by David Drake
"Swear," he commanded. "I know your reputation, General. If I have your oath, I'll be satisfied."
"I swear to you before God, John of Rhodes, that the conspiracy of which you are a part is not aimed against the Emperor Justinian."
Again, the raffish grin. "But he doesn't know about it either, does he?"
"No."
"Does the Empress?"
"No. Not yet, at least."
John rose to his feet and resumed stumping about.
"Good. Let's keep it that way, shall we? Especially when it comes to Justinian." The naval officer grimaced. "Such a suspicious tyrant, he is."
After a moment, John blew out his cheeks again and looked toward the workbench. "Not, mind you, that there's much of a conspiracy here to begin with. Plenty of deep darkness, but precious little to hide."
"You've had no success at all?"
"None—beyond some minor improvements in the Greek fire we already had. But nothing that'd be in the slightest way suitable for land combat."
Belisarius rose. "Come outside," he said. "There are some people I want you to meet."
When he couldn't find the Axumites in the villa, Belisarius suspected he would find them in the barracks. And so he did.
The barracks were crowded full with soldiers, especially in the huge room which had served the former owner of the estate for a formal dining hall. Some of that population density was due to the quarters themselves. The Thracians had been reveling in the luxuriance of the "barracks" since they arrived at the villa. But most of it was due to the contest taking place at a table in the center of the hall.
Seeing him, his bucellarii drew aside and let him approach the table. Belisarius examined the scene, and sighed with exasperation.
Garmat, to his credit, was obviously trying to keep a lid on the situation. So was Maurice, of course. And the two soldiers of the Dakuen sarwe were behaving in the rational manner which one expects from experienced veterans surrounded by strange veterans. Politely. Cautiously.
But the prince, alas, was still a young man, full of pride and eager to show his mettle. And not all of the general's Thracian retinue were as relaxed in their experience as such veterans as Anastasius and Valentinian (both of whom, Belisarius noted, were lounging about amicably in nearby chairs). No, there were plenty of youngsters in the general's retinue, most of whom were every bit as full of pride as the prince, and not in the slightest intimidated by his royal lineage.
At the moment, the mutual pride was taking the form of an arm-wrestling match. A good-humored one, probably, in its origin. But the humor was now wearing thin.
The reason for the growing ill temper was obvious, and was demonstrated for the general himself almost immediately. With a grunt of anger and disgust, the fist of the Thracian lad named Menander slammed down onto the table. Eon's dark face was split by a grin.
Glancing about, Belisarius estimated that at least three other Thracian lads had already been trounced by the Axumite. And were none too happy about it.
He sighed again. During the course of the journey from Constantinople to Daras, Belisarius had found the prince to be quite charming. Once Eon got over a certain aloofness, which Belisarius knew was nothing more than his way of maintaining dignity in a sea of strangers, the prince was both good-natured and intelligent. He had even managed—after a few slaps on the head from his dawazz—to stop ogling Antonina in his uncertain adolescent way. And he got along very well with Sittas and, to the general's surprise, got along even better with Irene. Under the young Axumite's stiff exterior, there proved to be a sly wit which the spymaster enjoyed.
But—he was still barely more than a boy, and was inordinately proud of his strength.
Belisarius had already seen the prince stripped to the waist, so he was accustomed to the sight of that Herculean physique. Obviously, however, it had proved too much of a challenge for certain Thracians.
"That's enough, Eon!" snapped Garmat.
"Let him wrestle Anastasius!" demanded a surly voice from somewhere in the crowd.
"By all means!" cried Ousanas. "Anastasius!"
The dawazz, seated at the table next to his prince, grinned over at the huge pentarch.
Anastasius yawned. "The lad's much too strong for me. And besides, I'm a lazy man by nature. Contemplative."
The prince frowned slightly. On the face of it—but— He sensed there was a mocking tone under Anastasius' modest words.
The dawazz immediately brought it to focus. His grin widened.
"Oh! Such mockery! Such false self-effacement! Is very great insult to royal dignity of young prince! Prince must now defend his honor!"
Belisarius decided it was time to intervene.
"Enough," he commanded. He cast a stern gaze upon the dawazz.
"Your duty is to restrain the prince from foolishness."
Ousanas gaped. "Most insane concept!" he cried. "Impossible to restrain young royalty from foolishness. Might as well try to restrain crocodile from eating meat."
Ousanas shook his head sadly. "You very great general, Belisarius. Stick to own trade. Make terrible dawazz."
The grin returned. "Only way teach prince not to commit foolish acts is to encourage folly." He spread his arms grandly. "Then probably-never-King-because-idiot-as-well-as-younger-son gets arm twisted off and maybe he learn. Maybe. Maybe not. Probably not. Royalty stupid by nature. Like crocodiles."
He scanned the room majestically. "Many great warriors here," he commented. "I ask a question. How you hunt crocodile?"
After a moment, someone ventured: "Stab it with a spear."
Ousanas beamed happily. "Spoken like true warrior!" The beam was replaced by a look of humble abasement. "I myself not warrior. Miserable slave, now. Before, though, was great hunter."
Someone snorted. "Is that so? Then tell us, O miserable slave, how did you hunt crocodile?"
Ousanas goggled. "Not hunt crocodile in first place! Great giant monster, the crocodile! Stronger than ox! Teeth like swords!"
He grinned. "He also very stupid reptile. So I feed him poisoned meat."
Suddenly, the dawazz reached out his long arm and slapped the prince on top of the head.
"You see that one?" he demanded, pointing to Anastasius. "He feeding you poisoned meat."
Anastasius grinned. The prince eyed him skeptically. Ousanas slapped him again.
"Royalty stupid as crocodile!"
Now the prince was glaring hotly at his dawazz. Not for the first time, watching the scene, Belisarius was struck by the peculiar courage required of a good dawazz.
Ousanas slapped him again. "Not even crocodile stupid enough to glare at his dawazz!" The two sarwen chuckled.
"Enough," repeated Belisarius.
Eon tore his gaze away from Ousanas.
"There's someone here I'd like you to meet, Prince. And you, Garmat." Then, after a moment, grudgingly: "And you too, Ousanas, and the sarwen."
Returning to the villa, Belisarius introduced the Ethiopians to John of Rhodes. Antonina was waiting with the naval officer in the main salon, as were Sittas and Irene. After they had taken their seats, the general said to Garmat:
"Tell him what you know of the Indian weapons, if you would."
Belisarius absented himself while the Axumites filled in the naval officer. He had other business to attend to, back in the barracks.
As soon as he entered the dining hall, the conversation which had been filling the room died down. But not before the general caught the final remarks uttered by young Menander.
"The slave offends you, does he?" demanded Belisarius. Menander was silent, but his whole posture exuded pout.
Belisarius restrained his temper.
"Tell him, Valentinian," he commanded.
The veteran cataphract never ceased from whittling on his little stick, and he didn't bother to look up.
"If you don't learn how to read men, Menander, you'll never live to collect your retirement bonus. The prince is nothing, at the moment, beyond
a big muscle. Later, who knows? Now, nothing. The two soldiers are good. Very good, I'd wager, or they wouldn't be here." He paused briefly, estimating. "The adviser is dangerous. In his prime, probably something to watch. But—he's old. The slave, now, there's the terrible one."
"He's a slave!" protested Menander.
"Feeding you poisoned meat," chuckled Anastasius. The room echoed with laughter. When the laughter died down, Valentinian finally looked up. His narrow, close-featured face was cold. He fixed the young cataphract with dark eyes gazing down a long, pointed nose.
"That slave could slaughter you like a lamb, boy. Never doubt it for a moment."
Belisarius cleared his throat. "I'm going to need three of you to accompany me to Axum. And beyond, to India. We'll be leaving tomorrow morning, and we'll be gone for at least a year. The rest of you will remain on the estate. As you know, Sittas is here. At the Emperor's behest, he is replacing me as commander of the Syrian army. You'll give him whatever assistance he requires, so long as that doesn't interfere with your duty to guard my wife and the estate. Maurice will be in charge."
Maurice said nothing, but a slight twist to his lips indicated his continuing displeasure with the general's plans. A faint buzz of startled conversation began to fill the room, then died down quickly.
"Any volunteers?" he asked.
Within seconds, as Belisarius had expected, almost all of the cataphracts had volunteered. The younger ones had volunteered to a man, except for Menander.
"Excellent!" he exclaimed. Then he smiled his crooked smile.
"Shit," hissed Valentinian.
"Poisoned meat," groaned Anastasius.
"Those of you who had enough sense not to volunteer are coming. Valentinian. Anastasius. Oh—and you, Menander."
By the time Belisarius returned to the villa, the Axumites had finished recounting to their audience what they had been able to learn about the Malwa weapons. It wasn't much, in truth. Over the past few years, several Axumite traders had observed the new and bizarre weapons in use—but only at a distance. The Malwa kept their special weapons closely guarded, and did not allow foreigners near them. In one instance, they had suspended siege operations against a coastal town until a passing Axumite vessel was shepherded away by Malwa warships.
When the Ethiopians finished, John of Rhodes leaned back in his chair and began tapping his hands on his knees. He was frowning slightly, and his eyes seemed a bit unfocussed.
"It's not much to go on, is it?" asked Antonina, somewhat apologetically.
"Quite the contrary," replied the naval officer. "Our friends here from Axum have provided me with the most important fact of all."
"What's that?" demanded Sittas.
John of Rhodes looked at the Greek general and smiled thinly.
"The most important fact is that these weapons exist, Sittas." He shrugged. "What they are, and how they work, remains a complete mystery. But the fact that they do exist means that it is a problem to be solved, rather than a fantasy to be speculated about. There's a world of difference between those two things."
He arose and began stumping about, with his hands clasped behind his back. "We shall need to compile a library here. Unfortunately, the books which I own myself relate to seafaring only."
"Books are expensive," grumbled Sittas.
"So?" retorted Antonina. "You're stinking rich. You can afford them."
"I knew it," growled Sittas. "I knew it. Soak the rich Greek, that's all anybody—"
Irene cut him off. "What books do you need?" she asked John.
The naval officer frowned. "It's obvious to me, from listening to what the Axumites have told us, that the Malwa weapons involve more than simply burning naphtha, or some similar fuel. Every account of the weapons describes them in terms of eruptions—as if they could somehow control the force of a volcano, on a smaller scale. The closest physical phenomenon that I know of is what's called combustion. And there's only one scholar to my knowledge who studied combustion to any great extent."
"Heron of Alexandria," stated Irene.
John of Rhodes nodded. "Precisely. I need a copy of his Pneumatics."
Sittas glowered. "There aren't more than fifty copies of that book in existence! Do you have any idea how much it costs? If we can even find one in the first place without raiding the library at Alexandria."
"I own a copy," said Irene. "I will be glad to loan it to you. It's still at my villa in Constantinople, however, so it will take a little time to get it here."
Everyone in the room stared at Irene. She smiled whimsically. "Actually, I own most of Heron's writings. I also have the Mechanics, Siegecraft, Measurement, and Mirrors. I almost got my hands on a copy of his Automaton-making last year, but some damned Armenian beat me to it."
Some of the men in the room were now goggling her; Sittas was gaping.
"I like to read," explained Irene dryly. Slyly.
Antonina started laughing.
"It's unnatural!" choked Sittas. "It's—"
"Marry me," said John of Rhodes.
"Not a chance, John. I know your type. You're just lusting after my books."
The naval officer grinned. "Well, yes, to a degree. But—"
"Not a chance!" repeated Irene. She was laughing now herself.
"What is the world coming to?" demanded Sittas. "My mother never opened a book, much less owned one!" He frowned. "I don't own any books, come to that."
"Really?" asked Irene. "I am astonished."
Sittas glared at his spymaster. "You are mocking me, woman. I know you are."
Belisarius couldn't help laughing himself. "Nonsense, Sittas!" he exclaimed. "I'm sure Irene was speaking the simple truth. I'm astonished myself, actually."
Sittas transferred his glare to the Thracian.
"Don't you start on me, Belisarius! Just because you own a copy of Caesar's—"
Prince Eon interrupted.
"Do you own a copy of Xenophon's Anabasis?" he asked Irene eagerly.
The spymaster nodded.
"May I borrow—" The prince fell silent. "Oh. It's probably also at your villa. In Constantinople."
"I'm afraid so."
The prince began frowning thoughtfully.
"Maybe we could go back—"
"Enough, Eon!" cried Garmat. "We are not going back to Constantinople to get you a book!"
"It's the Anabasis," whined Eon. "I've been wanting to read that since—"
"No! Absolutely not! Your father is waiting for us at Axum—at Adulis, probably. And have you forgotten—"
"It's the Anabasis," wailed Eon.
"Spoken like a true bibliophile," said Irene admiringly. She grinned at the despondent prince and waved her hand airily. "These heathens simply don't understand, Eon. You have to resign yourself to it. Like a saint of old subjected to barbarian tortures and ordeals."
"The Anabasis," moaned Eon.
"Ousanas!" barked Garmat. "Do your duty!"
"What duty?" demanded the dawazz. "Love of books prince's best quality. Only thing keep him away from mischief."
The dawazz leaned forward and tapped the prince on top of the head. Very lightly. "Nevertheless. Is still matter of deadly Malwa danger. Anxious father awaiting report of beloved son. Anxious negusa-nagast-type father. Not wise to keep such fathers waiting while hunting up book. Not wise. Anxiety turn to reproach. Negusa-nagast-type reproach."
The two sarwen grunted agreement. Eon sulked.
"How soon can we get Heron's book here?" asked Antonina.
Irene shrugged. "With a special courier—"
Sittas interrupted. "Do you know how much it costs to send a special—"
John of Rhodes laughed. "Why is it that the richest men are always the stingiest? Relax, Sittas. We won't strain your purse."
To Irene: "There's no need for a special courier. I've got weeks of work ahead of me before I can even start thinking about our project. We'll need to find chemical supplies, equipment, tools—everything. All I have at the moment
is a few odds and ends."
"Do you need the help of artisans?" asked Belisarius.
John shook his head.
"Not yet, Belisarius. I wouldn't know what to tell them to do or make. Be a waste of their time and your money. Six months from now, maybe. Maybe."
The general frowned. "You think it's going to take that long?"
John scowled fiercely. "That long? Do you have any idea what you're asking me to do?"
The naval officer began to rise, in obvious preparation for a heavy session of stumping about, but Belisarius waved him back to his seat.
"Relax, John. I wasn't criticizing. I'm just—just worried, that's all. I don't know how much time we have at our disposal, before our future enemy falls upon us."
John was still not mollified, quite. But before he could say anything further, Irene spoke:
"That's your job, General."
"Excuse me?"
"Buying us time. That's your job. Mine also, to an extent. But mostly yours."
"You've done it before," said Sittas. The big Greek general smiled. "Of course, that was against a bunch of dumbass Goths. Maybe you're not smart enough to tie sophisticated Indians into knots."
"Don't bait my husband, Sittas," said Antonina.
"I'm not baiting him. I'm prodding his vanity."
"My husband is not vain."
A sad shake of the head.
"Poor woman. The wife is always the last to know. Belisarius is the vainest man in creation. He's so vain that he's not vain about the things modest men are vain about—their fame, their riches, their good looks, their wives' good looks. Oh no, not Belisarius. He's only vain about his lack of vanity, which is the worst vanity there is."
Everyone in the room except Irene frowned, trying to follow the tortured logic.
"That makes no sense at all," said Eon. Uncertainly, to Irene: "Does it make sense to you?"
Irene laughed gaily. "Of course it does! But you have to remember—I'm the only other Greek in the room. Except John, but he's from Rhodes. A practical folk, the Rhodesmen. Lapsed Greeks, I'm afraid."
John said nothing, but his gaze was full of interest. Irene laughed again.
"Don't even think about it, John."