"So, they are not warships?"
Garmat shrugged. "They could serve as such, Belisarius. Poorly, however, except as rocket ships." The adviser began a technical discourse, but Belisarius shook his head.
"There's no need, Garmat. I'll take your word for it. It doesn't surprise me, anyway. It's what I expected."
Garmat cocked his head inquisitorily.
Before he answered, Belisarius looked about the room. The room was rather small, quite plain and utilitarian, and windowless. It was obviously a chamber for servants, which the hostel owner had attempted to prettify with a few cheap tapestries hastily hung on the walls. The hostel owner had offered Belisarius a more suitable room elsewhere, but the general had insisted on quarters adjoining those of his men.
His and Garmat's room, now. On the second day of their stay in Bharakuccha, Garmat had approached Belisarius with a plea to share his quarters. It seemed the sarwen and Ousanas had arrived at the same conclusion as the cataphracts, and Garmat had no wish to remain in quarters which were now crowded with the presence of three young women. Maratha women, in this case.
"I'm too old for orgies," he'd explained.
Belisarius looked back at Garmat.
"Before I answer you, I have a question. Describe the military capabilities of Axum. Strengths and weaknesses."
Garmat did not hesitate. The die had been cast.
"The army of the negusa nagast is very good, in my opinion. I have fought against them, you know, as well as with them. My bedouin were no match for them in a pitched battle, as the Arabs learned some time ago. In a raid, taking advantage of our mobility, we could occasionally overcome small detachments of sarwen. And we could always escape them. The Axumite army is an infantry army, essentially. Their cavalry is very small, and weak. Couriers, for the most part. And they have no skill with camels at all."
He stroked his beard.
"Axum is not really a land power, as Rome is. True, King Kaleb rules over a vast region. But it is nowhere near as vast as Rome, even—"
He hesitated. Belisarius smiled.
"In private, Garmat, we will dispense with the formality that the western Mediterranean is still ruled by the Emperor."
Garmat smiled back. "As you wish. As I was saying, even if we exclude the western portions of your empire, Rome's territory is still much larger than Axum's. And the disparity is even greater in terms of population. You have visited Ethiopia yourself, now. As you saw, it is essentially a highland region, with control over the Red Sea and portions of Arabia. Mountains and deserts, for the most part. So, our people are not numerous, even if we include the Arabs and southern barbarians under our rule. And thus, our army is not large. Good, but small."
Garmat paused for a moment, thinking, then continued:
"The strength of the Axumite army lies primarily in the skill and discipline of the sarawit. Their discipline lacks the subtlety of Roman discipline, mind you. The Empire of Axum does not have the history that Rome does. It was forged in conquest, true, just as your empire was. But the Ethiopians fought only barbarians, except when they conquered Meroe. And the kingdom of the Nubians, by then, was a decrepit thing. Barely a shadow of its former glory, long ago, when it ruled all of Egypt. So—"
Belisarius nodded. "I understand. Firm discipline, which maintains a good order in battle. That is all one needs to defeat barbarians. But no subtlety in tactics. Much as the Roman army might have been, had we never faced such civilized foes as the Etruscans, Carthaginians, Greeks, and Persians."
"Yes. But there's more to it. The real power of Axum lies in its control over trade routes. Especially the sea-borne trade. So, you have a peculiar situation. Although the heartland of Ethiopia is a highland region, the kingdom itself is a naval power. Our sarawit are produced and trained in the highlands, but serve primarily at sea."
"So they are marines, basically," said Belisarius.
Garmat nodded. "Yes. From what you told me, I gather that our recent affray with the Arab pirates was your first personal experience in a sea battle. You can understand, then, the qualities needed for marines."
Belisarius gazed up at the ceiling of the room, thinking back upon the battle.
"Courage, and skill with weapons—the combat is close, ferocious, and unforgiving. Firm discipline—iron discipline, even. But no tactical sophistication. There's no need for it in the tight quarters of a boarding operation. Nor room, for that matter."
He looked back down at Garmat.
"And those are the weaknesses of the Axumite army. Small numbers. Inexperience in large land battles. Primitive tactics."
"Yes."
"That's about what I thought."
"May I ask the purpose of these questions?"
"Of course. It goes back to the matter of the Indian ships we were talking about. You are puzzled, I think, by what we've seen in the harbor."
Garmat nodded. "I fail to understand the Malwa purpose in launching such a ship-building project. Such an enormous project, building such enormous ships. Ships of the size we saw being created in the harbor are very expensive, Belisarius. Men who are not seamen, even experienced generals such as yourself, never really grasp how expensive such vessels are. To maintain and operate, as much as to build."
The adviser shrugged. "So what is the point of doing it, when the ships themselves are so poorly designed for sea battles? Even given the Malwa rocket weapons. Especially in light of the rockets. If I were in charge, I would build a great number of small, swift craft. They would serve just as well for platforms from which to fire rockets. Better, for they would be more maneuverable."
Belisarius chuckled. "Spoken like a true seaman! Or, I should say, like an adviser to a monarch whose power lies at sea."
The general arose from his couch and began pacing.
"But the Indians are not a sea power, Garmat. Not the Malwa, at least. They are almost exclusively a land power, and think in those terms."
He stopped his pacing and scratched his chin.
"There's one other weakness to your Axumite army, Garmat, which you didn't mention. I'm sure you didn't even think of it. But it's an inevitable weakness, flowing from your own description."
"And that is?"
"You have no real experience with logistics. Not, at least, on the scale where logistics dominate an entire campaign."
Garmat thought for a moment, then nodded.
"I suppose that's true. The largest force fielded by Axum in modern times was the army which we sent to conquer Yemen. Four sarawit—slightly over three thousand men. Not many, by the standards of Rome or Persia. Or India. And supplying them was not difficult, of course, because—"
"You are a naval power, and were conquering a coastal region. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to supply an army numbering in the tens of thousands, marching across a vast region far removed from any coast?"
Garmat began to speak, paused, shook his head.
"No, not really."
Belisarius chuckled.
"It is quite comical, for a Thracian general, to read the histories of Rome's wars which are written by Greek scholars. They almost invariably report armies numbering in the tens and hundreds of thousands. Especially barbarian armies."
He laughed outright.
"Barbarians! Not even Rome, with all its skill and experience, can field armies of that size. Not inland, at any rate. Much less can barbarians. And the reason, of course, is logistics. What's the point of marching a hundred thousand men to their death from starvation?"
He resumed his seat. "So—to the point. If you were the Malwa emperor, and were planning to conquer the West, how would you do it?"
Garmat stroked his beard. "I suppose—there is the route through Bactria—"
"Don't even think about it."
"Why not? It's the traditional route for invaders of India, after all. So why shouldn't the Indians return the compliment?"
"Because the Indians will be fielding a modern army. They are not barbarian nomads, who can haul everything with them—what little they have to haul in the first place. The Malwa are not seeking plunder, they are seeking conquest and permanent rule. It is not enough for them to march to the walls of Ctesiphon or Antioch or Constantinople and demand tribute. To conquer, they must conquer cities. And no barbarians have ever conquered a major fortified city, except by treachery."
"Alexander—"
Belisarius nodded. "Yes, I know. Alexander the Great also took that route, when he tried to conquer India. What of it? He failed in his purpose, you may recall. Not the least of the reasons being the exhaustion of his army after campaigning through those endless mountains. Which is why—and now we get to the point—he did not return that way."
Garmat frowned. "The coastal route? But that was an even greater disaster for the Macedonians, Belisarius!" He began to continue, then closed his mouth.
"Yes. Precisely. It was a disaster for the good and simple reason that Alexander did not understand the monsoons. But we do, today. And so do the Indians."
"Persia, through Mesopotamia. Then Rome."
"Yes. That is the Malwa plan. I am as certain of it as I am of my own name. I had suspected as much even before we arrived at Bharakuccha and saw the shipbuilding project. Now, after hearing your explanation of it, I am positive. That great fleet of giant ships is not designed for sea battles, Garmat. As you surmised, they are not really warships at all. They are the logistics train for a huge land campaign. The conquest of Persia, beginning in Mesopotamia. Taking advantage of the monsoons to supply an army through the Gulf of Persia, and the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers."
"Those rivers are not—"
"—are not particularly useful for an army marching upstream. Yes, I know. Unlike the Nile, where travel in either direction is always easy, because the current takes you north and the winds always blow south, the prevailing winds in Mesopotamia usually follow the current. The Tigris and Euphrates are easy to travel in that direction, to the south. But they are difficult to go upstream." He shrugged. "But you exaggerate the difficulty. They are still much—much—better logistics routes than hauling supplies overland. Trust me, Garmat. It can be done. I'm no seaman, but I'm quite experienced at using rivers. I can think of several ways I could haul huge amounts of supplies up the Mesopotamian rivers."
He arose. "So. Now we know."
"What do you plan to do?"
"For the moment, nothing. I need to think over the problem. But good strategies require good intelligence. This trip to India is already paying off."
Garmat arose also. "You do not intend to revisit the harbor?"
Belisarius shook his head. "There's no need. Instead, Garmat, I think we should spend the next few days simply wandering about the city. I want to get a feel for the attitude of the populace."
"The Malwa will think we are spying."
"So what? They expect us to. I want them to think we are simply spying. Instead of using our spying to conceal another purpose."
For the next week, Belisarius and Garmat did just that: explore Bharakuccha. And, in the case of Belisarius, perfect his knowledge of Kushan and Marathi.
Most of this latter task, however, was done at night, in his quarters at the hostel. Each night, one of the Kushan or Maratha girls was assigned to him. The girls were surprised to discover that the general was not interested in their normal services. He simply wanted to talk. It was a strange fetish, but not unheard of. Although, usually, the conversation of such customers did not range across the breadth of Indian society, culture, habits, mores, and history.
But the girls did not complain. It was easy duty, and the general was quite a pleasant man. An altogether better situation than the Kushan girls were accustomed to. And it was vastly superior for the Maratha women, who were outright slaves in their own brothel.
By the end of their first week in Bharakuccha, therefore, Belisarius could understand spoken Kushan and Marathi perfectly, and could speak it himself quite well. The women were astonished, in fact, at his progress.
A problem remained, however, which Belisarius had not anticipated. He also needed to be able to write Marathi, and none of the Maratha women were literate. Over the following three days, he made inquiries in various quarters of the city. Eventually—reluctantly—he came to the realization that there was only one course available to him.
Fortunately, in light of his diminishing funds, the price was not high. Maratha slaves were very cheap. Since the conquest of Andhra, the market had been flooded with them. Supply was thus high, and demand was very low. Marathas, the slave trader explained to him bitterly, were notoriously difficult.
"At least you had the sense not to buy a young one," he added, gesturing to the stooped, middle-aged slave Belisarius had just purchased. "The young ones can be dangerous, even the girls."
The general examined his new slave. His study was brief and perfunctory, however, for the slave master's selling chamber was poorly lit by a single small oil lamp. There were no windows to let in sunlight. Or air—the stink of human effluvium coming from the nearby slave pens was nauseating.
The man was perhaps fifty years of age, Belisarius estimated. Short, slender, gray-haired. His eyes were so deep a brown as to be almost black—what little Belisarius had seen of them. The slave had kept his eyes downcast, except for one brief glance at his new owner.
He began to leave, gesturing for the slave to follow.
"You have not manacled him!" protested the slave trader.
Belisarius ignored him. Back on the street, Anastasius and Valentinian fell in at the general's side. Belisarius paused for a moment, breathing deeply, cleaning the stench from his nostrils and lungs. The powerful aromas of teeming Bharakuccha came with those breaths, of course, but they were the scents of life—cooking oils and spices, above all—not the miasma of despair.
The general began striding down the street back toward the hostel. Valentinian and Anastasius marched on either side. Their weapons were not drawn, but the two veterans never ceased scanning the street and side alleys, alert for danger. Those keen eyes kept watch on the general's newly acquired slave as well, following them a few steps behind.
Once they were beyond sight of the slave pens, Belisarius stopped and turned back, still flanked by his cataphracts. The slave stopped also, but did not raise his eyes from the ground. The small knot of armored men standing still were like a boulder in a stream. The endless flow of people in the crowded street broke around them without a pause. Only a few of those people cast so much as a glance at the bizarre foreigners in their midst, standing in a semicircle facing a half-naked slave. Curiosity was not a healthy trait in Malwa-occupied Bharakuccha.
"Look at me," commanded Belisarius.
The slave looked up, startled. He had not expected his new owner—an obvious foreigner—to speak Marathi.
"I will not shackle you, unless you give me reason to do so. I suggest you do not try to escape. It would be futile."
The slave examined the general, examined the cataphracts, looked back at the ground.
"Look at me," commanded Belisarius again.
Reluctantly, the slave obeyed.
"You are a skilled scribe, according to the slave trader."
The slave hesitated, then spoke. His voice was bitter.
"I was a skilled scribe. Now I am a slave who knows how to read and write."
Belisarius smiled. "I appreciate the distinction. I require your services. You must teach me to read and write Marathi." A thought came to him. "What other languages are you literate in?"
The slave frowned. "I am not sure—do you understand that the northern tongues can be written both in the classical Sanskrit and modern Devanagari script?"
Belisarius shook his head.
The slave continued. "Well, I can teach you either, or both. For practical matters I suggest Devanagari. Most of the major northern tongues are written in that script, including Hindi and Marathi. If you wish to write Gujarati you will have to learn a different script, which I can teach you. All of the principal southern languages have their own script as well. Of those I am proficient only in Tamil and Telugu." The slave shrugged. "Beyond that, I am literate in Pallavi and Greek."
"Good. I will wish to learn Hindi as well. Perhaps others, at a later time."
There was a questioning look in the slave's eyes, with an undertone of apprehension. Belisarius understood immediately.
"I will not fault you if I find the task difficult. But I think you will be surprised at how good a student I will be."
He paused for a moment, making a difficult decision. But not long, for the decision was inevitable, given his character. The slave would know too much, by the time Belisarius was done with him. Some other man would have solved the problem in the simplest way possible. But Belisarius' ruthlessness was that of a general, not a murderer.
"I will take you back to Rome with me, when I leave India. There, if you have served me faithfully, I will manumit you. And give you what funds you require to start a new life. You will have no difficulty, if your literary talents are as you have described. There are any number of Greek traders who would be glad to employ you." Another thought came to him. "For that matter, there is a bishop who might find you useful. He is a kind man, and would make an excellent employer."
The slave eyed him, making his own estimations. But not long, for he was in no position to choose.
"As you wish," he said.
"What is your name?"
The slave opened his mouth, closed it. A bitter little twist came to his lips. "Call me `slave,' " he said. "The name is good enough."
Belisarius laughed. "Truly, a proud folk!"
He smiled down at the slave. "I once had a Maratha slave, in a different—long ago. He, too, would not tell me his name, but would only answer to `slave.' "
The impulse was overwhelming. The special dagger he did not have on him, of course. It was stowed away in his baggage. But Belisarius always carried a dagger on his sword belt. He drew the weapon. It was not as excellent a dagger as the other, but it was still quite finely made.
A quick, practiced flip of the wrist nestled the blade in his palm. He proffered the dagger to the slave, hilt-first.
"Take it," he commanded.
The slave's eyes widened.
"Take it," he repeated. His own lips twisted crookedly.
"Just so," he murmured, in a voice so low that only the slave could hear, "should men dance in the eyes of God."
The slave reached out his hand, drew it back. Then spoke, this time in fluent Greek.
"It is illegal for slaves to possess weapons. The penalty is death."
The cataphracts, hearing the slave's words, bridled. They thought their general was crazy, of course—handing a dagger to a slave!—but, still, he was the general.
"And just which sorry lot of Indian soldiers do you think is going to make the arrest?" demanded Valentinian. Anastasius glared about the teeming street. Fortunately, there were no Malwa soldiery within sight.
The slave stared at the two cataphracts. Then, suddenly, he laughed.
"Truly, you Romans are mad!" His face broke into a smile. He looked at Belisarius, and shook his head.
"Keep the dagger, master. There is no need for this gesture."
A quick, approving glance at the cataphracts. "And, while I have no doubt your men would cheerfully hack down a squad of Malwa dogs, I do not think you need the awkwardness of the situation. If they saw me carrying the dagger, they would try to arrest me. The Malwa are very strict on this matter, especially with Maratha slaves."
Belisarius scratched his chin. "You have a point," he admitted. He slid the dagger back into the sheath.
"Walk with me, if you would," he said to the slave. "If you will not tell me your name, you must at least tell me of your life."
By the end of that day, the slave was comfortably ensconced in the room which Belisarius shared with Garmat. The room was small, true, and he occupied only a pallet in a corner. But the linens were clean—as was the slave himself. He had enjoyed his first real bath since his enslavement. Belisarius had insisted, overriding the scandalized protest of the hostel owner.
That night, the slave began his duties, instructing the general in the written form of Marathi. As Belisarius had predicted, the slave was amazed at how rapidly his new master learned his lessons.
But that was not the only astonishing thing, to the slave, about his new master and his companions. Three other things puzzled him as well.
First, the soldiers.
Like most Maratha men, the slave was no stranger to warfare. Though not a kshatriya, he himself had fought in battles, as a youth. Had been rather an accomplished archer, in fact. So he was not inexperienced in these matters. Within a day, he decided that he had probably never encountered such a lethal crew as the Roman cataphracts and the black soldiers—the sarwen, as they called themselves.
Yet, quite unlike most warriors he had encountered in the past—certainly Malwa warriors—they were strangely free of the casual, unthinking brutality with which most such men conducted themselves toward their inferiors. They were not rude or impolite toward him, even though he was a slave. And it was quite obvious that the women who shared their quarters were neither afraid of them, nor timid in their presence. The soldiers even seemed to enjoy their badinage with the women, and the teasing.
Second, the prince.
Rarely had the slave seen a nobleman work his lustful way through such an unending stream of young women. And he had never seen one who did it with such apparent lack of pleasure.
It was odd. Very odd. At first, the slave interpreted the glum look on the prince's face, as he ushered yet another young woman out of his palatial suite, to be dissatisfaction with her talents. But then, observing the glee with which the young women counted their money as they left, he decided otherwise.
That theory discarded, he interpreted the glum look on the prince's face as the result of dissatisfaction with his own talents. An impotent man, perhaps, desperately trying to find a woman who could arouse him. But then, observing the exhaustion with which the departing girls gleefully counted their money, he decided otherwise.
Odd. Very odd.
Finally, there was the incident with the new Maratha girl. The slave concubine who was purchased for the prince by his—retainer? (They called him the dawazz—bizarre man!)
This incident happened two weeks or so after the slave came into Belisarius' service. He and Belisarius had been seated in the general's quarters, practicing Devanagari. They were alone, for Garmat was spending the evening with the Ethiopian soldiers.
The prince had suddenly burst through the door to the room. Uninvited, and without so much as a knock on the door. That was in itself unusual. The slave had learned that the prince, for all his morose mien, was not discourteous.
The prince had come to stand before the general, glaring down at him.
"I will not do it," he said, softly but quite forcefully. "I will act like a breeding stud for you, Belisarius, but I will not do this."
Belisarius, as usual, maintained his expressionless composure. But the slave had come to know him well enough to realize that the general was quite taken aback.
"What are you talking about?"
The prince—Eon was his name—glared even more furiously.
"Do not pretend you had nothing to do with it!"
A new voice spoke, from the door. The voice of the dawazz.
"He had nothing to do with it, Eon. He does not even know of her. I brought her straight to your suite from the slave pens."
The dawazz glanced at Belisarius.
"It is true, the general asked me to keep an eye out for such an opportunity. But he did not ask for this."
The dawazz then glanced at the slave. Meaningfully.
"I shall leave, if you desire," said the slave, beginning to rise.
"Stay," commanded Belisarius. The general did not even look at him. His eyes were riveted on the dawazz.
The dawazz shrugged.
"She's perfect, Belisarius. Exactly what you hoped for. Not only from the palace, but from the girl's own retinue. Except—" The black man grimaced. "I did not realize until—I thought she was just—"
Belisarius rose. "Show me."
Angrily, Eon charged through the door. On his way out, he transferred the glare to his dawazz. The dawazz sighed and exited after him. Belisarius began to follow, then turned in the doorway. It was obvious to the slave, from the way his master was staring at him, that the general was making a decision. And it was just as obvious that the decision—whatever it was—involved the slave himself.
As usual, his new master did not linger.
"Come," he commanded.
The slave followed Belisarius into the prince's suite. By now, the commotion had aroused the attention of all the members of his master's party. The cataphracts and the sarwen were standing in the corridor of the hostel which linked all of their rooms. They were unarmored—almost completely undressed, in the case of the cataphracts—but they were all bearing weapons. Even the young cataphract, the sick one, was there. The Kushan and Maratha women who shared the soldiers' quarters were clustered behind them, peering over their shoulders. Garmat eased his way past the small crowd and went into the prince's suite. The slave followed him.
He found Belisarius, Eon, the dawazz, and Garmat standing around the huge bed in the prince's sleeping chamber, staring down at the figure who lay upon it.
The slave recognized the girl as Maratha. For an instant, he was consumed with an immediate rage—until he realized that the prince was not responsible. The bruises and half-healed lacerations on the girl's body had not been recently caused. And the dazed, vacant expression on her face was the product of protracted horror.
"I will not do this!" shouted the prince.
Belisarius shook his head. Eon snorted, but his glare faded somewhat. Hesitantly, the prince stretched out his hand. The girl on the bed moaned, flinched, drew herself up into an even tighter fetal curl.
"Don't touch her," said Belisarius.
From the door to the chamber, Valentinian's voice came.
"Mary, Mother of God."
The slave looked back at the cataphract. As before, he was struck by Valentinian's appearance. Probably the most evil-looking man the slave had ever seen. Especially now, with his expression filled with cold, experienced disgust.
The cataphract turned his head and spoke over his shoulder:
"Anastasius! Get the women."
Valentinian turned back.
"Move away from the bed," he commanded. "All of you. Now."
It did not seem strange to the slave, at the time, that all those present instantly obeyed their subordinate. Later, after he thought it over, it still did not seem strange. The most evil-looking man in the world, perhaps. Certainly at that moment.
Very soon thereafter, Anastasius entered the room, followed by the young cataphract and the half dozen young women. When the new arrivals saw the girl on the bed, they reacted differently. Anastasius' face—which looked like a slab of granite at the best of times—grew even harder. The women gasped, cast quick frightened glances at the men in the room, and drew back. Menander gaped, confused, and began moving forward. He was instantly restrained by Anastasius' huge hand.
"Don't," rumbled the giant cataphract.
"What's wrong with her?" whispered Menander. It was not the bruises which confused him, the slave knew. It was the near-insane expression on her face.
Anastasius and Valentinian exchanged glances.
"I've forgotten what it's like to be that innocent," muttered Valentinian.
Anastasius took a breath. "You've never been in a town that's been sacked, have you?"
Menander shook his head.
"Well, if and when you do, you'll see plenty of this. And worse."
The young cataphract, already pale from his illness, grew slightly paler as comprehension dawned. Anastasius motioned to the women, shooing them forward.
"Help the girl," he said, in his thick, broken Kushan. "Comfort her."
A moment later, Belisarius was issuing instructions to the girls in fluent, unaccented Kushan and Marathi. The girls hastened to do as he bade them. They were still casting reproachful glances at the soldiers in the room, but it was obvious to the slave that the reproach was generic, not specific.
Very odd soldiers, indeed.
But, he knew, not unique. He had not recognized the phenomenon at first, for he was unaccustomed to the informal Roman ways. But he had encountered such soldiers before, on occasion. Not often. Only Maratha and Rajput kshatriya possessed that code of honor. Men who would not stoop to murder, rape, and mindless mayhem, for they were the deadliest killers in creation. Such gross and common criminality was beneath their dignity.
The Malwa kshatriya had little of that code; the Ye-tai beasts derided them for what little they still possessed. And the common soldiers who made up the great mass of the Malwa army had none of it at all. Jackals, once discipline was loosened.
The slave shuddered, remembering the sack of his own town.
He would never see his beloved family again, but he knew their fate. His wife would be a drudge somewhere, slaving in the kitchen of a Malwa lord or merchant. His son would be a laborer, in the fields or in the mines. And his two daughters—
He glanced at the three Maratha women who were now on the bed, surrounding the half-crazed girl with female touches, female sounds and female scents. Three young slave girls, owned by a whoremaster.
He looked away, holding back a sob. Then forced himself to look back at the girl on the bed. There was a horrible comfort to be found in the sight. That much, at least, his wife and daughters had been spared. Spared, because by good fortune their own house had been seized by Rajputs during the sack, not Ye-tai or common soldiers. A Rajput cavalry troop, commanded by a young Rajput lord. A cold man, that lord; arrogant and haughty as only a Rajput kshatriya could be. The Rajputs had stripped their home of everything of value, down to the linen. Had then eaten all the food, and drank all the wine. But when the inevitable time came, and the cavalrymen began eyeing their captured women, the Rajput officer had simply said: "No."
Coldly, arrogantly, haughtily. His men had obeyed. Had not even grumbled. They were not kshatriya themselves, simply commoners. But they possessed their own humble share of Rajput discipline, and Rajput pride, and Rajputana's ancient glory.
He was brought back to the present by his master's voice. Belisarius, he realized, was ordering all of the men out of the room.
Once in the corridor, Belisarius began digging into his purse. Garmat interrupted.
"I will pay for it, Belisarius. We both know your funds are meager."
The Ethiopian gave instructions to one of the sarwen. The black soldier disappeared, searching for the hostel proprietor. Shortly thereafter, he reappeared, with the proprietor in tow. The man was smiling, as well he might be. Yet another room for his guests! By all means!
Within an hour, the injured girl had been moved into the new room. It was a small room adjoining Eon's suite, but separated from the suite by a door. Belisarius instructed the women to make sure that one of them was with her at all times. And, under no conditions, to allow any men into the room unless he said otherwise.
The girls glanced hesitantly at the soldiers. Their thoughts were obvious: And just how, exactly, does the idiot general expect us to prevent men like this from going anywhere they choose?
Belisarius shook his head. "They will not try to enter, I assure you."
That matter taken care of, for the moment, Belisarius led all of the men into his own room. The slave followed. Uncertainly, hesitantly, and with great reluctance.
Once everyone had taken a seat—those who could, that is, the room was small—Belisarius sighed and stated:
"This is going to play hell with our plans."
As one, just as the slave had feared, every man there looked at him. Their thoughts were also obvious:
Dead men tell no tales.
Belisarius smiled crookedly. "No," he said. "I'm keeping him with me, all the way back to Rome. The problem is with the girls. The Malwa will certainly question them, after we leave Bharakuccha. Until now, I didn't care. But the way we are treating this new girl will not gibe with the image that we've been carefully forging. Venandakatra's no fool. He'll smell something wrong."
Garmat coughed. Belisarius cocked his eye.
"Actually, Belisarius, I'm afraid the problem existed already. Even before the new girl arrived." Another cough. "Because of you, actually."
"Me?" demanded the general. "How so?"
Garmat sighed, then threw up his hands. "I share this room with you, General! I'm not blind."
He tugged on his beard.
"Should your wife ever inquire, I will be able to assure her that you were astonishingly faithful during your trip to India, even when lovely young women were coming to your room every night. But I don't think Venandakatra will find that reassuring. Not after you've spent so much time and effort trying to convince him you were almost as debauched as he is."
Belisarius' face was stony. The muscles along his jaw were tight.
"Ha!" exclaimed Eon. "So! I am required to mount every female shoved into my room. I am required to act the part of a breeding bull. But the general whose plan this is—"
The dawazz slapped him atop his head. The slave tried not to goggle. He did not think he would ever get accustomed to that. No Indian prince had ever been treated that way by a slave.
"Be quiet, Eon! You are not married. And stop complaining. I'm tired of it."
"We all are," snarled Valentinian.
"You copulated with every woman in Axum you could coax into your bed," growled Ezana. "Since you were fourteen."
"Thirteen," corrected Wahsi.
"That was different! They weren't shoved into my room, and I wasn't doing it because of—"
"Shut up!" barked Menander. The young cataphract flushed. "Begging your pardon, Prince. But I really can't stand it any longer. You bitch about this all the time, and I can't—well, maybe in a day or so, I hope—but—"
"Enough," commanded Belisarius. "Actually, I agree with Eon. At least, I will admit the justice of his charge. I have been somewhat hypocritical."
Anastasius chuckled. "I do believe that's the first time I've heard fidelity characterized as hypocrisy."
A little laugh swept the room. Even Eon, after a moment, joined in.
Valentinian cleared his throat.
"As it happens, General, I think there's a simple solution to the problem. Been thinking about it, myself, I have, and—"
"Capital idea!" exclaimed Ousanas.
"Splendid," agreed Anastasius. "My own thoughts have been veering that way themselves, oddly enough."
"So?" asked Ezana. The sarwen's face registered dumbfounded astonishment, a wild surmise come from nowhere.
Ezana and Wahsi exchanged gapes of wonder.
Wahsi spoke first: "Truly amazing. Can you believe, Ezana and I—and Ousanas—have been grappling with the very same—"
"The perfect solution!" cried Ezana.
Garmat was frowning with puzzlement. Belisarius started laughing.
"What are they talking about?" demanded the adviser.
Belisarius managed to stop laughing long enough to ask Valentinian:
"I assume the parties involved have—uh, how shall I put it—" (here he choked) "—found their own thoughts veering, or perhaps I should say—" (laughter) "—have been grappling with the—" (Here he fell silent altogether, holding his sides.)
Valentinian stared up at the ceiling.
"Well, actually, I believe one of the girls did mention—"
"They're really quite tired of Bharakuccha," added Menander eagerly.
"Sick to death of the place," rumbled Anastasius. "Eager for new experiences. New sights."
Ezana pitched in: "The Maratha girls are even more anxious to depart this pesthole."
"Horrible city," growled Wahsi. "Horrible."
Garmat was now glaring at Ousanas. "You put them up to this," he accused. "I know it was you."
"Me? Me? How can you say such a thing? I am my prince's dawazz! My thoughts are only of his welfare! I am a miserable slave. How could such a wretched creature possibly cajole fierce cataphracts and murderous sarwen into such a scheme?"
The grin erupted. "Brilliant scheme, mind you. Solve all problems at one swoop. Keep know-too-much girls—charming, lovely know-too-much girls—out of clutches of Malwa interrogators. Keep loyal but downhearted troops cheerful and content, so far from their native lands."
Belisarius managed to find his voice again. "I agree." He waved his hand. "Be off. See to it."
He smiled at Garmat. "They're right, you know. What else are we going to do? Slit the girls' throats?"
Valentinian and Anastasius were already at the door, with Ezana and Wahsi close on their heels.
"One moment!" spoke Belisarius. The men turned back.
Belisarius motioned to his purse. "Take some money. The pimps aren't going to like this idea. You'll have to pay them off."
Anastasius frowned. "Pimps," he mused. "I hadn't thought about that."
He looked to Valentinian. "Violent characters, your pimps."
Valentinian shuddered. "I shudder to think of it." He shuddered again. "See?"
"I have heard of these pimps," said Ezana, his face a mask of fear. "Brutal creatures, it is said."
"Cruel goblins," groaned Wahsi. "I may foul myself upon meeting them."
"We'll just have to do our best," whined Valentinian. He advanced to the purse and extracted a single small coin.
"This should do. Ah, no—I forget. We have two sets of pimps to deal with." He extracted another small coin. "More than sufficient, I should think." He cast a questioning glance at Anastasius.
"Quite sufficient," rumbled the giant. "I'll do the bargaining. I'm half-Greek, you know."
Ousanas lazed his way forward.
"I believe I shall accompany you. Perhaps these pimp fellows will wish to discuss philosophy."
"So they might!" exclaimed Anastasius. "Aristotle, perhaps?"
Ousanas shook his head. "I was thinking more along the lines of Stoicism."
Anastasius nodded happily. "The very thing! Calm acceptance of life's unexpected turns. Serenity—"
Valentinian and the two sarwen hastened through the door.
"—in the face of sudden misfortune."
Anastasius followed, with Ousanas at his heels.
"Disdain for material things," said the dawazz, as he closed the door.
Through the door, faintly heard, Anastasius:
"Pleasure in spiritual contemplation."
* * *
Two days later, a courier from Venandakatra arrived at the hostel, informing the Romans and Axumites that the Malwa lord's expedition to the north would be departing the next day. Belisarius and his party—his now much enlarged party—made their preparations to leave.
On the morning of their departure, there was a slight unpleasantness. A Rajput officer accosted them as they were leaving the hostel. He was accompanied by a platoon of Rajput soldiers, who, he explained, served the city of Bharakuccha as its police force.
Suspicions had been cast, accusations made, complaints lodged. Two well-known and respected brothel-keepers had been subjected to outrageous extortion by uncouth foreigners. Employees of the establishments had even been manhandled by these barbarous men. Horribly abused. Crippled, in the case of five; maimed and mutilated, in the case of four; slain outright, in the case of two.
Belisarius expressed his distress at the news. Distress, but not shock. Certainly not surprise. Such horrendous crimes, after all, were only to be expected in Bharakuccha. A terrible city! Full of desperadoes! Why—he himself had been assaulted in the streets by a band of robbers, the very day of his arrival. Had been forced to slay several in self-defense, in fact.
After hearing the general's description of the affair, the Rajput officer expressed pleasure at this unexpected resolution to a hitherto unsolved mystery. A mass murder, it had seemed at the time. Five notorious and much-feared dacoits, long-sought by the Rajput soldiery for innumerable misdeeds. Slaughtered like lambs. Butchered like pigs.
The Rajput officer subjected Belisarius and his party to severe and careful scrutiny. Whereupon he pronounced that the suspicions were clearly unfounded, the accusations baseless, the complaints mislodged. A terrible city, Bharakuccha, it could not be denied. Full of unknown, mysterious, criminally inclined foreigners. Who, alas, all tended to look alike in Indian eyes.
But upon close examination, the Rajput officer deliberated, there seemed no reasonable resemblance between the slavering fiends depicted by the brothel keepers and these fine, well-disciplined, upstanding outlanders. No doubt the whoremasters were misinformed, their discernment shaken by great and sudden financial loss. No doubt the procurers in their employ were likewise confused, their wits addled by the traumatic experience.
Most traumatic experience, mused the officer, judging from the evidence: the deep stab wounds, the great gashes, the immense loss of blood, the shattered knees, broken wrists, severed thumbs, splintered ribs, flattened noses, gouged eyes, amputated ears, broken skulls, ruptured kidneys, maimed elbows, mangled feet, pulverized hipbones, crushed testicles. Not to mention the broken neck of one dead pimp, snapped like a twig by some sort of gigantic ogre.
No doubt, concluded the officer. In that cold, arrogant, haughty manner which so distinguishes Rajputana's kshatriya.