of a dynamic one, and thus be the real power in

Rome.

The seventh man knew, with all the intelligence of a keen mind, that his

ambition was stupidity incarnate. He was an old man. Even if he realized his

ambition, he would probably not enjoy its exercise for more than a few years.

For that stupid, petty ambition, the seventh man risked the possibility of

execution and the certainty of eternal damnation. He despised himself for that

pettiness, and was disgusted by his own stupidity. But he could not do

otherwise. For all that he prided himself on his iron self-control, the

seventh man had never been able to control his ambition. Ambition rode the

eunuch like lust rides a satyr. It had ridden him as far back as he could

remember, since the days when other boys had taunted and beaten him for his

castrated deformity.

But, above all, the seventh man was disgusted because the Malwa and the Roman

reactionaries in the room had insisted on dining in the archaic tradition,

instead of sitting on chairs at a table, as all sensible people did in the

modern day. The seventh man's aged body had long since lost the suppleness to

eat a meal half-reclined on a couch.

His name was Narses, and his back hurt.

The Indian spymaster's eyes had been fixed on Narses from the moment he made

the announcement. Months ago, Balban had realized that the eunuch was by far

the most formidable of his Roman allies -- and the only one who was not, in

any sense, a dupe. The churchmen were provincial bigots, the royal nephews

were witless fops, and John of Cappadocia -- for all his undoubted ability --

was too besotted with his own vices to distinguish fact from fancy. But Narses

understood the Malwa plot perfectly. He had agreed to join it simply because

he was convinced he could foil the Malwa after he had taken the power in Rome.

Balban was not at all sure the eunuch was wrong in that estimate. Narses, in

power, would make a vastly more dangerous enemy for the Malwa than Justinian.

So Balban had long since begun planning for Narses' own assassination. But he

was a methodical man, who knew the value of patience, and was willing to take

one step ahead of the other. For the moment, the alliance with the eunuch was

necessary.

And so --

"What is your reaction, Narses?" he asked. The Indian's Greek was fluent, if

heavily accented.

The eunuch grimaced as he painfully levered himself to an upright posture on

his couch.

"I told you it was a stupid idea," he growled. As always, Balban was struck by

the sound of such a deep, rich, powerful voice coming from such a small and

elderly man. A eunuch, to boot.

"It was not," whined Hypatius. His brother's vigorous nod of agreement was

intended to be firm and dignified. With his cosmetic-adorned and well-coiffed

head bobbing back and forth on a scrawny neck, the nobleman resembled nothing

so much as a doll shaken by a toddler.

The eunuch fixed muddy green eyes on the nephews. Against his bony face,

surrounded by myriad wrinkles, the effect was utterly reptilian. Deadly, but

cold-blooded. The brothers shrank from his gaze like mice.

Narses satisfied himself with that silent intimidation. Much as he was often

tempted, Narses never insulted the brothers. One of them would be needed, in

the future, for his puppet emperor. Either one, it did not matter. Whichever

summoned up the courage to plot with Narses to murder the other first. So, as

always, the eunuch maintained formal respect, and allowed his eyes alone to

establish dominance.

"I told you all from the beginning that the plan was pathetic," he said. "If

you want to assassinate a man like Belisarius, you had better use something

other than common criminals."

Ajatasutra spoke, for the first time that evening. He was the Indian mission's

chief agent. A specialist in direct action, a man of the streets and alleys,

where Balban manipulated from the shadows. His Greek was also fluent, but,

unlike Balban's, bore hardly a trace of an accent. Ajatasutra could -- and

often did -- pass himself off as a Roman citizen from one of the more exotic,

outlying provinces of the empire. A dark-complected Syrian, perhaps, or a

half-breed Isaurian.

"It was a well-laid plan, according to the report," he murmured. His tone

exuded calm, dispassionate assessment. "Belisarius was ambushed shortly after

landing in Bharakuccha. At night, in darkness. While he was alone, without his

cataphract bodyguards. By no less than eight dacoits. Seasoned killers, all of

them."

"Really?" sneered Narses. He was quite happy to insult the Malwa, within

reason. So he allowed his lip to curl ferociously, but refrained from spitting

on the polished, parquet floor. "Tell me, Ajatasutra -- I'm curious. How many

of these -- what did you call them? -- oh, yes! 'Seasoned killers,' no less.

How many of them survived the encounter?"

"Three," came the instant reply. "They fled after Belisarius slaughtered the

first five. Within seconds, according to the report."

Narses' sneer faded. Ajatasutra was immune to the Roman's contempt. The

agent's dark brown eyes were filled with nothing beyond professional interest.

And the eunuch well remembered that Ajatasutra had expressed his own

reservations at the meeting, many months earlier, when the decision was taken

to recommend Belisarius' assassination as soon as he reached India.

(Recommend, not order. Lord Venandakatra was the one who would make the final

decision. Balban ranked high in the Malwa Empire's hierarchy, but he was not a

member of the imperial dynastic clan. He did not give orders to such as

Venandakatra. Not if he wanted to live.)

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.

So Narses simply stared at the Cappadocian for a moment, treasuring the sight

of that twisted obsession. When the time came, the eunuch knew, after the

triumph of their treason, John planned to finally sate his lust for Antonina.

Narses turned away. The Cappadocian's guard would be down then. It would be

the perfect time to have him murdered.

Fierce satisfaction flooded him. In his own bitter heart, hidden away like a

coal in his icy mind, Narses had compiled a list of all those he hated in the

world. It was a very, very, very long list.

John of Cappadocia's name ranked high on that list. Narses would enjoy killing

him. Enjoy it immensely.

The pleasure would alleviate, perhaps, the pain from his other crimes. The

pain from killing Belisarius, whom he admired deeply. The agony from

Theodora's murder, which would leave him, in the end, shrieking on his

deathbed.

The servant helped him don his cloak, before opening the door.

Narses stood in the doorway, waiting for the servant to fetch his palanquin

from the stables in the back of the villa. He glanced up. The night sky was

clear, cloudless. Open. Unstained.

Murder them he would, nonetheless, or see to the doing of the deed.

Behind him, dimly, he heard John of Cappadocia speaking. He could not make out

the words, but there was no mistaking that coarse, foul voice.

Foul noise and unstained sky swirled in the soul of Narses. Images of a

murdered Cappadocian and a murdered Thracian vanished. The cold, still face of

the eunuch finally twisted, unbridled. There was nothing reptilian in that

face now. It was the face of a warm-blooded beast. Almost a child's face, for

all its creases and wrinkles, if a child's face had ever borne such a burden

of helpless rage.

Cursed, hated ambition. He would destroy himself for that cannibal.

The palanquin was here. The four slaves who carried it waited in silent

obedience while the servant assisted Narses into the cushioned seat. The

palanquin began to move.

Narses leaned back into the cushions, eyes closed.

His back hurt.

Chapter 1

RANAPUR

Spring 530 AD

Belisarius watched the stone ball arching through the sky. The trajectory was

no flatter than that of a ball cast by catapult, but it slammed into the brick

wall surrounding Ranapur with much greater force. Even over the roar of the

cannon blast, the sound of the ball's impact was remarkable.

"A least a foot in diameter," stated Anastasius.

Belisarius thought the cataphract's estimate of the cannonball's size was

accurate, and nodded his agreement. The other of his veteran bodyguards,

Valentinian, grimaced sourly.

"So what?" he grumbled. "I've seen a catapult toss bigger."

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IntheHeartofDarknessbyEricFlint&DavidDrake[thisbookrippedfromBaenFreeLibrary.Pleasegotohttp://www.baen.com/library/formore]Thisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright(c)1998byEricFlint&DavidDrake...

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