Belisarius I Thunder at Dawn

by David Drake

  This was a concession, thought Belisarius, to the customs of her allies—explaining herself, rather than simply decreeing. Then, thinking further, he decided otherwise. The girl, in her own way, was genuinely accepting the best aspects of those odd foreign ways. She was extremely intelligent, and had seen for herself the disaster which had befallen her own dynasty, too rigid to respond adequately to the new Malwa challenge. And, besides, she had been trained by Raghunath Rao, the quintessential Maratha.

  "What else could he have done?" she repeated. "If he had refused to execute them, he would have given the lie to our carefully crafted image of a man contemplating treason. All that careful work—your work too, Eon, pretending to be a vicious brute with no thought for anything beyond gratifying your lusts—gone for nothing. Months of work—a year's work, now. And for what?"

  Her voice was filled with cold, imperial scorn.

  "For what? Mercy? Do you think Skandagupta would have permitted the survival of Ranapur's potentate and his family? Nonsense! They would simply have been taken away and tortured to death. As it was, they died as quickly as possible. Painlessly, from what you described."

  The Empress bestowed a quick, approving glance on Valentinian. The cataphract was standing to one side of the little command circle, along with Anastasius and Menander. They had been offered stools, but had politely refused them. Belisarius' bucellarii had their own ingrained customs, drilled into them by their leader Maurice. Casual they might be, in the company of their lord, and ready enough to offer their opinions. But they did not sit, in the presence of their general, when matters of state were being discussed.

  Eon shrugged his shoulders, irritably.

  "I know that, Shakuntala!" he snapped. "I am not a—" He bit off the hot words, took a quick breath, calmed himself. But when he turned and faced the Empress, his eyes were still hot.

  "We Axumites are not as quick to decree executions as you Indians," he growled, "but neither are we bleating lambs."

  The two young people exchanged glares, matching royal will to royal will. Belisarius found it very difficult, now, not to smile. Especially when it became obvious the contest was going to be protracted.

  He eyed Garmat surreptitiously, and saw that the adviser was waging his own struggle against visible amusement. For a moment, his glance met that of Ousanas. The dawazz, his face invisible to the young royals seated in front of him, grinned hugely.

  Eon and Shakuntala had shared the closest of all company, during the weeks since Belisarius and his allies had rescued the Satavahana heir. The very closest.

  Belisarius had devised the entire plan. After Raghunath Rao had butchered her mahamimamsa guards in Venandakatra's palace, he had hidden Shakuntala away in a closet in the guest quarters before drawing off pursuit into a chase across India's forests and mountains. The Ethiopians, arriving at the palace with the Romans not two days later, had taken possession of the guest quarters and smuggled Shakuntala into their entourage. She had been disguised as one of Eon's many concubines, and had spent all her time since in his howdah and his pavilion. At night, always, she slept nestled in Eon's arms—lest some Malwa spy manage, against all odds, to peek into the Prince's pavilion.

  Belisarius had wondered, idly, whether that close proximity would transform itself into passion. The two people were young, healthy—immensely vigorous, in fact, both of them—and each, in their own way, extremely attractive. It was a situation which, at first glance, seemed to have only one likely outcome.

  Reality, he knew from Ousanas and Garmat, had been more complex. There was no question that Eon and Shakuntala felt a genuine—indeed, quite intense—mutual attraction. On the other hand, each had a well developed (if somewhat different) sense of their royal honor. Shakuntala, though she restrained herself from expressing it, obviously detested her position of dependence; Eon, for his part, was even more rigid in refusing to do anything which he thought might take advantage of that dependence.

  Then, too, they each had loyalties to others. Before he met Shakuntala, Eon had already developed an attachment to Tarabai, one of the Maratha women whom the Ethiopians had met in Bharakuccha. Until Shakuntala's arrival, it had been Tarabai who spent every night nestled in his arms—and not, unlike Shakuntala, in a platonic manner. Since then, though Shakuntala had often indicated her willingness to look the other way, Eon and Tarabai had remained chaste. Eon, from a sense of royal propriety; Tarabai, from the inevitable timidity of a low-caste woman in the presence of her own Empress.

  Eon was thus caught in an exquisite trap: a young and healthy man, surrounded by beautiful women almost every hour of the day and night, living the life of a monk. To say that he was frustrated was to put it mildly.

  For her part, Shakuntala was torn in a different way. Garmat and Ousanas were not certain, for the empress spoke of the man only rarely, but they suspected that Shakuntala's feelings for Raghunath Rao went well beyond the admiration of a child for her mentor. She had been in Rao's keeping since the age of seven, and the Maratha chieftain had practically served as her surrogate father—uncle, say better. But—for all the difference in age, Shakuntala was now a woman, and Rao was as attractive as any man in early middle age could possibly be. And since he was not, in actual fact, related to her in any way, there was no real reason for their relationship not to develop into romance.

  Except—those rigid, hard, ingrained Indian customs. Especially that bizarre (to Roman and Ethiopian eyes alike) insistence on purity of blood and avoidance of pollution. Shakuntala was of the most ancient lineage, the purest of kshatriya ancestry. Whereas Rao, for all his fame, was nothing but a chieftain—of the Maratha, to boot, a frontier people who could not trace their ancestry beyond two generations.

  So she, like Eon, was also trapped between sentiment and honor. It was a different trap, but its jaws were not less steely.

  In the end, Belisarius knew, the two youngsters had managed to carve out a relationship which was a bit like that of brother to sister. Very close, very intimate—and much given to quarrel.

  The glares, he saw, were not softening. He decided to intervene.

  "Explain yourself further, Eon, if you would."

  The Prince tore his eyes away from Shakuntala. Looking at Belisarius, the glare faded.

  "I am not criticizing your ruthlessness, Belisarius. Quite the opposite, in fact." A quick angry glance at the Empress; then: "I wonder if you were ruthless enough."

  Belisarius shrugged. "What should I have done? Tortured them? I would have had to do it myself, you know. Valentinian would have refused. So would Anastasius or Menander. They are cataphracts. Torture is beneath them."

  That was not, precisely, correct. Neither Valentinian nor Anastasius was squeamish, in the least, and they had both had occasion, in times past, to subject captured soldiers to methods of interrogation which were referred to by more delicate souls as "rigorous." But the spirit of the statement was true enough. Belisarius was not sure, actually, what Valentinian would have done had he commanded him to torture a family for the amusement of Malwa. It was quite possible that the cataphract would have done so, if in a quick and crude way which would have left the Malwa appetite unsatisfied. But Belisarius had not the slightest doubt that it would be the last service the cataphract would ever do him.

  Eon clenched his jaws, waved his hand in a gesture dismissing a preposterous proposal.

  But Belisarius did not relent.

  "What, then? Those were my choices. My only choices."

  Eon sighed. His shoulders slumped.

  "I know. I was there. But—" He sighed more deeply. "I'm afraid you may have given our plot away in any event, Belisarius. Or, at least, so offended the Malwa that they will no longer pursue their courtship of you."

  Belisarius began to reply, but Ousanas interrupted.

  "You are quite wrong, Eon. You misread the Malwa badly."

  The dawazz rose lazily and came to stand where he could be seen.

  "You were watching Venandakatra, boy. Th
at was your mistake."

  His huge grin erupted.

  "Natural mistake, of course! Such a comical sight he was, prancing around like a fat hen covered with her own broken eggs! I, myself, found it hard not to savor that delicious spectacle."

  Everyone who had been at the scene chuckled. Ousanas continued:

  "But still a mistake. You should have watched the Emperor. And—most important—his other advisers. As I did." He grinned down at Belisarius. "The Emperor was paralyzed, of course. By Belisarius' gaze more than the bloodshed. Which is good. For the first time, now, he will fear Belisarius—just as Venandakatra does."

  "Why is that good?" demanded Eon. "That fear will lead him—"

  "To what? To avoid the Roman personally? Oh, to be sure. The Emperor has underlings to do that work. But do you think he will avoid the Roman politically? Quite the contrary, Eon. Once the Emperor settles his nerves, you can be sure he will raise suborning Belisarius to the highest priority."

  Eon frowned. "Why?"

  Garmat answered: "It's simple, Prince. A potential traitor is attractive in direct proportion to his stature. Until now, I suspect, none of the high Malwa beyond Venandakatra have seen Belisarius as anything other than an insignificant foreigner. For all their sophistication, Indians as a rule—and Malwa in particular—are a rather provincial people. Or, it might be better to say, so taken by their own grandeur that they tend to underestimate outlanders."

  Shakuntala nodded firmly. Garmat continued:

  "I cannot be sure, of course—I am hardly privy to the Malwa's high councils—but I suspect that Venandakatra has found it heavy going to convince the imperial court that this"—a contemptuous flutter of the fingers—"bizarre barbarian is worth much attention. It cannot have escaped your notice that the Emperor has kept us at a great distance ever since we arrived. To the point of gross rudeness."

  Garmat spread his arms, smiling. "I can assure you that is no longer true. The reason for that little charade today was that the Emperor finally decided to let Venandakatra prove his argument. Which Venandakatra did, if to his own great personal chagrin."

  Another collective chuckle. Ousanas added:

  "Listen to your adviser, boy. You think too much of Venandakatra, that is your mistake. Venandakatra is furious, yes, with all the lividity of an embarrassed egomaniac. But even he—once he calms himself—will realize that the debacle can serve his interests. After all, he was right, wasn't he? Is not this grotesque semisavage foreign general—impressive?" The dawazz laughed gaily. "Oh, yes—the Emperor was quite impressed! But, what is even more important, so were his other advisers. As I said, I watched them very closely. Once they recovered from the surprise"—another laugh—"and made sure their precious slippers were safe, their eyes were riveted on Belisarius. With great interest, boy. Oh, very great. The kind of interest that a miser shows, when he discovers that a pebble is actually a nugget."

  Eon was still frowning. Garmat sighed, tried again.

  "Listen to me, Eon. I speak with the experience of an Arab nomad, who was haggling over trade goods from the time I was four. If you want to get the best price for your commodity—which is treason, in the case of Belisarius—you must do more than indicate that you simply have a price. That, Belisarius had already done, in the hints he's given to Venankatra these past months, and in his acceptance of the Emperor's gold. But then—then—you must show that your price is very high. Because the higher the price, the more valuable must be the commodity."

  Still frowning.

  "Fool boy!" snapped Ousanas. "The Emperor thought to buy himself another torturer—of which he has myriads already. Belisarius showed him the truth, when he ordered that execution. If the Emperor wants him, he can have him—so long as he is prepared to pay the price for a general. Of which, judging from the evidence, he has precious few."

  Again, the beaming grin.

  "Oh, yes, boy—be sure of it. This very night, even as we speak, others are speaking in the Emperor's pavilion. Urging him to pay the price."

  Chapter 8

  "What did you t hink he would do, Venandakatra?" snarled Lord Tathagata. "Curry the great Skandagupta's favor by carving off the nose of the Ranapur dog with his own sword? Rape the dog's bitches in public?"

  The high commander of the Malwa army drew himself up in his chair. "The man is a general, you fool. Not a mahamimamsa." Haughtily: "I would have done the same myself."

  From the distance of his position, seated with the lesser officials to one side, Rana Sanga examined the heavy figure of Lord Tathagata. The high commander, along with the Empire's other top officers and highest officials, was ranged in a semicircle of chairs facing the Emperor on his throne.

  Stinking liar, he thought. You would have cheerfully tortured the lord of Ranapur. And raped his wife as well as his daughter. And his sons, too, for that matter. Assuming, of course, that you could have managed an erection.

  Nothing of these thoughts showed on his face, but Sanga found the sight of Lord Tathagata so repugnant that he looked away. In his opinion, Tathagata was no improvement over Lord Harsha. Slightly less incompetent perhaps, as a general; but even more vile, as a man.

  His gaze fell on Lord Jivita, the Malwa empire's second-ranked military officer—briefly, then slid away. Jivita was cut from the same cloth. He transferred the gaze to a man seated at the very end of that little row. Here, his eyes lingered. Of all the Malwa kshatriya who monopolized the top military positions in the Malwa Empire, Lord Damodara was the only one for whom Sanga felt genuine respect.

  The Rajput looked away, sighing faintly. Unfortunately, for all his ability, Damodara was only distantly related to the Emperor. Sanga was surprised, actually, that Damodara had even managed to reach his current position—ranked sixth in the army, as Malwa reckoned such things. He would rise no further, unless unexpected casualties or military disasters overwhelmed the Malwa dynastic sensibilities.

  Which they might, he mused, when we attack Persia and Rome. Especially if—

  To his surprise, he heard his name spoken. By Lord Damodara.

  "I would like to hear Rana Sanga's opinion on this matter. Other than Lord Venandakatra, he has had far more contact with this Belisarius than any of us. And he is a general himself, with great military accomplishments to his credit."

  Spluttering, Venandakatra began to squawk outrage at the idea of calling for the opinion of mere Rajput in such august company, but the Emperor himself called him short.

  "Be silent, Venandakatra!" grumbled Skandagupta. "I myself would like to hear Rana Sanga's opinion."

  Venandakatra, abashed, slunk back to his chair.

  Rana Sanga advanced to the center of the pavilion. After prostrating himself before the Emperor, he rose and stepped back a few paces, so that he could be seen by both the Emperor and his top advisers.

  "What is your opinion, then?" repeated Damodara.

  Sanga hesitated for a split second. Then, squaring his shoulders, spoke firmly. He was a Rajput.

  "I do not see where Belisarius could have acted in any other manner. For three reasons." If it's to be done, do it well. "First, his honor. No general worthy of the name can allow his honor to be sullied. To have tortured the prisoners, under those circumstances—even to have ordered his soldiers to do so—would have been to stoop to the level of—" Careful. They cherish their filthy mahamimansa. "—a mere servant. A menial. You might as well have asked him to clean the Emperor's stables."

  He paused. Nods of agreement came from the Malwa.

  "Two. His reputation. On the other hand, for him to have refused to deal with the prisoners would have sullied his reputation for decisiveness, determination, and willingness to spill blood. No general can allow such a stain on his reputation. Certainly not one such as Belisarius who, if some of you are not aware, has a towering reputation in his own land. And the lands of his enemies."

  Pause. Hesitant nods, now, from most of the Malwa except Damodara and two or three others. It was obvious that few of them
had made the effort to learn anything about Belisarius, even though much information was readily available from the excellent Malwa espionage apparatus.

  "For him to have refused to execute the prisoners would have imputed a lack of willpower. A tendency to shrink from necessary action, to waver in the face of carnage."

  The nods were no longer hesitant. Malwa officials needed no explanation of the value of a reputation for ruthlessness.

  "Three. His valor."

  Here, he lost them completely, except—he thought—for Damodara. Sanga took a breath, elaborated:

  "It is that valor which explains the abrupt manner of the execution, and the—otherwise inexcusable—manner in which it was done. The failure to warn Lord Venandakatra and other officials, or to turn the prisoners aside so that the blood of rebels would not pollute the worthy. The—" Maintain a respectful face. Do it. "—utterly disgraceful lack of respect shown to the Emperor's Ye-tai bodyguards."