"I believe I owe Venandakatra an apology," remarked Belisarius.
Garmat frowned. "Why in the world would you owe that swine an apology?" he demanded crossly.
"Oh, I have no intention of giving it to him. That's an obligation which wears very lightly on my shoulders. But I owe it to him nonetheless."
Belisarius gestured ahead, to the enormous procession which was snaking its way along the right bank of the Narmada.
The small Roman/Axumite contingent was located far back from the head of the caravan. The general and Garmat were riding next to each other, on horseback. Just behind them came Valentinian and Anastasius, and the slave scribe, also on horseback. The rest of their party were borne by the two elephants given them by the Malwa. Ezana and Wahsi served as mahouts for the great beasts. Eon and the Maratha women rode in the howdah atop one elephant. The Kushan women and Menander rode in the other. The young cataphract had protested the arrangement, insisting that he was quite capable of riding a horse. But Belisarius had insisted, and truth be told, the lad's protest had been more a matter of form than content. Menander might not yet be well enough to ride a horse, but, in certain other respects, his health had improved dramatically. Judging, at least, from the cheerful and complacent look on his face, on those rare occasions when the curtains of his howdah were opened.
Ousanas, as always, insisted on traveling by foot. Nor was he hard-pressed by the chore. The caravan's pace could barely be described as an ambling walk.
Belisarius smiled. "I accused Venandakatra, you may recall, of putting together this grandiose exhibition for purely egotistical motives."
"So? He is an egotist. A flaming megalomaniac."
Belisarius smiled. "True, true. But he's also an intelligent megalomaniac. There's a purpose to this spectacle, beyond gratifying his vanity. Are you aware that this is not the normal route from Bharakuccha to the Gangetic plain?"
"It isn't?"
Belisarius shook his head. "No. We are traveling south of the Vindhyas." He pointed to the mountain range on their left. The mountains were not high—not more than a few thousand feet—but they were heavily forested and looked to be quite rugged.
"At some point we shall have to cross those mountains, which, by all accounts, is not an easy task. Especially for a caravan like this one."
"This isn't a caravan," grumbled Garmat. "It's a small army!"
"Precisely. And that's the point of the whole exercise. The normal route, according to my cataphracts—who got the information from their Kushan ladies—would take us north of the Vindhyas. Semidesert terrain, but well traveled and easily managed. But that route, you see, goes through Malwa territory."
"So does this one."
"Today, yes. But this is newly conquered land, Garmat. Until a year ago"—he gestured toward the surrounding countryside—"all this was part of the Andhra Empire."
Comprehension dawned. "Ah," muttered Garmat. "So this procession is designed to grind down the new subjects even further. Remind them of their status." He examined the scenery. The great forest which seemed to carpet the interior of India had been cleared away, at one time. But the fields were untended, as were the thatched mud-walled huts of the peasantry scattered here and there. The area seemed almost uninhabited, despite the fact that it was obviously fertile land. A warrior himself, in his younger days, Garmat had no difficulty recognizing war-ravaged terrain.
The Ethiopian adviser then examined the spectacle ahead of them on the trail. The "caravan" was enormous. He could not even see the very front of it, but he could picture the scene.
The caravan was led by an elephant followed immediately by surveyors. The surveyors were measuring the route by means of long cords which one would carry forward, then the other leapfrog him, calling the count at each cord. A third surveyor recorded the count.
Garmat and Belisarius had spent the first day of the journey puzzling out the purpose of this exercise. The conclusion they came to fell in line with everything they had seen in Bharakuccha. A picture of the rising Malwa power was taking shape in their mind. A huge, sprawling empire, encompassing a vast multitude of different peoples and customs. Which, it was becoming clear, the Malwa were determined to hammer into a centralized, unified state.
The phenomenon, they realized, was new to India. True, great empires had existed here before: the Gupta Empire, the immediate predecessor of the Malwa; and the even larger Mauryan empire of ancient history, which had encompassed most of India. But those empires, for all their size and splendor, had rested lightly on the teeming populace below. The Guptan and Mauryan emperors had made no attempt to interfere with the daily lives of their subjects, or the power and privileges of provincial satraps and local potentates. They had been satisfied with tribute, respect, submission. Beyond that, they had occupied themselves with their feasts, their harems, their elaborate hunts, and their great architectural projects. Even the greatest of those ancient rulers, the legendary Ashoka, had never tried to meddle with Indian customs and traditions beyond his patronage and support for the new Buddhist faith.
But, of course, neither the Guptan nor the Mauryan Empires had ever had the ambitions of the Malwa. The empires of the past were quite satisfied with ruling India, or even just northern India. They had not aspired to world conquest.
"All roads lead to Rome," Belisarius had murmured. "That's how the legions conquered the Mediterranean, and ruled it. The Malwa, it seems, intend to copy us."
Yes, the explanation fit. It fit, for instance, with the new bureaucracy which Belisarius and Garmat had noted in Bharakuccha. There had been much resentment and disaffection expressed, by the populace, toward that bureaucracy. It was impossible to miss, even from conversations in the streets. (Within a few years, Belisarius and Garmat had agreed, the conversations would be far less open; already the Malwa spies and provocateurs were doing their work.)
Strange new bureaucracy, by traditional Indian standards. Appointed by annual examinations, instead of breeding. True, most of the successful applicants were of brahmin or kshatriya descent, scions of one or another of the castes of those noblest of the four respectable classes, the twice-born varna. But there were vaisya bureaucrats also, and even—so it was rumored—a sudra official!
No untouchables, however. The Malwa regime was even harsher toward untouchables than tradition required. But that small bow toward hallowed custom brought little comfort to the twice-born. The Malwa were also grinding down the four respectable varna, among every people except the Malwa themselves and their privileged Rajput vassals. (And the Ye-tai, of course; but the barbarians had no proper varna and castes to begin with; uncouth, heathen savages.)
More and more sudra castes were finding themselves counted among the untouchables, now. Even, here and there, a few vaisya castes. As yet, the noble varna—the kshatriya and brahmin—seemed immune. But who was to know what the future might bring?
A much-hated new bureaucracy. Hated, but feared. For these new officials were armed with authority to override class and caste customs—overbearing and officious, and quick to exert their power against traditional satraps and long-established local potentates.
Great power, enforced by the Malwa weapons, and the massive Malwa army, and the privileged Rajput vassals, and the even more privileged Ye-tai. Enforced, as well, by their horde of spies and informants, and—worst of all—by the new religious castes: the Mahaveda priests and their mahamimamsa torturers.
For all the power of the new dynasty, however, it had become clear to Belisarius and Garmat that the process by which the Malwa were reshaping India was very incomplete. Incomplete, and contradictory. Much of the real power, they suspected, still lay in the hands of traditional rulers. Who chafed, and snarled, and snapped at the new officialdom.
True, they rarely rebelled, but the danger was ever present. Even at that moment, in fact, a great rebellion was taking place in the northern province whose capital was Ranapur. Their own expedition, eventually, was destined to arrive there. The emperor was overseeing the siege of Ranapur personally, which gave Belisarius and Garmat a good indication of how seriously the Malwa took the affair.
Following the surveyors and their elephant, a quarter mile back, came a party of Rajput horsemen. Two hundred of them, approximately, elite cavalry. Behind them came several elephants carrying pairs of huge kettledrums beaten by men on the elephants' backs. Then a party of footmen carrying flags.
Next—still out of sight from where they rode—came another troop of Rajput cavalry. Perhaps a hundred. Behind them came a larger contingent of Ye-tai cavalry.
The next stage of the caravan was within sight, and impossible to miss. Twenty war elephants, their huge heads and bodies protected by iron-reinforced leather armor. Each elephant was guided by a mahout and bore a howdah containing four Malwa kshatriya. The Malwa soldiers were not carrying rocket troughs, of course. Those weapons would panic the great pachyderms. Instead, they were armed with bows and those odd little flasks which Belisarius had pronounced to be grenades. The smaller variety of those grenades were bound to arrows. The larger variety, Belisarius explained, were designed to be hurled by hand.
Behind the troop of war elephants came Venandakatra himself, and his entourage of priests and mahamimamsa. The Mahaveda and the torturers rode atop elephants, four to a howdah. Occasionally, Venandakatra would do likewise. For the most part, however, the great lord chose to ride in a special palanquin. The vehicle was large and luxurious, borne by eight giant slaves. The palanquin was surrounded by a little mob of servants walking alongside. Some of the servants toted jugs of water and wine; others, platters of food; still others carried whisks to shoo away the ever present flies. Nothing was lacking for Venandakatra's comfort.
For the lord's nightly comfort, eight of his concubines rode in howdahs on two elephants, which followed Venandakatra's palanquin. The caravan would always halt at sunset and set up camp. Venandakatra's tent—if such a modest term could be used to describe his elaborate suite of pavilions—was always set up before he arrived. The lord possessed two such "tents." The one not being used was sent ahead, guarded by yet another troop of Rajput cavalry, to be prepared for the following night's sojourn.
The stage of the caravan which followed Venandakatra and his entourage was composed of Malwa infantry. No less than a thousand soldiers. The great number of them, presumably, was to compensate for their mediocre quality. These were not elite forces, simply a run-of-the-mill detachment from the huge mass of the Malwa army. The troops themselves were not Malwa, but a collection of men from various of the subject peoples. The officers were primarily Malwa, but not kshatriya.
Belisarius had been more interested in the infantry than in the elite cavalry units. The Ye-tai he understood, and, after some examination, the Rajput as well. They were impressive, to be sure. But Belisarius was a Roman, and the Romans had centuries of experience dealing with Persian cavalry.
But Belisarius thought the future of war lay with the infantry, and so he subjected the Malwa infantry to his closest scrutiny. It did not take him long to arrive at a general assessment.
Garmat expressed the sentiment aloud.
"That's as sorry a bunch of foot soldiers as I've ever seen," sneered the Ethiopian. "Look at them!"
Belisarius smiled, leaned over his saddle, and whispered:
"What tipped you off? Was it the rust on the spear blades? Or the rust on the armor?"
"Is that crap armor?" demanded Garmat. "There's more metal on my belt buckle!"
"Or was it the slouching posture? The hang-dog expressions? The shuffling footsteps?"
"My daughter's footsteps were more assured when she was two," snorted the Ethiopian. "The sarawit would eat these clowns for breakfast."
Belisarius straightened back up in his saddle. The smile left his face.
"True. So would any good unit of Roman infantry. But let's not get too cocky, Garmat. For all my speeches about quality outdoing quantity, numbers do count. There must be a horde of these foot soldiers. If the Malwa can figure out the logistics, they'll be able to flood the West. And they still have their special weapons, and the Ye-tai and the Rajput. Lots of Ye-tai and Rajput, from what I can tell."
Garmat grimaced, but said nothing.
Belisarius turned and looked toward the rear of the caravan. The Romans and Axumites were located right after the infantry. They were at the very end of the military portion of the procession. Following them came the enormous tail of the beast.
"And they've got a long ways to go to figure out proper logistics," he muttered, "if this is anything to go by."
Garmat followed his eyes.
"This is not normal?" he asked.
"No, Garmat, this is not normal. Not even the sloppiest Roman army has a supply train like this one. It's absurd!"
Garmat found it hard not to laugh aloud. At that moment, the general's normally expressionless face was twisted into a positively Homeric scowl.
"Hell hath no fury like a craftsman scorned," he muttered.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, Belisarius, nothing. I would point out to you, however, that much of the chaos behind us is due to civilians and camp followers."
Belisarius was not mollified.
"So what? Every army faces that problem! You think camp followers don't attach themselves to every Roman army that marches anywhere? You name it, they'll be there: merchants, food and drink purveyors, pimps and whores, slave traders, loot liquidators, the lot. Not to mention a horde of people who just want to travel along the same route and take advantage of the protection offered."
"And how do you deal with it? Drive them off?"
"Bah!" Belisarius made a curt gesture. "That's impossible. Camp followers are like flies." He swiped at a fly buzzing around his face. "No, Garmat, there's no point to that. Instead, you do the opposite. Incorporate them into the army directly. Put them under discipline. Train them!"
Garmat's eyes widened. "Train merchants and slave traders? Pimps and whores?"
Belisarius grinned. "It's not hard, Garmat. Not, at least, once you get over the initial hump. There's a trade-off, you see. In return for following the rules, the camp followers get a recognized and assured place in the army. Keeps out competitors."
The general scratched his chin. "It occurs to me, however, that this rampant disorder can serve our purpose. There is one little problem in our plan that's been gnawing at me—"
He looked down at Ousanas, striding alongside.
"You are a miserable slave, are you not?"
The dawazz stooped and bent his head in a flamboyant gesture of cringing submissiveness. The pose went poorly with the great stabbing spear in his hand.
"Well, I am shocked," grumbled Belisarius. "Absolutely shocked to see you lolling about without a care in the world. In my country, miserable slaves keep themselves busy."
Ousanas cocked an eye upward. The pose was now threadbare.
"Oh, yes," continued Belisarius, "very busy. Scurrying about all over the place—buying provisions, haggling over supplies, that sort of thing." He scowled. "All a pose, of course. The lazy buggers are actually just keeping out of their master's sight so they can lolligag. Out of everybody's sight, in fact. Nobody ever sees a slave where he's supposed to be. You get used to it."
Ousanas looked back at the motley horde of camp followers.
"Ah," he said. "Comprehension dawns. Although the great general might—just now and again—condescend to plain speaking. You want me to make myself scarce, so that when the time comes when I disappear altogether, no spy will even notice my absence."
Belisarius smiled. "You have captured the Platonic Form of my concept."
A moment later, Ousanas was drifting away, the very image of a dispirited, lackadaisical slave. Belisarius, watching, was struck by the uncanny manner of his movements. Ousanas was the only man the general had ever known who could shuffle silently.
A gleeful feminine squeal coming from ahead brought his attention forward. Belisarius and Garmat looked up at the howdah riding on the elephant in front of them. Curtains made it impossible to see within.
"At least he's stopped complaining," growled Belisarius.
Garmat shook his head. "You are being unfair, General. He is not promiscuous by nature. Not, at least, by the standards of royalty." The adviser shrugged. "True, he is a prince, and a handsome and charming boy in his own right. He has never lacked the opportunity for copulation, and certainly has no aversion to the sport. But—he likes women, you see, and enjoys their conversation and their company. So he much prefers a more settled situation."
After a moment, Belisarius smiled wryly. "Well, I can hardly disapprove of that. My own temperament, as it happens." He gestured toward the howdah. "He seems to have settled in here."
Garmat nodded. "He and Tarabai seem to be growing quite fond of each other. I notice that the other Maratha girls have stopped sharing his howdah lately, at night, except—"
He fell silent, glancing around quickly. There were no possible spies within hearing range.
"How is she doing?" asked Belisarius. "Have you heard? For obvious reasons, I stay away from the howdah."
"I have not been inside myself. Eon says she has come to accept his presence, but he is not sure how she would react to another man. She no longer flinches from him, but she still doesn't speak—not even to Tarabai. She is eating well, finally. Her physical wounds are all healed. Eon says he is always careful to keep away from her, as far as possible within the confines of the howdah. He thinks she no longer feels threatened by him. If for no other reason than—"
Another squeal came from the howdah.
"—Tarabai has his erotic impulses well under control," chuckled Belisarius.
The general pointed to the mahout guiding the elephant.
"I trust Ezana is not disgruntled? Or Wahsi? Or Ousanas, for that matter?"
Garmat laughed. "Why should they be? True, they no longer enjoy Tarabai's company, but there are still the other two Maratha women. And the Kushan girls have been willing to spread their affections, whenever your cataphracts are too tired to pester them. Besides, they are all soldiers. The best of soldiers. Not given to stupid jealousies, and well aware that we are following a battle plan."
Another squeal. A low, masculine groan.
"In a manner of speaking."
Belisarius grinned. Then:
"Well, Eon's certainly carried out his part in the plan. He was absolutely perfect, the first day of the trip."
"Wasn't he marvelous?" agreed Garmat. "I thought Venandakatra was going to die of apoplexy, right there on the spot."
The adviser patted his mount affectionately. "Poor Venandakatra. Here he presents us with the finest horses available, and the prince can't stop whining that he needs a howdah, with plump cushions for his royal fanny."
"A very large elephant to carry it," said Belisarius, laughing, "one strong enough to bear up under the prince's humping."
Garmat was laughing himself, now. "And then—did you see the look on Venandakatra's face after—"
"—his petty plot backfired?" Belisarius practically howled. "Priceless! What a complete idiot! He presents the largest, most unruly elephant he can find—"
"—to Africans!"
Belisarius and Garmat fell silent, savoring the memory.
"This is your largest elephant?" Ezana had queried. "This midget?"
"Look at those puny ears," mourned Wahsi. "Maybe he's still a baby."
"Probably not elephant at all," pronounced Ousanas. "Maybe him just fat, funny-looking gnu."
Venandakatra's glare had been part fury, part disbelief. The fury had remained. The disbelief had vanished, after Ezana and Wahsi rapidly demonstrated their skills as mahouts. After the sarwen reminisced over various Axumite military campaigns, in which African elephants figured prominently. After Ousanas extolled the virtues of the African elephant, not forgetting to develop his point by way of contrast with the Indian elephant. So-called elephant. But probably not elephant. Him probably just big tapir, with delusions of grandeur.
After they stopped laughing, Garmat remarked:
"We may have overdone it, actually. I notice that Venandakatra hasn't invited us to share his dinner since this trip began."
"He will," said Belisarius confidently. "It's only been two weeks since we left Bharakuccha. At the rate this—this matronly promenade—is going, we'll be two months getting to his `modest country estate.' " He snorted. "If I was one of those surveyors, I'd have died of boredom by now. I doubt we're averaging more than ten miles a day. At best."
"You are so sure, my friend? Your stratagem has still not gelled."
"He will. In another two weeks or so, I estimate. Your average megalomaniac, of course, would only need a week to get over a petty snit. But even Venandakatra won't take much more than a month. Whatever else he is, the man is not stupid, and I've given him enough hints. He's developed his own plan, by now, which also hasn't gelled. It can't, until he talks to us further. To me, I should say. So—yes. Two weeks."
And, sure enough, it was thirteen days later that the courier arrived from Venandakatra's pavilion, shortly after the caravan had halted for the night. Bearing a message from the great lord himself, written in perfect Greek, politely inviting Belisarius to join him for his "modest evening meal."
"I note that Eon and I are not invited," remarked Garmat. The old adviser stared at Belisarius, and then bowed.
"I salute you, Belisarius. A great general, indeed. Until this moment, I confess, I was somewhat skeptical your plan would work."
Belisarius shrugged. "Let's not assume anything. As my old teacher Maurice always reminds me: `Never expect the enemy to do what you expect him to.' "
Garmat shook his head. "Excellent advice. But it does not encompass all military wisdom. Every now and then, you know, the enemy does do what you expect him to. Then you must be prepared to strike ruthlessly."
"Exactly what I keep telling Maurice!" said Belisarius gaily. He tossed the message into the camp fire which Ousanas was just starting. The dawazz straightened, looked over.
"Time?" he asked. The grin began to spread.
Again, Belisarius shrugged. "We won't know for a bit. But I think so, yes. Are you ready?"
Like the great Pharos at Alexandria, that grin in the night.
Within three hours of his arrival at Venandakatra's pavilion, Belisarius was certain. For a moment, he considered some way of signaling Ousanas, but then dismissed the thought. A pointless worry, that, like fretting over how to signal prey to a crouching lion.
The general had been almost certain within two hours, actually. After the usual meaningless amenities during the meal, the wine was poured, and Venandakatra had immediately launched into the subject of Eon's amatory exploits. "Trying to pry out secrets," he'd said, one gay blade to another. But it was soon obvious there were no secrets he didn't know. Except one, which he knew, but misinterpreted exactly as Belisarius had thought he would.
As Ousanas said: Catch the prey by reading its soul.
"Ah, that explains it," said Venandakatra. He giggled. "I had wondered why he chose only Maratha bitches to accompany him on this trip. After" —another giggle— "sampling all the many Indian varieties in Bharakuccha."
Belisarius could not manage a giggle, but he thought his coarse guffaw was quite good enough.
"It's the truth. He loves conquered women. The more recently conquered, the better. They're the most submissive, you see, and that's his taste." Another guffaw, with a drooling trickle of wine down his chin thrown in for good measure. "Why, his soldiers told me that when they conquered Hymria, the kid—he was only seventeen, mind you—had an entire—"
Here followed an utterly implausible tale, to any but Venandakatra. Implausible, at least, in its gross brutality; its portrayal of Eon's stamina was remotely conceivable, in light of his performance in Bharakuccha. Which Venandakatra obviously knew, in detail. As Belisarius had foreseen, the Malwa lord's spies had interrogated the women who shared the prince's bed. All except the Maratha women, of course.
Still, Venandakatra almost smelled out the falsehood. Almost.
"It's odd, though," the Vile One remarked casually, after he stopped cackling over the story, "but I didn't get the impression—I know nothing myself, you understand, but rumors concerning foreigners always spread—that any of the women who passed through his chambers had been particularly badly beaten. Except by his cock!"
Another round of giggles and guffaws.
Belisarius shrugged. "Well, as I understand it from his adviser, the lad felt under certain constraints. He is in a foreign land." The general waved his hand airily. "There are laws, after all."
He gulped down some more wine.
"So," he burped, "the boy finally got frustrated and ordered his men to find him some outright slaves." Another burp. "Slaves can be treated anyway their master chooses, in any country."
(That was a lie. It was not true in most civilized realms of Belisarius' acquaintance, not in modern times. It was certainly not true under Roman law. But he did not think that Venandakatra would know otherwise. Slaves, and their legal rights, were far beneath the great lord's contempt. In any country—certainly in his own.)
"True, true." A sly, leering glance. "Rumor has it, in fact, that one of his Maratha slaves fell afoul of her new master."
Belisarius controlled his emotions, and the expression on his face. It was not difficult to control his disgust, or his contempt. He had plenty of experience doing that, after all these weeks—months!—in Venandakatra's company. But he had a difficult time controlling his shame.
For a moment, his eyes wandered, scanning the rich tapestries which covered the silk walls of the pavilion. His gaze settled on the candelabra resting at the center of the table. For all its golden glitter, and the superb craftsmanship of the design, he thought the piece was utterly grotesque. A depiction of some dancing god, leering, priap erect, with candles rising from the silver skulls cupped in the deity's four hands.
He tore his eyes away from the thing and looked back at Venandakatra. He even managed a leer of his own.
The memory still burned, of the time he had sent the hostel proprietor into the girl's room, on some trumped-up pretext. He had instructed the Maratha woman tending her to allow the proprietor to enter (which she had done, reluctantly—she was a slave, after all). But he hadn't warned Eon in advance, because he knew the prince would have barred the way.
It worked, of course. The proprietor saw the girl, and judging from the contempt on his face as he left, knew what he saw. Or thought he did. Venandakatra obviously placed the interpretation I hoped for on it, after he had the man interrogated.
But I thought the prince was going to attack me, afterward, when he found out. He would have, I think, if Ezana and Wahsi hadn't restrained him.
It was even harder to control another emotion.
God, how I've grown to love that boy. He didn't care in the least about his own injured royal pride, or what the hostel owner thought of him. Only that I'd caused the poor girl to be terrified again. May my son Photius grow up to be like him.
But Belisarius was a general, a great general—a breed of men among whose qualities ruthlessness is never absent. And so he managed to keep the leer on his face. And another drooling trickle of wine down his chin, thrown in for good measure.
Venandakatra refilled his cup personally. Unlike every other visit Belisarius had made, the Malwa lord had dismissed all the servants after the meal was finished.
"I notice the prince does not seem to mind sharing his women with his own soldiers," commented Venandakatra. "Not what you normally expect from royalty."
Belisarius belched. "I don't see why. It's not as if they were wives, or even concubines. The bitches are just whores and slaves." Another belch. "I share the Kushan sluts with my own soldiers, for that matter. I've done it often enough before, on campaign."
Belisarius gave Venandakatra a knowing smirk—one experienced old soldier to another (which the Malwa lord certainly was not, but liked to pretend he was).
"Helps keep your popularity with the troops, you know. The common touch. And there's always plenty to go around. Especially after sacking a town." The general's smirk became a savage grin. "God, how I love a sack. Sieges are pure shit, but afterward—oh, yes!"
Venandakatra giggled. "So do I!" he cried.
Vile One, indeed. I doubt he's ever come within bow range of a besieged city in his life. But I'm sure he was the first to line up afterward, selecting the prizes from the captured women.
Again, Belisarius fought down his gorge. He hated sacks. Would do anything he possibly could to avoid one, short of losing a campaign. It was almost impossible to keep troops under control in a captured city after a hard-fought siege, except for elite units like his own cataphracts. There was nothing so horrible as a city being sacked. It was hell on earth, Satan's maw itself. The most brutal and bestial crimes of which men were capable were committed then. Committed with a gleeful savagery that would shame the very demons of the Pit.
But he kept his gorge well under control. He was a general, a great general, whose ruthlessness always had a purpose. The edge to the blade, when it came time for the cutting.
"You, on the other hand, seem to have a liking for Kushan women," remarked Venandakatra idly. "And your cataphracts also, I hear."
Time for the cutting.
"Oh God, yes!" cried Belisarius. "When I discovered there were Kushan whores in Bharakuccha, I sent Valentinian and Anastasius straight off to round up a few." Guffaw, guffaw, guffaw. "They raced like the wind, let me tell you—and that's something to see, with a man built like Anastasius!"
Giggle. "I can imagine! He's the large one, isn't he?" Giggle.
Belisarius waited. Timing was the key to a trap. Timing.
He waited until the puzzled frown had almost taken shape on the Vile One's brow. Then remarked casually, "Most lascivious women in the world, Kushans. Most lascivious people, for that matter. The men even more than the women." He coughed on a gulp of wine. "Don't misunderstand!" he exclaimed, waving off a disreputable notion. "I'm not interested in men that way. But it's true, believe me. It's why I got rid of all my Kushan mercenaries. Good men in a battle, no question about it. But they're just too much of a bother. Can't keep their hands off any woman in the vicinity. Even started sniffing around my own wife!"
The frown on the Vile One's brow thickened. The scaly wrinkles collected around his deep-set eyes.
"Really?" he asked. "I wasn't aware you were acquainted with the folk."
"Kushans? To the contrary. Find them all over the Roman Empire. Soldiers and whores, mostly. It's the only things they're good at. Fighting and fucking. Especially fucking."
Venandakatra sipped at his wine, thoughtfully.
"I had heard, now that you mention it, that you yourself spoke excellent Kushan." He shrugged. "I assumed it was just a false rumor, of course. There seemed no way you—"
He fell away from completing the sentence. Venandakatra had enjoyed some wine, but he was not inebriated. (Quite unlike the Roman sot.) The Malwa lord realized that he was on the verge of revealing too much of his spying operations.
You arrogant idiot, thought Belisarius, reading the sudden silence correctly. I always assumed you knew everything, and planned accordingly.
Belisarius filled the silence, then, with a bevy of amusing tales, one after the other. The sort of tales with which one veteran lecher entertains another. A less egotistical man than Venandakatra might have wondered why the tales exclusively concerned Kushans. And might have wondered, especially, why so many of the tales concerned the sexual exploits of Kushan men.
Oh, such exploits! Their unbridled lust. Their strangely seductive ways. Their uncanny ability to weedle open the legs of women—young women, especially. And virgins! Lambs to the slaughter, lambs to the slaughter. Didn't matter who they were, where they were, what they were. If the girl was a virgin, no Kushan could resist the challenge. And rise to it! Oh, yes! No men on earth were more skilled at defloration than Kushans. Especially the older men, the middle-aged veteran types. Uncanny, absolutely uncanny.
Throughout the tales, Venandakatra said not a word. But he did not seem bored. No, not at all. Very attentive, in fact.
Every good blade has two edges. Time for the backstroke.
"Enough of that!" exclaimed the general. He held out his cup. "Would you be so good?"
Venandakatra refilled the cup. Belisarius held it high.
"But I'm being a poor guest. And you are much too modest a host. I hear rumors myself, you know, now and then. And I hear you have come into a particularly good piece of fortune." Here, a wild guffaw. "A great piece, if you'll pardon the expression. A royal piece!"
He quaffed down the wine in a single gulp.
"My congratulations!"
Venandakatra struggled to maintain his own composure. Anger at the crude foreigner's insolent familiarity warred with pride in his new possession.
Pride won, of course. Trap the prey by reading its soul.
"So I have!" he exclaimed. "The Princess Shakuntala. Of the noblest blood, and a great beauty. The black-eyed pearl of the Satavahana, they call her."
"You've not seen her yourself?"
Venandakatra shook his head.
"No. But I've heard excellent descriptions."
Here, Venandakatra launched into his own lengthy recital, extolling the qualities of the Princess Shakuntala. As he saw them.
Belisarius listened attentively. Partly, of course, for the sake of his stratagem. But partly, also, because he was undergoing the strangest experience. Like a sort of mental—spiritual, it might be better to say—double vision. The general had never laid eyes on the girl in his life. But he had seen her once, in a vision, through the eyes of another man. A man as different from the one sitting across the table from him as day from night. As different as a panther from a cobra.
Once Venandakatra was finished, Belisarius saluted him again with his cup and poured himself another full goblet. Venandakatra, he noticed, had stopped drinking some time ago.
The general found it a bit hard not to laugh. Then, thinking it over, he did laugh—a drunken, besotted kind of laugh. Meaningless. He drained his cup and poured himself yet another. From the corner of his eye he caught the Vile One's faint smile.
I'm from Thrace, you jackass. A simple farm boy, at bottom. Raised in the countryside, where there's not much to do but drink. I could have drunk you under the table when I was ten.
"You'll be seeing her soon, then," he exclaimed. "Lucky man!"
He fell back into his seat, hastily grabbing the table to keep from falling. Half the wine sloshed out of his cup, most of it onto the gorgeous rug covering the floor. The candelabra in the center of the table teetered. Venandakatra steadied it hastily with a hand, but not in time to prevent one of the candles from falling.
"Sorry," muttered Belisarius. Venandakatra's expression, for just a fleeting instant, was savage. But he said nothing. He simply placed the candle back in its holder and waved off the mishap with a casual flutter of the fingers.
Belisarius drained what was left in his cup. Venandakatra instantly poured him another.
Blearily, Belisarius grinned at the Malwa lord. Then, leering:
"She'll be a virgin, of course. Bound to be, a princess!" Guffaw, guffaw. "God, there's nothing like a virgin! Love the way they squeal when you stick 'em!"
He shook a sage, cautioning finger in Venandakatra's direction. A solemn look fell on his face—one experienced pedophile advising another.
"Make sure you watch her well, mind! A prize like that? Ha! Surround her with eunuchs, I would, or priests sworn to celibacy. Better yet—eunuch priests." Guffaw, guffaw. "And then I'd check under their robes!"
He half-choked on another swallow of wine, then added: "We have an old saying in Rome, you know: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"
Venandakatra frowned. "I'm afraid I don't speak Latin."
"Ah. I assumed—my apologies—your Greek is excellent." Belch. "Well, it basically translates as: Who will guard the guardians? What it means is, how shall I—"
"I understand perfectly well what it means!" snapped Venandakatra.
Oh, my. Isn't he testy? Time to extract the blade.
And nick him elsewhere, so he doesn't notice that he's bleeding to death.
"But that's enough talk of women!" roared Belisarius. "Worthless cunts, all of 'em. Beneath our notice, except when we're in the mood for humping. We're men of affairs, you and I. Important men."
He reached over the table for the wine, lost his balance, fell to the floor. "Bitches, all of them," he muttered, staggering to his feet. "Treacherous sluts." He groped his way back into his chair.
"Good for fucking, and that's it," grumbled the general, glaring at the table. Venandakatra poured him another cup. From the corner of his eye, again, Belisarius caught Venandakatra's expression. Contempt, overlaying worry.
Now I have but to lay opportunity over contempt, and the worry will work its way to the heart, free of suspicion.
"Men of affairs, I say," he repeated, slurring the words. "Important men." He grit his teeth. "Important men."
Venandakatra slid in his own blade.
"So we are, my friend. Although"—slight hesitation, discreet pause—"not always appreciated, perhaps."
Belisarius' jaws tightened. "Isn't that the fucking truth? Isn't it just? My own—"
Careful. He's not stupid.
Belisarius waved his hand. "Never mind," he mumbled.
The Vile One struck again.
First, he took a sip from his own cup. The first sip in an hour, by Belisarius' estimation. (Never underestimate the foe, of course. Who knows? The Roman might not be quite as drunk as he looks.)
"I am fortunate in that regard," remarked Venandakatra idly. "The Emperor Skandagupta is always appreciative of my efforts on his behalf. Always fair, in his criticisms. Mild criticisms, never more than that. And he gives me his full trust, unstintingly."
Belisarius peered at him suspiciously. But it was obvious the suspicion was directed toward the statement, not the speaker of it.
"Oh, no—it's quite true, I assure you."
"Hard to believe," muttered Belisarius resentfully. "In my experience—"
He fell silent, again. "Ah, what's the use?" he mumbled. "Emperors are emperors, and that's that." He seemed lost in his own thoughts. Bleak, bitter thoughts. Black thoughts, drunken thoughts.
Time. As Valentinian says, be economical with the blade.
He lurched to his feet; planted his hands on the table to steady himself.
"I must be off," he announced. Belch. " 'Scuse me. Afraid I've had too much to drink. You'll forgive me, I trust?"
Venandakatra nodded graciously. "I've been known to do it myself, friend." A happy thought: "Men of affairs, you know. Much on our minds. Much to deal with. Bound to drink a bit, now and then."
"The truth, that!" Belisarius smiled at the Vile One. Never, in the history of the world, did a drunk bestow such a cheerful smile of camaraderie on a fellow sot.
"You are most pleasant company, Venandakatra," he said, carefully enunciating the words. A man deep in his cups, determined to project sincerity.
"Most pleasant. Sorry we got off to a bit of a bad start, back there—" The general waved his hand vaguely, more or less in the direction of the sea. Belch. "Back there, in the beginning. On the ship."
"Think nothing of it! Long forgotten, I assure you." Venandakatra rose to his feet. "May I call one of my servants? To assist you back—"
Belisarius waved off the offer.
"Not necessary!" he barked. "Can make it mack, byself—back, myself. Not a problem."
He bowed at Venandakatra, with exaggerated, careful stiffness, and reeled to the entrance. He pulled back the heavily embroidered drapery which served the Malwa lord's pavilion for a tent flap. By the studied care of his movements, he was obviously trying not to inflict damage on the precious fabric. As he was about to pass through into the darkness beyond, he paused, steadying himself with one hand on a tent pole. Then, he looked back at the Malwa lord.
For a few seconds, Venandakatra and Belisarius exchanged a stare. The expression on the Malwa's face registered a subtle invitation. The face of the Roman general was that of a man consumed by old grievances, brought to the surface by hours of heavy carousing.
Bleak, bitter thoughts. Black thoughts. Drunken thoughts.
Belisarius turned away, shook his head, and stumbled into the night.
He did not need to look back again. He knew what he would see on the Vile One's face. Calculation, overlaying contempt. Contempt, overlaying worry. Worry, buried, freed of suspicion, worming its way into a maggotty soul.
He managed to keep from smiling all the way back to his own tent. Spies, everywhere. He even managed to keep from glancing into the forest which surrounded the caravan. Spies, everywhere. And it would be pointless, anyway, for he would see nothing. In that darkness, there would be nothing to see except a grin. And the hunter never grins, when he is stalking the prey.
When he reached his own tent, he staggered within, and then straightened up. Good Roman leather, that tent. Impossible to see through.
"Well?" asked Garmat.
His next words, the general regretted for years, for he was a man who despised boasting. But he didn't regret them much. They were, after all, irresistible:
"Deadly with a blade, is Belisarius."
Early the next morning—even before daybreak—a party of Mahaveda priests and mahamimamsa "purifiers" left the caravan on horseback, escorted by a Rajput cavalry troop. They were being sent to the palace ahead of the caravan, on a special mission ordered by Lord Venandakatra.
In the heart of mighty Malwa, it did not occur to them to look back on the trail, to see if anyone followed. It would have made no difference if they had. The one who tracked them had been taught his skills by lionesses and pygmies, the greatest hunters in the world.