An oblique approach b-1

by David Drake

  Sittas goggled. “You’re kidding!” He glared down at his coat. “You mean to tell me I’m wearing a filthy damned Hunnish costume?”

  Irene nodded, smiling. “Odd how civilization works, isn’t it? It’s your fault, you know-soldiers, I mean, not you personally. Once you got obsessed with cavalry you started insisting on wearing Hun trousers.” She smirked. “Why you insisted on including the coats into the bargain is a mystery.”

  “How do you know so much, woman?” grumbled Sittas. “It’s unseemly.”

  “I don’t spend all day drinking and complaining that there’s nothing else to do.”

  Sittas glowered. “Damn intelligence in a woman, anyway. Should never have let them learn how to read. It’s the only good thing about Thracians, you know. They keep their women barefoot and ignorant.”

  “It’s true,” whispered Antonina. “Belisarius only lets me wear shoes on special occasion like these.” She glanced down admiringly at the preposterous, rickety, high-heeled contraptions on her feet. “And when I’m dancing naked on his bare chest, of course, with my whip and my iced sherbet.”

  “And that’s another thing,” groused Sittas. “Show me an intelligent woman, and I’ll show you one with a sense of humor. Aimed at men, naturally.” He glared around the huge room, singling out every single woman in it for a moment’s glower. Although, in truth, most of them seemed neither particularly intelligent nor quick-witted.

  Belisarius ignored the byplay. He had long since reconciled himself to his wife’s sometimes outrageous jokes. He rather enjoyed them, actually. Although, glancing at the monstrosities on Antonina’s little feet, he almost shuddered to think of them tearing great wounds in his body.

  He concentrated again on the Axumites. There were only five of them, which, he had heard, was the entirety of their embassy. He glanced back at the Indians and smiled. The Axumites had sent five for a full diplomatic mission, whereas the Indians-who presented themselves as a mere trade delegation-had sent upward of twenty.

  The smile faded. Some of those twenty were purely decorative, but by no means all of them. Perhaps one or two were actually even interested in trade, but Belisarius had no doubt that at least ten of the Indian delegation were nothing more than outright spies.

  As if reading his thoughts, Irene whispered:

  “I’ve heard half of the Indians have announced plans to set up permanent residence. To foster and encourage trade, they say.”

  “No doubt,” muttered the general. “There’s always a good traffic in treason, in this town.”

  Irene leaned over and whispered even more softly:

  “Do you see the one on the far left?” she asked. “And the heavyset one toward the middle, wearing a yellow coat with black embroidery?” She was not looking at them at all, Belisarius noticed. He avoided more than a quick glance in the direction of the Malwa envoys.

  “Yes, I see them.”

  “The one on the left is named Ajatasutra. The heavyset one is called Balban. I’m certain that Ajatasutra is one of the Malwa’s chief spies. About Balban I’m less confident, but I suspect him also. And if my suspicions about Balban are correct, he would be the probable spymaster.”

  “Not Ajatasutra?”

  Irene’s head-shake was so faint as to be almost unnoticeable.

  “No, he’s too obvious. Too much in the forefront.”

  Again, it was uncanny the way Irene read his thoughts.

  “Bad idea, Belisarius. You never want to assassinate known spies and spymasters. They’ll simply be replaced with others you don’t know. Best to keep them under watch, and then-”

  “And then what?”

  She smiled and shrugged lightly, never casting so much as a glance in the direction of the Indians.

  “Whatever,” she murmured. “The possibilities are endless.”

  Antonina nudged Belisarius. “I think it’s time we made our acquaintance with the Axumites. I’ve been watching Theodora, and she’s starting to glare at us impatiently.”

  “Onward,” spoke the general. Taking his wife by the arm, he led her across the room, weaving a path through the chattering throng. The Axumites were standing off to one side, at the edge of the crowd. Even to Belisarius, who was no connoisseur of such events, it was apparent that the Ethiopians were being studiously ignored.

  The Axumites took note of them as Belisarius and Antonina approached. The older man he took to be the adviser Garmat showed no reaction. The eyes of the young prince, on the other hand, widened noticeably. It might almost he said that he stared, until the tall man behind him-the one Belisarius thought was a Nubian-nudged him. Thereupon the prince tore his eyes away and stared elsewhere, his back ramrod straight.

  As he approached, Belisarius’ eyes met those of the Nubian. The tall black man immediately broke into a toothy grin, which just as immediately disappeared.

  Belisarius was puzzled by the man. The identity of the adviser Garmat was obvious. And the other two members of the Axumite envoy were obviously soldiers. The prince’s personal retinue, men much like his own pentarchs Valentinian and Anastasius. Seasoned, experienced warriors in their late twenties or early thirties. Young enough to be as physically vigorous as any; old enough not to be rash and impetuous.

  What then was the function and capacity of the Nubian? If Nubian he was-though, as Belisarius came up to the small group, he was almost certain he was right. The tall man’s face had none of the aquiline characteristics of the Axumites. His features were pure African.

  He would know soon enough. He stopped a few feet from the group and bowed politely.

  “I am Belisarius,” he announced. “I am-”

  “Rome’s finest general!” said the older man. “Such a honor! I am Garmat, the adviser to Prince Eon Bisi Dakuen.” He motioned to the young man standing at his side.

  Belisarius examined the young man. The prince, he thought, was most handsome in an exotic sort of way. The boy was not tall, but he was obviously well built. Beneath the heavy embroidered coat, Belisarius suspected, lay a very muscular frame.

  The prince nodded, so slightly as to be almost impolite. Immediately, the tall man standing behind him nudged the prince again, none too gently, and uttered a few words in a language unknown to Belisarius. The two Axumite soldiers standing by his side grunted something, which Belisarius sensed were words of approval.

  Something odd was happening. The language was unknown to the general, but-for a moment, strangely, Belisarius thought he almost understood the words. Odd.

  Under the darkness of the skin, Belisarius thought he saw the prince flush with embarrassment. The young man stood even straighter and nodded again. This time, very deeply and respectfully. The tall man behind him flashed Belisarius his quick toothy grin and said, in heavily accented Greek:

  “I said to him: ’Show respect, fool boy! He is great general, tested in battle, and you but suckling babe.’ ” Again, the wide grin. “Of course, I spoke our language, so not to embarrass fool boy prince. And did not slap his head, for same reason. But now I find must translate, so as not to offend noble visitors.”

  “And who are you, if I might ask?”

  The tall man grinned even more widely. “Me? I am nothing, great general. A miserable slave, no more. The lowest creature on earth, debased beyond measure.”

  Garmat interrupted. “Please! May we be introduced to your lovely wife?”

  Belisarius apologized and made the introduction. Garmat was suave diplomacy itself, managing simultaneously to strew about fulsome praises of Antonina’s beauty and charm without, at the same time, doing so in a manner which suggested even the slightest lechery. The prince did not manage so well. He was very polite, but too obviously smitten by her beauty.

  The tall man behind him spoke sharply, again; again, the soldiers’ grunting approval.

  But this time, Belisarius understood the words-without knowing how.

  “Idiot boy! Lust after local cowherds, if you must! Do not ogle the wives of great foreign
generals!”

  Belisarius kept a straight face. Or so, at least, he thought.

  “You speak our language,” announced Garmat.

  Belisarius thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, no. I can understand a few words, that is all. But I cannot speak-uh, what exactly-”

  “We call it Ge’ez.”

  “Thank you. I apologize for my ignorance. I know little of Axum. As I said, I can speak no Ge’ez, but I do understand it a bit.”

  Garmat was staring up at him shrewdly. “More than a bit, I think.” The adviser glanced back at the tall man standing behind the prince.

  “You are puzzled by Ousanas.” It was more of a statement than a question.

  Belisarius looked at the tall man. “That is his name?”

  Ousanas spoke, again in Greek.

  “Is my civilized Greek name, General Belisarius. In my own tongue am called-” Here came several unpronounceable syllables.

  “You are Nubian,” said Belisarius.

  Ousanas now grinned from ear to ear.

  “Should think not! Most wretched folk, the Nubians. Given to putting on great airs, pretending they are Egyptian. I fart on Meroe and Napata!”

  Garmat interrupted. “Romans often make that mistake. He is actually from much farther south than Nubia. From a land between great lakes, which is quite unknown to the peoples of the Mediterranean.”

  Belisarius frowned. “He is not Axumite, then?”

  “Should hope not!” cried Ousanas. “Most wretched folk, the Axumites. Given to putting on great airs, pretending they are descendants of Solomon.”

  Again, the grin. “I do not, however, fart on Axum and Adulis. Else the sarwen ”-a thumb pointed in each direction to the warriors at his side-“would beat me for an impertinent slave.”

  The two sarwen grunted agreement.

  Belisarius was now frowning deeply. Garmat smiled.

  “You are puzzled, I think, by some of our customs.”

  “Is this a custom?” asked Belisarius dubiously.

  Garmat nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes! A very old custom. Every man child born to the king-even girls, sometimes, if there are no male heirs-is assigned a special slave at the age of ten. This slave is always a foreigner, of some kind. He is called the dawazz. His is a very special job. The prince has an adviser to teach him statecraft, which a king must have to rule properly.” Here Garmat pointed to himself. “Veteran soldiers from his regiment to teach him the skill of arms, which a king must have to maintain his rule.” Here Garmat pointed to the two soldiers. “And then, most important, he has his dawazz. Who teaches him that the difference between slave and king is not so great, after all.”

  Ousanas grinned. “Much better to be slave! No worries.”

  Antonina smiled sweetly. “I should think you’d worry what the prince will do if he ever assumes the throne. And remembers the dawazz who abused him, all those many times.”

  The grin never wavered. “Nonsense, great lady. Prince be properly grateful. Shower faithful dawazz with gifts. Offer him prestigious posts.”

  Antonina grinned back. “Maybe. Especially if the dawazz was a kind and gentle man, who reproved his prince mildly and only upon rare occasions.”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed Ousanas. “Dawazz of that sort be useless!” He smacked the prince on top of the head, very hard. The Prince didn’t even blink.

  “See?” demanded Ousanas. “Good prince. Very strong and durable, with solid hard head. If he ever become king, Arabs tremble.”

  Belisarius was fascinated. “But-let’s just suppose for the moment-what I mean is-”

  Garmat interrupted. “You are wondering what would motivate the dawazz to be so strict in his duties? When, as your wife points out, there is always the risk that a king might remember the past sourly?”

  Belisarius nodded. Garmat turned to Ousanas.

  “What happens, Ousanas, if you neglect your duties? Fail to instruct the prince properly in the true scheme of things?”

  The grin vanished from Ousanas’ face. “Sarawit be angry.” He glanced from side to side. “Very perilous, irritate sarwen.” The irrepressible grin returned. “Prince is nothing. King is almost nothing. Sarawit important.”

  The soldiers grunted agreement.

  Garmat turned back to Belisarius. “Our custom, you see, is that when the prince succeeds to the throne or reaches his maturity-which, among us, we reckon at twenty-two years of age-then his sarwe passes judgment on his dawazz. If the dawazz is judged to have done his job properly, he is offered membership in the sarwe. And, usually, a high rank. Or, if he prefers, he may return to his own people, laden with the sarwe’s blessing and, of course, many gifts from his former prince.”

  “And if the sarwe judges against him?”

  Garmat shrugged. From behind him, Ousanas muttered: “Very bad.” The soldiers grunted agreement.

  Belisarius scratched his chin.

  “Is the dawazz always from the south?”

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed Garmat. “The dawazz may come from any foreign land, so long as his people are adjudged a valiant folk and he himself is esteemed for his courage. King Kaleb’s dawazz, for instance, was a bedouin Arab.”

  “And what happened to him?”

  Garmat coughed. “Well, actually, he’s standing in front of you. I was Kaleb’s dawazz.”

  Belisarius and Antonina stared at him. Garmat shrugged apologetically.

  “My mother, I’m afraid, was not noted for her chastity. She was particularly taken by handsome young Ethiopian traders. As you can see, I was the result of such a liaison.”

  “How were you captured?” asked Belisarius.

  Garmat frowned. He seemed puzzled.

  “Captured by whom?”

  “By the Axumites-when they enslaved you, and made you Kaleb’s dawazz.”

  “You never capture dawazz!” exclaimed the prince. “If a man can be captured, he is not fit to be dawazz!”

  It was the first time the prince had spoken. Eon’s voice was quite pleasant, although unusually deep for one so young.

  Belisarius shook his head bemusedly. “I don’t understand this at all. How do you make someone a dawazz, then?”

  “ Make someone?” asked the prince. He looked at his adviser in confusion. Garmat smiled. The soldiers chuckled. Ousanas laughed aloud.

  “You don’t make someone a dawazz, General,” explained Garmat. “It is a very high honor. Men come from everywhere to compete for the post. When I heard that a new dawazz was to be appointed by the Ethiopians, I rode across half of Arabia. And I traded my fine camel for a dhow to cross the Red Sea.”

  “I walked through jungles and mountains,” commented Ousanas. “I traded nothing. Had nothing to trade except my spear. Which I needed.”

  He bared a very muscular forearm, showing an ugly scar which marked the black flesh.

  “Got that from a panther in Shawa.” The grin returned. “But was well worth it. Scar got me into final round of testing. Not have to bother with silly early rounds.”

  Prince Eon spoke, his voice filled with pride. “Ousanas is the greatest hunter in the world,” he announced.

  Immediately, Ousanas slapped him atop the head.

  “Fool boy! Greatest hunter in world is lioness somewhere in savanna. Hope you never meet her! You contemplate error from inside her belly.”

  “And you, Garmat?” asked Antonina. “Were you also a great hunter?”

  Garmat waved his hands deprecatingly. “By no means, by no means. I was-how shall I put it? Let us say that the Axumites were delighted to select me. At one stroke, they gained a dawazz and eliminated the most annoying bandit chieftain in the Hadrawmat.” He shrugged again. “I had gotten rather tired of the endless round of forays and retreats. The thought of a stable position was appealing. And-”

  He hesitated, sizing up the two Romans before him. “And,” he continued, “I always rather liked my father’s people. Whoever my father was, I was always sure he was Ethiopian.”


  For a moment, the adviser’s face grew hard. “I was raised Arab, and have never forgotten that half of my heritage. A great people, the Arabs, in many ways. But-they were very hard on my mother. Mocked her, and abused her, for no reason than that she found men attractive.”

  He looked away, scanning the milling crowd in the reception hall.

  “She was a good mother. Very good. Once I became powerful, of course, the abuse stopped. But she was never truly respected. Not properly. So-I took her with me to Axum, where customs are different.”

  “How are they different?” asked Antonina.

  Again, the appraising stare. Longer, this time. Belisarius knew that an important decision was being made.

  “Let us simply say, Antonina, that among the Axumites there would be no whispering about powerful women with questionable pasts. As there is even here, among sophisticated Greeks.”

  Antonina grew still. Garmat’s smile grew twisted. “Nor would there be any basis for such whispering, among the Ethiopians. Prostitution is unknown among them-except in the port of Adulis, where it is only practiced upon foreign seamen. Who are mocked, thereafter, for paying good money for what they could have had for nothing. Nothing, that is, except charm and wit and good conversation.”

  Ousanas spoke, grimacing fiercely. “A promiscuous folk, the Axumites. Is well known! I was shocked, when first heard the news, in my far distant little village in south. My own folk very moral people, of course.” His face grew lugubrious. “Oh, yes! Was shocked at such news! Immediately went to see for myself, that I might lay to rest wicked rumors.” The huge grin returned. “Alas, rumors proved true. I would have fled immediately, of course, but by the time I learned-”

  “The day you arrived,” grunted one of the soldiers.

  “- was too late. Had already been tested for the dawazz. What could I do?”

  Antonina and Belisarius laughed. Garmat spread his hands.

  “You see? Even our priests, I’m afraid, are lax by your standards. But we are happy with our customs. Even the negusa nagast does not fret himself overmuch concerning the paternity of his sons. What does their blood matter, anyway? Only the approval of the sarawit matters, in the end.”