An oblique approach b-1

by David Drake

  Next-still out of sight from where they rode-came another troop of Rajput cavalry. Perhaps a hundred. Behind them came a larger contingent of Ye-tai cavalry.

  The next stage of the caravan was within sight, and impossible to miss. Twenty war elephants, their huge heads and bodies protected by iron-reinforced leather armor. Each elephant was guided by a mahout and bore a howdah containing four Malwa kshatriya. The Malwa soldiers were not carrying rocket troughs, of course. Those weapons would panic the great pachyderms. Instead, they were armed with bows and those odd little flasks which Belisarius had pronounced to be grenades. The smaller variety of those grenades were bound to arrows. The larger variety, Belisarius explained, were designed to be hurled by hand.

  Behind the troop of war elephants came Venandakatra himself, and his entourage of priests and mahamimamsa. The Mahaveda and the torturers rode atop elephants, four to a howdah. Occasionally, Venandakatra would do likewise. For the most part, however, the great lord chose to ride in a special palanquin. The vehicle was large and luxurious, borne by eight giant slaves. The palanquin was surrounded by a little mob of servants walking alongside. Some of the servants toted jugs of water and wine; others, platters of food; still others carried whisks to shoo away the ever present flies. Nothing was lacking for Venandakatra’s comfort.

  For the lord’s nightly comfort, eight of his concubines rode in howdahs on two elephants, which followed Venandakatra’s palanquin. The caravan would always halt at sunset and set up camp. Venandakatra’s tent-if such a modest term could be used to describe his elaborate suite of pavilions-was always set up before he arrived. The lord possessed two such “tents.” The one not being used was sent ahead, guarded by yet another troop of Rajput cavalry, to be prepared for the following night’s sojourn.

  The stage of the caravan which followed Venandakatra and his entourage was composed of Malwa infantry. No less than a thousand soldiers. The great number of them, presumably, was to compensate for their mediocre quality. These were not elite forces, simply a run-of-the-mill detachment from the huge mass of the Malwa army. The troops themselves were not Malwa, but a collection of men from various of the subject peoples. The officers were primarily Malwa, but not kshatriya.

  Belisarius had been more interested in the infantry than in the elite cavalry units. The Ye-tai he understood, and, after some examination, the Rajput as well. They were impressive, to be sure. But Belisarius was a Roman, and the Romans had centuries of experience dealing with Persian cavalry.

  But Belisarius thought the future of war lay with the infantry, and so he subjected the Malwa infantry to his closest scrutiny. It did not take him long to arrive at a general assessment.

  Garmat expressed the sentiment aloud.

  “That’s as sorry a bunch of foot soldiers as I’ve ever seen,” sneered the Ethiopian. “Look at them!”

  Belisarius smiled, leaned over his saddle, and whispered:

  “What tipped you off? Was it the rust on the spear blades? Or the rust on the armor?”

  “Is that crap armor?” demanded Garmat. “There’s more metal on my belt buckle!”

  “Or was it the slouching posture? The hang-dog expressions? The shuffling footsteps?”

  “My daughter’s footsteps were more assured when she was two,” snorted the Ethiopian. “The sarawit would eat these clowns for breakfast.”

  Belisarius straightened back up in his saddle. The smile left his face.

  “True. So would any good unit of Roman infantry. But let’s not get too cocky, Garmat. For all my speeches about quality outdoing quantity, numbers do count. There must be a horde of these foot soldiers. If the Malwa can figure out the logistics, they’ll be able to flood the West. And they still have their special weapons, and the Ye-tai and the Rajput. Lots of Ye-tai and Rajput, from what I can tell.”

  Garmat grimaced, but said nothing.

  Belisarius turned and looked toward the rear of the caravan. The Romans and Axumites were located right after the infantry. They were at the very end of the military portion of the procession. Following them came the enormous tail of the beast.

  “And they’ve got a long ways to go to figure out proper logistics,” he muttered, “if this is anything to go by.”

  Garmat followed his eyes.

  “This is not normal?” he asked.

  “No, Garmat, this is not normal. Not even the sloppiest Roman army has a supply train like this one. It’s absurd!”

  Garmat found it hard not to laugh aloud. At that moment, the general’s normally expressionless face was twisted into a positively Homeric scowl.

  “Hell hath no fury like a craftsman scorned,” he muttered.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, Belisarius, nothing. I would point out to you, however, that much of the chaos behind us is due to civilians and camp followers.”

  Belisarius was not mollified.

  “So what? Every army faces that problem! You think camp followers don’t attach themselves to every Roman army that marches anywhere? You name it, they’ll be there: merchants, food and drink purveyors, pimps and whores, slave traders, loot liquidators, the lot. Not to mention a horde of people who just want to travel along the same route and take advantage of the protection offered.”

  “And how do you deal with it? Drive them off?”

  “Bah!” Belisarius made a curt gesture. “That’s impossible. Camp followers are like flies.” He swiped at a fly buzzing around his face. “No, Garmat, there’s no point to that. Instead, you do the opposite. Incorporate them into the army directly. Put them under discipline. Train them!”

  Garmat’s eyes widened. “Train merchants and slave traders? Pimps and whores?”

  Belisarius grinned. “It’s not hard, Garmat. Not, at least, once you get over the initial hump. There’s a trade-off, you see. In return for following the rules, the camp followers get a recognized and assured place in the army. Keeps out competitors.”

  The general scratched his chin. “It occurs to me, however, that this rampant disorder can serve our purpose. There is one little problem in our plan that’s been gnawing at me-”

  He looked down at Ousanas, striding alongside.

  “You are a miserable slave, are you not?”

  The dawazz stooped and bent his head in a flamboyant gesture of cringing submissiveness. The pose went poorly with the great stabbing spear in his hand.

  “Well, I am shocked,” grumbled Belisarius. “Absolutely shocked to see you lolling about without a care in the world. In my country, miserable slaves keep themselves busy.”

  Ousanas cocked an eye upward. The pose was now threadbare.

  “Oh, yes,” continued Belisarius, “very busy. Scurrying about all over the place-buying provisions, haggling over supplies, that sort of thing.” He scowled. “All a pose, of course. The lazy buggers are actually just keeping out of their master’s sight so they can lolligag. Out of everybody’s sight, in fact. Nobody ever sees a slave where he’s supposed to be. You get used to it.”

  Ousanas looked back at the motley horde of camp followers.

  “Ah,” he said. “Comprehension dawns. Although the great general might-just now and again-condescend to plain speaking. You want me to make myself scarce, so that when the time comes when I disappear altogether, no spy will even notice my absence.”

  Belisarius smiled. “You have captured the Platonic Form of my concept.”

  A moment later, Ousanas was drifting away, the very image of a dispirited, lackadaisical slave. Belisarius, watching, was struck by the uncanny manner of his movements. Ousanas was the only man the general had ever known who could shuffle silently.

  A gleeful feminine squeal coming from ahead brought his attention forward. Belisarius and Garmat looked up at the howdah riding on the elephant in front of them. Curtains made it impossible to see within.

  “At least he’s stopped complaining,” growled Belisarius.

  Garmat shook his head. “You are being unfair, General. He is not promiscuou
s by nature. Not, at least, by the standards of royalty.” The adviser shrugged. “True, he is a prince, and a handsome and charming boy in his own right. He has never lacked the opportunity for copulation, and certainly has no aversion to the sport. But-he likes women, you see, and enjoys their conversation and their company. So he much prefers a more settled situation.”

  After a moment, Belisarius smiled wryly. “Well, I can hardly disapprove of that. My own temperament, as it happens.” He gestured toward the howdah. “He seems to have settled in here.”

  Garmat nodded. “He and Tarabai seem to be growing quite fond of each other. I notice that the other Maratha girls have stopped sharing his howdah lately, at night, except-”

  He fell silent, glancing around quickly. There were no possible spies within hearing range.

  “How is she doing?” asked Belisarius. “Have you heard? For obvious reasons, I stay away from the howdah.”

  “I have not been inside myself. Eon says she has come to accept his presence, but he is not sure how she would react to another man. She no longer flinches from him, but she still doesn’t speak-not even to Tarabai. She is eating well, finally. Her physical wounds are all healed. Eon says he is always careful to keep away from her, as far as possible within the confines of the howdah. He thinks she no longer feels threatened by him. If for no other reason than-”

  Another squeal came from the howdah.

  “-Tarabai has his erotic impulses well under control,” chuckled Belisarius.

  The general pointed to the mahout guiding the elephant.

  “I trust Ezana is not disgruntled? Or Wahsi? Or Ousanas, for that matter?”

  Garmat laughed. “Why should they be? True, they no longer enjoy Tarabai’s company, but there are still the other two Maratha women. And the Kushan girls have been willing to spread their affections, whenever your cataphracts are too tired to pester them. Besides, they are all soldiers. The best of soldiers. Not given to stupid jealousies, and well aware that we are following a battle plan.”

  Another squeal. A low, masculine groan.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Belisarius grinned. Then:

  “Well, Eon’s certainly carried out his part in the plan. He was absolutely perfect, the first day of the trip.”

  “Wasn’t he marvelous?” agreed Garmat. “I thought Venandakatra was going to die of apoplexy, right there on the spot.”

  The adviser patted his mount affectionately. “Poor Venandakatra. Here he presents us with the finest horses available, and the prince can’t stop whining that he needs a howdah, with plump cushions for his royal fanny.”

  “A very large elephant to carry it,” said Belisarius, laughing, “one strong enough to bear up under the prince’s humping.”

  Garmat was laughing himself, now. “And then-did you see the look on Venandakatra’s face after-”

  “-his petty plot backfired?” Belisarius practically howled. “Priceless! What a complete idiot! He presents the largest, most unruly elephant he can find-”

  “-to Africans!”

  Belisarius and Garmat fell silent, savoring the memory.

  “ This is your largest elephant?” Ezana had queried. “This midget? ”

  “Look at those puny ears,” mourned Wahsi. “Maybe he’s still a baby.”

  “Probably not elephant at all,” pronounced Ousanas. “Maybe him just fat, funny-looking gnu.”

  Venandakatra’s glare had been part fury, part disbelief. The fury had remained. The disbelief had vanished, after Ezana and Wahsi rapidly demonstrated their skills as mahouts. After the sarwen reminisced over various Axumite military campaigns, in which African elephants figured prominently. After Ousanas extolled the virtues of the African elephant, not forgetting to develop his point by way of contrast with the Indian elephant. So-called elephant. But probably not elephant. Him probably just big tapir, with delusions of grandeur.

  After they stopped laughing, Garmat remarked:

  “We may have overdone it, actually. I notice that Venandakatra hasn’t invited us to share his dinner since this trip began.”

  “He will,” said Belisarius confidently. “It’s only been two weeks since we left Bharakuccha. At the rate this-this matronly promenade-is going, we’ll be two months getting to his ’modest country estate.’ ” He snorted. “If I was one of those surveyors, I’d have died of boredom by now. I doubt we’re averaging more than ten miles a day. At best.”

  “You are so sure, my friend? Your stratagem has still not gelled.”

  “He will. In another two weeks or so, I estimate. Your average megalomaniac, of course, would only need a week to get over a petty snit. But even Venandakatra won’t take much more than a month. Whatever else he is, the man is not stupid, and I’ve given him enough hints. He’s developed his own plan, by now, which also hasn’t gelled. It can’t, until he talks to us further. To me, I should say. So-yes. Two weeks.”

  And, sure enough, it was thirteen days later that the courier arrived from Venandakatra’s pavilion, shortly after the caravan had halted for the night. Bearing a message from the great lord himself, written in perfect Greek, politely inviting Belisarius to join him for his “modest evening meal.”

  “I note that Eon and I are not invited,” remarked Garmat. The old adviser stared at Belisarius, and then bowed.

  “I salute you, Belisarius. A great general, indeed. Until this moment, I confess, I was somewhat skeptical your plan would work.”

  Belisarius shrugged. “Let’s not assume anything. As my old teacher Maurice always reminds me: ’Never expect the enemy to do what you expect him to.’ ”

  Garmat shook his head. “Excellent advice. But it does not encompass all military wisdom. Every now and then, you know, the enemy does do what you expect him to. Then you must be prepared to strike ruthlessly.”

  “Exactly what I keep telling Maurice!” said Belisarius gaily. He tossed the message into the camp fire which Ousanas was just starting. The dawazz straightened, looked over.

  “Time?” he asked. The grin began to spread.

  Again, Belisarius shrugged. “We won’t know for a bit. But I think so, yes. Are you ready?”

  Like the great Pharos at Alexandria, that grin in the night.

  Within three hours of his arrival at Venandakatra’s pavilion, Belisarius was certain. For a moment, he considered some way of signaling Ousanas, but then dismissed the thought. A pointless worry, that, like fretting over how to signal prey to a crouching lion.

  The general had been almost certain within two hours, actually. After the usual meaningless amenities during the meal, the wine was poured, and Venandakatra had immediately launched into the subject of Eon’s amatory exploits. “Trying to pry out secrets,” he’d said, one gay blade to another. But it was soon obvious there were no secrets he didn’t know. Except one, which he knew, but misinterpreted exactly as Belisarius had thought he would.

  As Ousanas said: Catch the prey by reading its soul.

  “Ah, that explains it,” said Venandakatra. He giggled. “I had wondered why he chose only Maratha bitches to accompany him on this trip. After” — another giggle- “sampling all the many Indian varieties in Bharakuccha.”

  Belisarius could not manage a giggle, but he thought his coarse guffaw was quite good enough.

  “It’s the truth. He loves conquered women. The more recently conquered, the better. They’re the most submissive, you see, and that’s his taste.” Another guffaw, with a drooling trickle of wine down his chin thrown in for good measure. “Why, his soldiers told me that when they conquered Hymria, the kid-he was only seventeen, mind you-had an entire-”

  Here followed an utterly implausible tale, to any but Venandakatra. Implausible, at least, in its gross brutality; its portrayal of Eon’s stamina was remotely conceivable, in light of his performance in Bharakuccha. Which Venandakatra obviously knew, in detail. As Belisarius had foreseen, the Malwa lord’s spies had interrogated the women who shared the prince’s bed. All except the
Maratha women, of course.

  Still, Venandakatra almost smelled out the falsehood. Almost.

  “It’s odd, though,” the Vile One remarked casually, after he stopped cackling over the story, “but I didn’t get the impression-I know nothing myself, you understand, but rumors concerning foreigners always spread-that any of the women who passed through his chambers had been particularly badly beaten. Except by his cock!”

  Another round of giggles and guffaws.

  Belisarius shrugged. “Well, as I understand it from his adviser, the lad felt under certain constraints. He is in a foreign land.” The general waved his hand airily. “There are laws, after all.”

  He gulped down some more wine.

  “So,” he burped, “the boy finally got frustrated and ordered his men to find him some outright slaves.” Another burp. “Slaves can be treated anyway their master chooses, in any country.”

  (That was a lie. It was not true in most civilized realms of Belisarius’ acquaintance, not in modern times. It was certainly not true under Roman law. But he did not think that Venandakatra would know otherwise. Slaves, and their legal rights, were far beneath the great lord’s contempt. In any country-certainly in his own.)

  “True, true.” A sly, leering glance. “Rumor has it, in fact, that one of his Maratha slaves fell afoul of her new master.”

  Belisarius controlled his emotions, and the expression on his face. It was not difficult to control his disgust, or his contempt. He had plenty of experience doing that, after all these weeks-months! — in Venandakatra’s company. But he had a difficult time controlling his shame.

  For a moment, his eyes wandered, scanning the rich tapestries which covered the silk walls of the pavilion. His gaze settled on the candelabra resting at the center of the table. For all its golden glitter, and the superb craftsmanship of the design, he thought the piece was utterly grotesque. A depiction of some dancing god, leering, priap erect, with candles rising from the silver skulls cupped in the deity’s four hands.