Eric Flint - An Oblique Approach

For the next week, Belisarius and Garmat did just that: explore Bharakuccha. And, in the case of Belisarius, perfect his knowledge of Kushan and Marathi.

Most of this latter task, however, was done at night, in his quarters at the hostel. Each night, one of the Kushan or Maratha girls was assigned to him. The girls were surprised to discover that the general was not interested in their normal services. He simply wanted to talk. It was a strange fetish, but not unheard of. Although, usually, the conversation of such customers did not range across the breadth of Indian society, culture, habits, mores, and history.

But the girls did not complain. It was easy duty, and the general was quite a pleasant man. An altogether better situation than the Kushan girls were accustomed to. And it was vastly superior for the Maratha women, who were outright slaves in their own brothel.

By the end of their first week in Bharakuccha, therefore, Belisarius could understand spoken Kushan and Marathi perfectly, and could speak it himself quite well. The women were astonished, in fact, at his progress.

A problem remained, however, which Belisarius had not anticipated. He also needed to be able to write Marathi, and none of the Maratha women were literate. Over the following three days, he made inquiries in various quarters of the city. Eventually—reluctantly—he came to the realization that there was only one course available to him.

Fortunately, in light of his diminishing funds, the price was not high. Maratha slaves were very cheap. Since the conquest of Andhra, the market had been flooded with them. Supply was thus high, and demand was very low. Marathas, the slave trader explained to him bitterly, were notoriously difficult.

"At least you had the sense not to buy a young one," he added, gesturing to the stooped, middle-aged slave Belisarius had just purchased. "The young ones can be dangerous, even the girls."

The general examined his new slave. His study was brief and perfunctory, however, for the slave master's selling chamber was poorly lit by a single small oil lamp. There were no windows to let in sunlight. Or air—the stink of human effluvium coming from the nearby slave pens was nauseating.

The man was perhaps fifty years of age, Belisarius estimated. Short, slender, gray-haired. His eyes were so deep a brown as to be almost black—what little Belisarius had seen of them. The slave had kept his eyes downcast, except for one brief glance at his new owner.

He began to leave, gesturing for the slave to follow.

"You have not manacled him!" protested the slave trader.

Belisarius ignored him. Back on the street, Anastasius and Valentinian fell in at the general's side. Belisarius paused for a moment, breathing deeply, cleaning the stench from his nostrils and lungs. The powerful aromas of teeming Bharakuccha came with those breaths, of course, but they were the scents of life—cooking oils and spices, above all—not the miasma of despair.

The general began striding down the street back toward the hostel. Valentinian and Anastasius marched on either side. Their weapons were not drawn, but the two veterans never ceased scanning the street and side alleys, alert for danger. Those keen eyes kept watch on the general's newly acquired slave as well, following them a few steps behind.

Once they were beyond sight of the slave pens, Belisarius stopped and turned back, still flanked by his cataphracts. The slave stopped also, but did not raise his eyes from the ground. The small knot of armored men standing still were like a boulder in a stream. The endless flow of people in the crowded street broke around them without a pause. Only a few of those people cast so much as a glance at the bizarre foreigners in their midst, standing in a semicircle facing a half-naked slave. Curiosity was not a healthy trait in Malwa-occupied Bharakuccha.

"Look at me," commanded Belisarius.

The slave looked up, startled. He had not expected his new owner—an obvious foreigner—to speak Marathi.

"I will not shackle you, unless you give me reason to do so. I suggest you do not try to escape. It would be futile."

The slave examined the general, examined the cataphracts, looked back at the ground.

"Look at me," commanded Belisarius again.

Reluctantly, the slave obeyed.

"You are a skilled scribe, according to the slave trader."

The slave hesitated, then spoke. His voice was bitter.

"I was a skilled scribe. Now I am a slave who knows how to read and write."

Belisarius smiled. "I appreciate the distinction. I require your services. You must teach me to read and write Marathi." A thought came to him. "What other languages are you literate in?"

The slave frowned. "I am not sure—do you understand that the northern tongues can be written both in the classical Sanskrit and modern Devanagari script?"

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."