An oblique approach b-1

by David Drake

  Belisarius shook his head.

  The slave continued. “Well, I can teach you either, or both. For practical matters I suggest Devanagari. Most of the major northern tongues are written in that script, including Hindi and Marathi. If you wish to write Gujarati you will have to learn a different script, which I can teach you. All of the principal southern languages have their own script as well. Of those I am proficient only in Tamil and Telugu.” The slave shrugged. “Beyond that, I am literate in Pallavi and Greek.”

  “Good. I will wish to learn Hindi as well. Perhaps others, at a later time.”

  There was a questioning look in the slave’s eyes, with an undertone of apprehension. Belisarius understood immediately.

  “I will not fault you if I find the task difficult. But I think you will be surprised at how good a student I will be.”

  He paused for a moment, making a difficult decision. But not long, for the decision was inevitable, given his character. The slave would know too much, by the time Belisarius was done with him. Some other man would have solved the problem in the simplest way possible. But Belisarius’ ruthlessness was that of a general, not a murderer.

  “I will take you back to Rome with me, when I leave India. There, if you have served me faithfully, I will manumit you. And give you what funds you require to start a new life. You will have no difficulty, if your literary talents are as you have described. There are any number of Greek traders who would be glad to employ you.” Another thought came to him. “For that matter, there is a bishop who might find you useful. He is a kind man, and would make an excellent employer.”

  The slave eyed him, making his own estimations. But not long, for he was in no position to choose.

  “As you wish,” he said.

  “What is your name?”

  The slave opened his mouth, closed it. A bitter little twist came to his lips. “Call me ’slave,’ ” he said. “The name is good enough.”

  Belisarius laughed. “Truly, a proud folk!”

  He smiled down at the slave. “I once had a Maratha slave, in a different-long ago. He, too, would not tell me his name, but would only answer to ’slave.’ ”

  The impulse was overwhelming. The special dagger he did not have on him, of course. It was stowed away in his baggage. But Belisarius always carried a dagger on his sword belt. He drew the weapon. It was not as excellent a dagger as the other, but it was still quite finely made.

  A quick, practiced flip of the wrist nestled the blade in his palm. He proffered the dagger to the slave, hilt-first.

  “Take it,” he commanded.

  The slave’s eyes widened.

  “Take it,” he repeated. His own lips twisted crookedly.

  “Just so,” he murmured, in a voice so low that only the slave could hear, “should men dance in the eyes of God.”

  The slave reached out his hand, drew it back. Then spoke, this time in fluent Greek.

  “It is illegal for slaves to possess weapons. The penalty is death.”

  The cataphracts, hearing the slave’s words, bridled. They thought their general was crazy, of course-handing a dagger to a slave! — but, still, he was the general.

  “And just which sorry lot of Indian soldiers do you think is going to make the arrest?” demanded Valentinian. Anastasius glared about the teeming street. Fortunately, there were no Malwa soldiery within sight.

  The slave stared at the two cataphracts. Then, suddenly, he laughed.

  “Truly, you Romans are mad!” His face broke into a smile. He looked at Belisarius, and shook his head.

  “Keep the dagger, master. There is no need for this gesture.”

  A quick, approving glance at the cataphracts. “And, while I have no doubt your men would cheerfully hack down a squad of Malwa dogs, I do not think you need the awkwardness of the situation. If they saw me carrying the dagger, they would try to arrest me. The Malwa are very strict on this matter, especially with Maratha slaves.”

  Belisarius scratched his chin. “You have a point,” he admitted. He slid the dagger back into the sheath.

  “Walk with me, if you would,” he said to the slave. “If you will not tell me your name, you must at least tell me of your life.”

  By the end of that day, the slave was comfortably ensconced in the room which Belisarius shared with Garmat. The room was small, true, and he occupied only a pallet in a corner. But the linens were clean-as was the slave himself. He had enjoyed his first real bath since his enslavement. Belisarius had insisted, overriding the scandalized protest of the hostel owner.

  That night, the slave began his duties, instructing the general in the written form of Marathi. As Belisarius had predicted, the slave was amazed at how rapidly his new master learned his lessons.

  But that was not the only astonishing thing, to the slave, about his new master and his companions. Three other things puzzled him as well.

  First, the soldiers.

  Like most Maratha men, the slave was no stranger to warfare. Though not a kshatriya, he himself had fought in battles, as a youth. Had been rather an accomplished archer, in fact. So he was not inexperienced in these matters. Within a day, he decided that he had probably never encountered such a lethal crew as the Roman cataphracts and the black soldiers-the sarwen, as they called themselves.

  Yet, quite unlike most warriors he had encountered in the past-certainly Malwa warriors-they were strangely free of the casual, unthinking brutality with which most such men conducted themselves toward their inferiors. They were not rude or impolite toward him, even though he was a slave. And it was quite obvious that the women who shared their quarters were neither afraid of them, nor timid in their presence. The soldiers even seemed to enjoy their badinage with the women, and the teasing.

  Second, the prince.

  Rarely had the slave seen a nobleman work his lustful way through such an unending stream of young women. And he had never seen one who did it with such apparent lack of pleasure.

  It was odd. Very odd. At first, the slave interpreted the glum look on the prince’s face, as he ushered yet another young woman out of his palatial suite, to be dissatisfaction with her talents. But then, observing the glee with which the young women counted their money as they left, he decided otherwise.

  That theory discarded, he interpreted the glum look on the prince’s face as the result of dissatisfaction with his own talents. An impotent man, perhaps, desperately trying to find a woman who could arouse him. But then, observing the exhaustion with which the departing girls gleefully counted their money, he decided otherwise.

  Odd. Very odd.

  Finally, there was the incident with the new Maratha girl. The slave concubine who was purchased for the prince by his-retainer? (They called him the dawazz-bizarre man!)

  This incident happened two weeks or so after the slave came into Belisarius’ service. He and Belisarius had been seated in the general’s quarters, practicing Devanagari. They were alone, for Garmat was spending the evening with the Ethiopian soldiers.

  The prince had suddenly burst through the door to the room. Uninvited, and without so much as a knock on the door. That was in itself unusual. The slave had learned that the prince, for all his morose mien, was not discourteous.

  The prince had come to stand before the general, glaring down at him.

  “I will not do it,” he said, softly but quite forcefully. “I will act like a breeding stud for you, Belisarius, but I will not do this.”

  Belisarius, as usual, maintained his expressionless composure. But the slave had come to know him well enough to realize that the general was quite taken aback.

  “What are you talking about?”

  The prince-Eon was his name-glared even more furiously.

  “Do not pretend you had nothing to do with it!”

  A new voice spoke, from the door. The voice of the dawazz.

  “He had nothing to do with it, Eon. He does not even know of her. I brought her straight to your suite from the slave pens.”

/>   The dawazz glanced at Belisarius.

  “It is true, the general asked me to keep an eye out for such an opportunity. But he did not ask for this.”

  The dawazz then glanced at the slave. Meaningfully.

  “I shall leave, if you desire,” said the slave, beginning to rise.

  “Stay,” commanded Belisarius. The general did not even look at him. His eyes were riveted on the dawazz.

  The dawazz shrugged.

  “She’s perfect, Belisarius. Exactly what you hoped for. Not only from the palace, but from the girl’s own retinue. Except-” The black man grimaced. “I did not realize until-I thought she was just-”

  Belisarius rose. “Show me.”

  Angrily, Eon charged through the door. On his way out, he transferred the glare to his dawazz. The dawazz sighed and exited after him. Belisarius began to follow, then turned in the doorway. It was obvious to the slave, from the way his master was staring at him, that the general was making a decision. And it was just as obvious that the decision-whatever it was-involved the slave himself.

  As usual, his new master did not linger.

  “Come,” he commanded.

  The slave followed Belisarius into the prince’s suite. By now, the commotion had aroused the attention of all the members of his master’s party. The cataphracts and the sarwen were standing in the corridor of the hostel which linked all of their rooms. They were unarmored-almost completely undressed, in the case of the cataphracts-but they were all bearing weapons. Even the young cataphract, the sick one, was there. The Kushan and Maratha women who shared the soldiers’ quarters were clustered behind them, peering over their shoulders. Garmat eased his way past the small crowd and went into the prince’s suite. The slave followed him.

  He found Belisarius, Eon, the dawazz, and Garmat standing around the huge bed in the prince’s sleeping chamber, staring down at the figure who lay upon it.

  The slave recognized the girl as Maratha. For an instant, he was consumed with an immediate rage-until he realized that the prince was not responsible. The bruises and half-healed lacerations on the girl’s body had not been recently caused. And the dazed, vacant expression on her face was the product of protracted horror.

  “I will not do this!” shouted the prince.

  Belisarius shook his head. Eon snorted, but his glare faded somewhat. Hesitantly, the prince stretched out his hand. The girl on the bed moaned, flinched, drew herself up into an even tighter fetal curl.

  “Don’t touch her,” said Belisarius.

  From the door to the chamber, Valentinian’s voice came.

  “Mary, Mother of God.”

  The slave looked back at the cataphract. As before, he was struck by Valentinian’s appearance. Probably the most evil-looking man the slave had ever seen. Especially now, with his expression filled with cold, experienced disgust.

  The cataphract turned his head and spoke over his shoulder:

  “Anastasius! Get the women.”

  Valentinian turned back.

  “Move away from the bed,” he commanded. “All of you. Now.”

  It did not seem strange to the slave, at the time, that all those present instantly obeyed their subordinate. Later, after he thought it over, it still did not seem strange. The most evil-looking man in the world, perhaps. Certainly at that moment.

  Very soon thereafter, Anastasius entered the room, followed by the young cataphract and the half dozen young women. When the new arrivals saw the girl on the bed, they reacted differently. Anastasius’ face-which looked like a slab of granite at the best of times-grew even harder. The women gasped, cast quick frightened glances at the men in the room, and drew back. Menander gaped, confused, and began moving forward. He was instantly restrained by Anastasius’ huge hand.

  “Don’t,” rumbled the giant cataphract.

  “What’s wrong with her?” whispered Menander. It was not the bruises which confused him, the slave knew. It was the near-insane expression on her face.

  Anastasius and Valentinian exchanged glances.

  “I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be that innocent,” muttered Valentinian.

  Anastasius took a breath. “You’ve never been in a town that’s been sacked, have you?”

  Menander shook his head.

  “Well, if and when you do, you’ll see plenty of this. And worse.”

  The young cataphract, already pale from his illness, grew slightly paler as comprehension dawned. Anastasius motioned to the women, shooing them forward.

  “Help the girl,” he said, in his thick, broken Kushan. “Comfort her.”

  A moment later, Belisarius was issuing instructions to the girls in fluent, unaccented Kushan and Marathi. The girls hastened to do as he bade them. They were still casting reproachful glances at the soldiers in the room, but it was obvious to the slave that the reproach was generic, not specific.

  Very odd soldiers, indeed.

  But, he knew, not unique. He had not recognized the phenomenon at first, for he was unaccustomed to the informal Roman ways. But he had encountered such soldiers before, on occasion. Not often. Only Maratha and Rajput kshatriya possessed that code of honor. Men who would not stoop to murder, rape, and mindless mayhem, for they were the deadliest killers in creation. Such gross and common criminality was beneath their dignity.

  The Malwa kshatriya had little of that code; the Ye-tai beasts derided them for what little they still possessed. And the common soldiers who made up the great mass of the Malwa army had none of it at all. Jackals, once discipline was loosened.

  The slave shuddered, remembering the sack of his own town.

  He would never see his beloved family again, but he knew their fate. His wife would be a drudge somewhere, slaving in the kitchen of a Malwa lord or merchant. His son would be a laborer, in the fields or in the mines. And his two daughters He glanced at the three Maratha women who were now on the bed, surrounding the half-crazed girl with female touches, female sounds and female scents. Three young slave girls, owned by a whoremaster.

  He looked away, holding back a sob. Then forced himself to look back at the girl on the bed. There was a horrible comfort to be found in the sight. That much, at least, his wife and daughters had been spared. Spared, because by good fortune their own house had been seized by Rajputs during the sack, not Ye-tai or common soldiers. A Rajput cavalry troop, commanded by a young Rajput lord. A cold man, that lord; arrogant and haughty as only a Rajput kshatriya could be. The Rajputs had stripped their home of everything of value, down to the linen. Had then eaten all the food, and drank all the wine. But when the inevitable time came, and the cavalrymen began eyeing their captured women, the Rajput officer had simply said: “No.”

  Coldly, arrogantly, haughtily. His men had obeyed. Had not even grumbled. They were not kshatriya themselves, simply commoners. But they possessed their own humble share of Rajput discipline, and Rajput pride, and Rajputana’s ancient glory.

  He was brought back to the present by his master’s voice. Belisarius, he realized, was ordering all of the men out of the room.

  Once in the corridor, Belisarius began digging into his purse. Garmat interrupted.

  “I will pay for it, Belisarius. We both know your funds are meager.”

  The Ethiopian gave instructions to one of the sarwen. The black soldier disappeared, searching for the hostel proprietor. Shortly thereafter, he reappeared, with the proprietor in tow. The man was smiling, as well he might be. Yet another room for his guests! By all means!

  Within an hour, the injured girl had been moved into the new room. It was a small room adjoining Eon’s suite, but separated from the suite by a door. Belisarius instructed the women to make sure that one of them was with her at all times. And, under no conditions, to allow any men into the room unless he said otherwise.

  The girls glanced hesitantly at the soldiers. Their thoughts were obvious: And just how, exactly, does the idiot general expect us to prevent men like this from going anywhere they choose?

&nbs
p; Belisarius shook his head. “They will not try to enter, I assure you.”

  That matter taken care of, for the moment, Belisarius led all of the men into his own room. The slave followed. Uncertainly, hesitantly, and with great reluctance.

  Once everyone had taken a seat-those who could, that is, the room was small-Belisarius sighed and stated:

  “This is going to play hell with our plans.”

  As one, just as the slave had feared, every man there looked at him. Their thoughts were also obvious:

  Dead men tell no tales.

  Belisarius smiled crookedly. “No,” he said. “I’m keeping him with me, all the way back to Rome. The problem is with the girls. The Malwa will certainly question them, after we leave Bharakuccha. Until now, I didn’t care. But the way we are treating this new girl will not gibe with the image that we’ve been carefully forging. Venandakatra’s no fool. He’ll smell something wrong.”

  Garmat coughed. Belisarius cocked his eye.

  “Actually, Belisarius, I’m afraid the problem existed already. Even before the new girl arrived.” Another cough. “Because of you, actually.”

  “Me?” demanded the general. “How so?”

  Garmat sighed, then threw up his hands. “I share this room with you, General! I’m not blind.”

  He tugged on his beard.

  “Should your wife ever inquire, I will be able to assure her that you were astonishingly faithful during your trip to India, even when lovely young women were coming to your room every night. But I don’t think Venandakatra will find that reassuring. Not after you’ve spent so much time and effort trying to convince him you were almost as debauched as he is.”

  Belisarius’ face was stony. The muscles along his jaw were tight.

  “Ha!” exclaimed Eon. “So! I am required to mount every female shoved into my room. I am required to act the part of a breeding bull. But the general whose plan this is-”

  The dawazz slapped him atop his head. The slave tried not to goggle. He did not think he would ever get accustomed to that. No Indian prince had ever been treated that way by a slave.

  “Be quiet, Eon! You are not married. And stop complaining. I’m tired of it.”