by David Drake
But the general's companions made no objection, after they gave the matter a bit of thought. For the storage cabin in the bow had one outstanding feature, which they knew was Belisarius' purpose in obtaining it. Privacy.
Belisarius had needed that privacy, two nights after the battle, when his small company had settled into their new quarters. He had things to tell, and a thing to show, which no Malwa must hear or see.
For that purpose, the storage cabin served to perfection. Much better, in fact, than would one of the comfortable cabins amidships. The storage cabin was isolated, far distant from any Indian sleeping (or feigning sleep), and easily guarded from spies and eavesdroppers.
It was in those noisome surroundings, thus, that Belisarius imparted his great secret to his companions. He did so with neither reluctance nor hesitation. Nor, now, simply from a sense of obligation, or a need to forestall rumors of sorcery and demonism.
Those reasons remained, of course. But his overriding purpose in telling his companions his secret was that he now had a plan—or, at least, the beginnings of one. It was a plan which would require their combined efforts to succeed and would, moreover, require several members of his company to do things which would seem utterly bizarre unless they understood the reasons which underlay them. And for that, they needed to know the secret. Not so much for its own sake, but for the sake of his stratagem.
In some strange manner, in the very fury of the battle, the framework of his plot had come to him. Had sprung into his mind, actually, in midstroke of his sword.
Later, so magical had that moment been, that he had suspected the jewel was its cause. In the quiet hours which followed, he had probed the barrier relentlessly. But the jewel had reacted not at all. It was exhausted again, he realized, and with the realization came an understanding of just how feverishly the jewel had worked to augment his senses during the battle.
It was that augmentation, he thought, which had produced the sudden image of his stratagem. The plan was his, not the jewel's. The jewel was responsible for it only in the sense that its efforts had enabled his mind to work in such a wondrous manner. He understood, too, that the human subtleties and nuances which were the essence of his stratagem were utterly beyond the capabilities of the jewel. For now, certainly; perhaps always.
And so it was, in the gloom and stench of a taper-lit storage cabin, that Belisarius introduced his comrades to glory and wonder and terror.
He told the tale first, all of it, from its very beginning in a cave in Syria. He stressed that the jewel had originated with Michael of Macedonia, and had been brought to the general with the blessings of that monk and the bishop Anthony Cassian. For his cataphracts, he knew, those names would bring great assurance. And he thought the Ethiopians would take comfort in them also. True, none of the Ethiopians had probably ever heard of Michael of Macedonia or Anthony Cassian. Still, they were Christian folk, even if they were heretics. (Monophysites, essentially, though not without their own stiff variations on that creed.)
As it turned out, Garmat was quite familiar with both Michael and Anthony—by reputation, if not by personal acquaintance. Belisarius suspended his tale for a moment, upon that discovery, allowing Garmat to inform the other Ethiopians of the nature of those persons. Eon and the sarwen seemed suitably impressed.
Thereafter, Belisarius spoke without interruption until his tale reached the present moment. He withheld nothing, save the subtleties of his standing with the Emperor. He saw no need to involve his companions in that delicate matter. It was enough to speak of his meeting with the Empress Theodora (that part of the meeting, at least, which dealt with India), and to remind them of the Emperor's official blessing for his mission. He suspected that Garmat understood quite a bit more of the maneuverings of the Byzantine court, but the adviser said nothing.
No one did, after Belisarius finished. The crowded cabin was utterly still.
Oddly enough, it was Menander who finally broke the silence. The young cataphract was very weak, but quite alert. The fever and delirium which all the veterans knew would soon be produced by his abdominal wound had not yet made their appearance.
"May I see it?" whispered Menander. There was nothing in his voice of the young warrior, just the awe of a village lad.
"You may all see it," replied Belisarius. The general reached into his tunic and withdrew the pouch. He spilled the jewel into his palm and held it out. All save Menander leaned forward to see. A moment later, the young Thracian's shoulders were gently held up by Ezana, so that he too might observe the miraculous sight.
Miraculous, indeed. Weary, aim might have been. But it understood the importance of the moment and drew the facets to itself.
The jewel did not blaze, here, as it had once in Belisarius' villa in Antioch. There was no energy for such a solar display. But there were none in the cabin, gazing upon that shifting and flashing wonder, those cool, translucent combinations of every hue known to man and many never seen before, who doubted for one moment that they were witness to a miracle.
Eventually, Garmat spoke.
"It is not enough," he whispered. Belisarius cocked his eyebrow.
The adviser shook his head. Not in an unfriendly manner, no, but in a manner which bespoke no deference either.
"I am sorry, Belisarius. I do not distrust you, or what you say, and the jewel is certainly as awesome as you described, but—"
Garmat made a gesture which encompassed the ship and everything in the world beyond it.
"What you say involves not us alone, but those to whom we are responsible."
"You want to touch the jewel yourself," said Belisarius gently.
Garmat shook his head, smiling.
"Certainly not! At my age, terrible visions are the last thing I need. I've seen enough of those already."
Belisarius shifted his gaze—and, subtly, his hand—to the Prince. "Eon, then."
The prince stared at the jewel, his brow furrowed with thought. Thought only, however, not fear—so much was obvious to all who watched. Belisarius was not the only one present, then, who saw the adult majesty of the future in that dark young face.
"No," said Eon, finally. "I do not trust myself yet." He turned to Ousanas. "Take it."
"Why me?"
"You are my dawazz. I trust you more than any man living. Take it."
Ousanas stared at his charge. Then, without moving his eyes, extended his hand to Belisarius. The general placed the jewel on his palm.
A moment later, the dawazz closed his hand; and left the world, for a time.
When he returned, and opened his eyes, he seemed completely unchanged. The others present were a bit surprised. Belisarius was astonished.
When the dawazz spoke, however, the general thought he detected a slight tremor in his rich baritone.
His first words were to his Prince.
"Always dawazz wonders. And fears."
He took a deep breath, and briefly looked away. "No longer. You were great prince. King, at the end."
The dawazz fumbled for words.
"Oh, stop speaking pidgin!" snapped Eon.
Ousanas cast him an exasperated look.
"It was your silly idea in the first place." The dawazz glanced at Garmat, unkindly. "And you backed him up."
Garmat shrugged. Ousanas grinned at the Romans. (That much, at least, had not changed. Not the grin.)
"You must forgive my companions," said the dawazz. His Greek was now perfect, mellifluous, and completely unaccented. Belisarius managed not to gape. His cataphracts failed.
"The boy has the excuse, at least, of tender years. His adviser, only the excuse of doddering old age. And, of course, the fact that he is half-Arab. A folk who would rather scheme than eat."
Again, the unkind glance. But the glance fell away, softening. "Always an Arab, and a full one, at the end. After Kaleb died, Garmat, you returned to Arabia. You died well there, in the Nejed, leading your beloved bedouin against the Malwa."
He shrugged. "You l
ost, of course. Not even the bedouin in their desert could withstand the Indian juggernaut. Not after the Malwa brought the Lakhmites under their rule, and broke the Beni Ghassan, and dispersed the Quraysh from Mecca."
"You saw the future, then," stated Garmat.
"Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. And it was just as terrible as foretold." Ousanas' eyes grew vacant. "I saw the future until the moment of my own death. I died somewhat ignominiously, I regret to say, from disease brought on by a wound. No glorious wound won in single combat with a champion, alas. Just one of those random missiles which are such a curse to bards and storytellers."
He glanced at Menander and veered away from the subject of wound-produced diseases. Instead, he smiled at the prince.
"Your end, I do not know, Eon. I died in your arms, in the course of the trek which the surviving Ethiopians undertook under your leadership. South, to my homeland between the lakes, where you hoped to found a new realm which might still resist the Malwa. Although you had no great hope in success."
He fell silent.
"You speak perfect Greek," complained Valentinian.
Ousanas grimaced. "I suspect, my dear Valentinian, that I speak it considerably better than you do. With all respect, I am the best linguist that I know. It comes from being raised in the heart of Africa, I suspect, among savages. In the land between the great lakes, there are at least eighteen languages spoken. I knew seven of them by the time I was twelve, and learned most of the rest soon thereafter."
The grin lit up the cabin. "At the age, that is, when the urge to seduction comes to vigorous lads. My own tribe, sad to say, was much opposed to fornication outside proper channels. Other tribes enjoyed more rational customs, but alas, spoke other tongues. So I became adept at learning languages, a habit I have found it useful to maintain."
He pointed at the prince, his finger like a spear.
"This budding conspirator, this still-sprouting-intriguer, this not-yet-genius-spymaster, thought it would be most clever if, in our travels through the Roman Empire, I pretended to be a pidgin-babbling ignoramus from the bush. Unsuspecting Romans, he thought, might unthinkingly utter deep secrets in the presence of a thick-tongued slave."
The finger transferred its aim to Garmat.
"This one, this grey-bearded-not-yet-wise-man, this decrepit-old-broken-down-so-called-adviser, thought the plan might have some merit. So, there I was, trapped between the Scylla of naïveté and the Charybdis of senility."
He raised his eyes to the heavens.
"Pity me, Romans. There I was, for months, as cultured a heathen as ever departed the savanna, forced to channel my fluid thoughts through the medium of pidgin and trade argot. Ah, woe! Woe, I say! Woe!"
"You seem to have survived the experience," chuckled Valentinian.
"He is very good at surviving experiences," interjected Wahsi. "That is why we made him dawazz."
The sarwen exchanged a knowing, humorous look.
"Ousanas likes to think it was because of his skills and abilities," added Ezana. A derisive bark. "What nonsense! He is lucky. That is his only talent. But—a prince needs to learn luck, more than anything, and so we made the savage his dawazz."
Ousanas began some retort, but Belisarius interrupted.
"Later, if you please. For now, there are other things more important to discuss."
He turned to Garmat. "Are you satisfied?"
The adviser glanced at his prince. Eon nodded, very firmly. Garmat still hesitated, for just a second, before he nodded his head as well.
"Good," said Belisarius. "Now—I have a plan."
After Belisarius finished, Eon spoke at once.
"I won't do it! It's beneath—"
A sharp slap atop his head by Ousanas.
"Silence! Is good plan! Good for prince, too. Learn to think like worm instead of lion. Worms eat lions, fool boy, not other way around."
"I told you to stop speaking pidgin!" snarled Eon.
Another slap.
"Not speaking pidgin. Speaking baby talk. All stupid prince can understand."
Garmat added his own weight to the argument.
"Your dawazz is right, Prince." The adviser made a soothing gesture. "Not the worm business, of course. Disrespectful brute! But he's right about the plan. It is good, in the main, especially insofar as your own part is concerned."
He cast a questioning eye at Belisarius.
"Some of the rest, General, I confess I find perhaps excessively complex."
" 'Perhaps excessively complex,' " mimicked Valentinian harshly. The cataphract leaned forward.
"General, in the absence of Maurice, I have to take his place. As best I can. The first law of battles—"
Belisarius waved the objection aside, chuckling.
"I know it by heart! This is not a battle, Valentinian. This is intrigue."
"Still, General," interrupted Anastasius, "you're depending too much on happenstance. I don't care if we're talking battles or intrigue—or plotting how to cuckold the quartermaster, for that matter—you still can't rely that much on luck." Unlike Valentinian's voice, whose tenor had been sharp with agitation, Anastasius' basso was calm and serene. His words carried much the greater weight, because of it.
Belisarius hesitated, marshaling his arguments. This was no place for simple authority, he knew. The cataphracts and the Ethiopians needed to be convinced, not commanded.
Before he could speak, Ousanas interrupted.
"I disagree with Anastasius and Valentinian. And Garmat. They are mistaking complexity for intricacy. The plan is complex, true, in the sense that it involves many interacting vectors."
Belisarius restrained a laugh, seeing the gapes of his Thracian soldiers and the glum resignation on the faces of Ethiopian sarwen. Ousanas gestured enthusiastically.
"But that is not the same thing as luck! Oh, no, not at all. Luck is my specialty, it is true, just as the sarwen said. But the simple-minded warrior"—a dismissive wave—"does not understand luck, and that is why he thinks I am lucky. I am not. I am fortunate, because I understand the way of good fortune."
The dawazz leaned forward.
"The secret of which I will now tell you. One cannot predict the intricate workings of luck, but one can grasp the vectors of good fortune. All you must do is find the simple thing which is at the heart of the problem and seize it. Hold that—hold it with a grip of iron, and keep it always in your mind—and you will find your way through the vectors."
"Fancy talk," sneered Valentinian. "But tell me this, O wise one—what's the simple thing about the general's plan?" He snorted. "Name any simple thing about his plan!"
Ousanas returned the sarcasm with a level gaze.
"The simple thing at the heart of the general's plan, Valentinian, is the soul of Venandakatra. The entire plan revolves around that one thing. Which is perhaps the simplest thing in the world."
"No man's soul is simple," countered Valentinian, feebly.
"Not yours, perhaps," replied the dawazz. "But the soul of Venandakatra? You think that thing is complex?" Ousanas barked. In that single laugh was contained a universe of contempt. "If you wish complexity, Valentinian, examine a pile of dog shit. Do not look for it in the soul of Venandakatra."
"He's got a point," rumbled Anastasius. The huge cataphract sighed. "A rather good one, actually." Another sigh, like the resignation of Atlas to his labors. "Irrefutable, in fact."
Valentinian glowered. "Maybe!" he snapped. "But still—what of the rest of it? The prince's part in the plot is simple enough, I'll admit." A skeptical glance at Eon. "If—begging your pardon, Prince—the young royal can stomach it." Now he pointed to Ousanas. "But what of his part in the plan? Do you call that simple?"
Ousanas grinned. "In what way is it not? I am required to do two things only. Not more than two! I assure you, cataphract, even savages from the savanna can count as high as two."
Menander interrupted, in a whisper.
"Those are two pretty complicated things, Ousanas."
"Nonsense! First, I must learn a new language. A trick I learned as a boy. Then, I must hunt. A trick I learned even earlier."
"You're not going to be hunting an eland in the savanna, dawazz," said Eon uncertainly.
"That's right," chimed in Valentinian. "You're going to be hunting a man in a forest. A man you don't know, in a forest you've never seen, in a land you've never visited."
Ousanas shrugged. "What of it? Hunting is simple, my dear Valentinian. When I was a boy, growing up in the savanna, I did not think so. I was much impressed with the speed of the impala, and the cunning of the buffalo, and the ferocity of the hyena. So I wasted many years studying the ways of these beasts, mastering their intricate habits."