"I swore an oath. To God, not to Romans."
The Emperor gestured with his head at the faint sounds of battle.
"And that? Does your oath to God encompass that? Had you been emperor, instead of I, the anti-Christ might not have triumphed."
Belisarius shrugged. "Who is to know the future? Not I, my lord. Nor does it matter. Even had I known the course of the future, down to the last particular, I would not have betrayed you. I swore an oath."
Pain, finally, came to the Emperor's face.
"I do not understand."
"I know, lord."
The sounds of battle were faint now. Belisarius glanced at the entrance to the chamber.
The slave stepped forward and handed him the skin of Sittas. Belisarius gazed upon the face of his friend, kissed it, and tossed it into the vat. A brief burst of flame, and the trophy was lost to Satan. He gazed longer upon the face of his stepson, but not much, before it followed into destruction. He knew Photius would understand. He, too, had commanded armies, and knew the value of time.
Finally, he took the remains of Antonina into his arms and stepped upon the ledge. A moment later Justinian joined him, bearing the mummy of the Empress.
The slave thought it was fitting that the Emperor, who had always preceded his general in life, should precede him in death. So he pushed Justinian first. He had guessed the Emperor would scream, at the end. But the old tyrant was made of sterner stuff. Sensing the approach of the slave behind him, Justinian had simply said:
"Come, Belisarius. Let us carry our whores to heaven. We may be denied entrance, but never they."
Belisarius had said nothing. Nor, of course, had he screamed. As he turned away from the vat, the old slave grinned.
The general, for all the suppleness of his mind, had always been absurdly stiff-necked about his duty. The Christian faith forbade suicide, and so the slave had performed this last service. But it had been a pure formality. At the end, the slave knew, as soon as he felt the first touch of the powerful hands at his back, Belisarius had leapt.