Eric Flint - An Oblique Approach

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.