by David Drake
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.
Chapter 20
Daras
Autumn, 529 AD
Sittas and Maurice sat on their horses, watching Sittas' cataphracts on the training field. The look on Sittas' face was one of smug satisfaction. That on Maurice's was inscrutable.
The sight was undoubtedly impressive. Sittas had brought a thousand noble Greek cataphracts with him to Syria, to reinforce the Roman army there. The heavily armored horsemen made the very ground rumble with their charges. And their lances struck the practice poles with extraordinary impact. Not surprising, that—the lances were being held in the underarm position, using the full weight of rider and mount to drive them home.
Sittas stood up on his stirrups, reveling in the motion.
God, how he loved stirrups. And so did the cataphracts.
But, for all his self-satisfaction, Sittas was by no means stupid. So, after a time, the smug look disappeared, replaced by a frown.
"All right, Maurice," he growled. "Spit it out."
The hecatontarch cocked a quizzical eye.
"Don't play with me, damn you!" snapped Sittas. "I know perfectly well you think this"—he waved at the charging cataphracts—"is a waste of time. Why?"
"I haven't said a word." Maurice fanned the air in front of his face, grimacing at the dust clouds thrown up by the charging lancers. What little vegetation had once grown on the barren field had long since been pounded into mush under the hooves of the heavy horses.
Sittas glowered. "I know. That's the point. You haven't made a single criticism. Not one! No criticisms—from the Maurice? Ha! You bitched at your own mother coming out of the womb—told her she wasn't doing it right."
Maurice smiled, faintly.
"And another thing. I notice that you aren't spending much time with your Thracian boys practicing lance charges. Instead, you're running them ragged with all sorts of fancy mounted archery maneuvers. So spit it out, Maurice. What gives?"
The hecatontarch's smile disappeared.
"I think the question ought to be reversed. You know things I don't, General. From Belisarius."
Sittas' expression was uncomfortable. "Well—"
Maurice waved his hand.
"I'm not complaining. And I'm not prying. If the general hasn't told me whatever it is he's keeping secret, I'm sure there's a good reason for it. But that doesn't mean I can't figure some things out for myself."
"Such as?"
"Such as—he's got a mechanical wizard living on the estate concocting God knows what kind of infernal devices. Such as—the devices, whatever they are, are obviously connected to artillery. Such as—he's always had a soft spot for artillery. Such as—he's especially been doting on infantry, lately. Before he left, he instructed me in no uncertain terms to cultivate Hermogenes."
Sittas rubbed his face. The gesture smeared the dust and sweat on his face into streaks. "So?"
Maurice snorted. "So—I have a sneaking suspicion that in a few years charging the enemy with lances is going to be a fast way to commit suicide."
"I like lance charges," grumbled Sittas. "Don't you?"
"Is that a joke? I don't like to fight in the first place. If I knew a different way to make a living, I'd do it. But as long as I'm stuck with this trade, I'd like to be good at it. That means I'd like to win battles, not lose them. And most of all, I'd like to stay alive."
Sittas' expression was glum. "Leave it to a damned Thracian hick to take all the fun out of war," he complained.
"Leave it to a damned Greek nobleman to think war's fun in the first place." For a brief moment, Maurice's face was bitterly hostile. "Do you know how many times Thrace has been ravaged by barbarians—while the Greek nobility sat and watched, safely behind the ramparts of Constantinople?"
Sittas grimaced. Maurice reined his horse around.
"So enjoy your lance charges, General. Personally, I'm rooting for Belisarius and his schemes—whatever they are. If this John of Rhodes can invent some secret weapon that fries cavalry, I'm for it. All for it. I'll gladly climb off a horse and fight on foot, if I could slaughter the next wave of barbarians that tries to plunder Thrace."
After the hecatontarch was gone, Sittas blew out his cheeks. Maurice's harsh words had irritated him, but he could not hold on to the mood. There was too much truth to those words. For all his class prejudices, Sittas was well aware of the realities of life for the vast majority of Rome's citizens. He himself had not watched the plundering of Thrace from behind Constantinople's ramparts. He himself had led charges—lance charges—against the barbarian invaders. And watched them whirl away, laughing, and strike another village the day after. And seen the results, the day after that, lumbering up with his cataphracts. Too late, as usual, to do anything but bury the corpses.
He drove his horse forward, onto the training field. Seeing him approach, his cataphracts shouted gaily. Then, seeing his face, the gaiety died.
"Enough of this lance shit!" he roared. "Draw out your bows!"
The next day, Maurice arrived back at the villa near Daras. With him, he brought Hermogenes.
Hermogenes now gloried in the exalted rank of merarch. He was in overall command of the Army of Syria's i
nfantry. Following Belisarius' recommendations, Sittas had immediately promoted Hermogenes to that post shortly after he arrived in Syria and replaced Belisarius as commander of the Roman army.
When Maurice and Hermogenes drew up in the courtyard of the villa, Antonina and Irene emerged to greet them.
"Where's Sittas?" inquired Antonina.
"He's staying with the army," grunted Maurice, as he dismounted. "For a while, anyway. Don't know how long."
"Probably till he gets over his latest peeve," piped up Irene cheerfully. "What did you say to him this time, Maurice?"
Maurice made no reply. Hermogenes grinned and said: "I think he cast aspersions on the glory of thundering cataphracts. Probably tossed in a few words on the Greek aristocracy, too."
Maurice maintained a dignified silence.
"You're just in time for dinner," announced Antonina. "Anthony's here."
"Bishop Cassian?" asked Hermogenes. "What a pleasure! I've been wanting to make his acquaintance for the longest time."
It was the first time Hermogenes had been invited to the villa since Belisarius' departure. He enjoyed the evening thoroughly, although he found the first few hours disconcerting. Conversation at the dinner table seemed somehow strained. On several occasions, when he pressed John of Rhodes for a progress report on his rather mysterious artillery project, Antonina or Irene would immediately interject themselves into the conversation and divert the talk elsewhere. After a while, Hermogenes realized that they did not want the subject discussed in front of their other guests.
He assumed, at first, that it was the person of the bishop who was the obstacle. Too holy a man to be affronted by such a grisly subject. So, bowing to the demands of the occasion, Hermogenes abandoned all talk of artillery projects and engaged the bishop in a discussion of religious doctrine. Hermogenes, like many Greeks from the middle classes of Byzantine society, rather fancied himself as an amateur theologian.
He found the ensuing discussion even more disconcerting. Not, be it said, because he was chagrined at finding himself outclassed. Hermogenes was by no means so swell-headed as to imagine himself the equal of the famous Bishop of Aleppo when it came to theological subtleties. It was simply that, once again, Antonina and Irene invariably interrupted whenever Hermogenes was on the verge of pinpointing the bishop's views on the Trinity. And, as before, diverted the discussion into aimless meanderings, as if they did not want the bishop's opinions aired in front of their other guests.
There came, then, the worst moment of the evening, when Hermogenes came to the sudden conclusion that he was the unwanted guest. But, after a time, that embarrassment waned. It seemed obvious, from their friendly behavior toward him, that neither Antonina nor Irene—nor certainly Maurice—viewed his presence with discomfort.
So what—?
Clarity came, finally, after the first glass of dessert wine had been enjoyed. Antonina cleared her throat and said to the general's secretary:
"Procopius, I'm afraid I'm going to need the full report on the estate's financial condition by tomorrow morning." She reached out and placed her fingers on the pudgy hand of the bishop sitting next to her. "Anthony wants to begin examining the records as soon as he awakens."
For a moment, it almost seemed to Hermogenes as if Antonina's fingers were sensuously caressing those of Anthony Cassian. Ridiculous.
Procopius frowned. "Tonight?" he asked plaintively.
"Yes, I'm afraid so."
Antonina's eyes flashed around the table, accompanied by an odd smile. If the thought weren't absurd, Hermogenes would have sworn that she was leering at all of the men at the table except Procopius. Her look at John of Rhodes seemed particularly lascivious. And Irene's face, now that he noticed, had a strange sort of knowing smile on it. Almost obscene, if it weren't—Ridiculous.
Procopius stared at her. His eyes grew bright, his face flushed, his lips tightened—he seemed, for all the world, like a man possessed by a secret vision.
"Of course," he said, chokingly. The secretary arose from the table, bowed stiffly, and departed the room. He glanced back, once. Hermogenes was struck by the hot glitter of his gaze.
As soon as he was gone, the atmosphere in the room seemed to change instantly. Maurice pursed his lips. Hermogenes thought the hecatontarch would have spit on the floor, if politeness hadn't restrained him. John of Rhodes blew out his cheeks and, silently, extended his cup to Irene. Grinning, Irene filled it to the brim. Antonina sighed and leaned back in her chair—then extended her own cup.
For his part, the bishop turned immediately to Hermogenes and said:
"To answer your earlier questions directly, merarch, while my own opinion on the Trinity is that of the five councils of the orthodox tradition, I also believe that there can never be a final solution to the problem. And thus I feel that any attempt to impose such a solution is, from the social and political standpoint, unwise. And, from the theological standpoint, downright impious."
"Impious?" asked Hermogenes. "Impious?"
Cassian's nod was vigorous. "Yes, young man—you heard me aright. Impious."
Hermogenes groped for words. "I've never heard anyone say—" He fell silent, taking a thoughtful sip of his wine.
Cassian smiled. "Mine is not, I admit, the common approach. But let me ask you this, Hermogenes—why is the subject of the Trinity so difficult to fathom? Why is it such an enigma?"
Hermogenes hesitated. "Well, it—I'm not a theologian, you know. But it's very complicated, everyone knows that."
"Why?"
Hermogenes frowned. "I don't understand."
"Why is it so complicated? Did it never strike you as bizarre that the Almighty should have chosen to manifest himself in such a tortuous fashion?"
Hermogenes opened his mouth, closed it; then, took a much deeper sip of wine—almost a gulp, actually. As a matter of fact, he had—now and then—puzzled over the matter. Privately. Very privately.
Cassian smiled again. "So I see. It is my belief, my dear Hermogenes, that the Lord chose to do so for the good and simple reason that He does not want men to understand the Trinity. It is a mystery, and there's the plain and simple truth of it. There is no harm, of course, in anyone who so chooses to speculate on the problem. I do so myself. But to go further, to pronounce oneself right—to go so far as to enforce your pronouncement with religious and secular authority—seems to me utterly impious. It is the sin of pride. Satan's sin."
Hermogenes was struck, even more than by Cassian's words, by the bishop's expression. That peculiar combination of gentle eyes and a mouth set like a stone. The merarch knew the bishop's towering reputation as a theologian among the Greek upper crust. And he knew, as well, that Cassian's reputation as a saintly man was even more towering among the Syrian peasantry and plebeian classes. Both of those reputations suddenly came into focus for him.
"Enough theology!" protested Irene. "I want to hear John's latest progress report on his infernal devices."
Almost gratefully, Hermogenes looked away from the bishop. John of Rhodes straightened abruptly in his chair and glared at Irene. He slammed his goblet down on the table. Fortunately, it was almost empty, so only a few winedrops spilled onto the table. But, for a moment, Hermogenes feared the goblet would break from the impact.
"There is no progress report, infernal woman! As you well know—you were present yourself, yesterday, at the latest fiasco."
Irene grinned. She looked at the bishop.
"Did you hear that, Anthony? He called me a devil! Doesn't that seem a bit excessive? I ask for your expert opinion."
Cassian smiled. "Further clarification is needed. If he called you a devil, then, yes—'twould be a tad excessive. However, John was by no means specific. 'Infernal woman,' after all, could refer to any denizen of the Pit. Such as an imp. In which case, I'm afraid I would have to lend my religious authority to his words. For it is a certain truth, Irene, that you are indeed an imp."
"I didn't think there was such a thing as a female i
mp," retorted Irene.
The bishop's smile was positively beatific.
"Neither did I, my dear Irene, until I made your acquaintance."
Laughter erupted at the table. When it died down, Maurice spoke.
"What happened, John?"
The naval officer scowled. "I burned down the workshop, that's what happened."
"Again?"
"Yes, thank you—again!" John began to rise, but Antonina waved him down with a smile.
"Please, John! I've had too much to drink. I'll get dizzy, watching you stump around."
The naval officer subsided. After a moment, he muttered: "It's the damned naphtha, Maurice. The local stuff's crap. I need to get my hands on good quality naphtha. And for that—"