by David Drake
Belisarius chuckled. "Spoken like a true seaman! Or, I should say, like an adviser to a monarch whose power lies at sea."
The general arose from his couch and began pacing.
"But the Indians are not a sea power, Garmat. Not the Malwa, at least. They are almost exclusively a land power, and think in those terms."
He stopped his pacing and scratched his chin.
"There's one other weakness to your Axumite army, Garmat, which you didn't mention. I'm sure you didn't even think of it. But it's an inevitable weakness, flowing from your own description."
"And that is?"
"You have no real experience with logistics. Not, at least, on the scale where logistics dominate an entire campaign."
Garmat thought for a moment, then nodded.
"I suppose that's true. The largest force fielded by Axum in modern times was the army which we sent to conquer Yemen. Four sarawit—slightly over three thousand men. Not many, by the standards of Rome or Persia. Or India. And supplying them was not difficult, of course, because—"
"You are a naval power, and were conquering a coastal region. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to supply an army numbering in the tens of thousands, marching across a vast region far removed from any coast?"
Garmat began to speak, paused, shook his head.
"No, not really."
Belisarius chuckled.
"It is quite comical, for a Thracian general, to read the histories of Rome's wars which are written by Greek scholars. They almost invariably report armies numbering in the tens and hundreds of thousands. Especially barbarian armies."
He laughed outright.
"Barbarians! Not even Rome, with all its skill and experience, can field armies of that size. Not inland, at any rate. Much less can barbarians. And the reason, of course, is logistics. What's the point of marching a hundred thousand men to their death from starvation?"
He resumed his seat. "So—to the point. If you were the Malwa emperor, and were planning to conquer the West, how would you do it?"
Garmat stroked his beard. "I suppose—there is the route through Bactria—"
"Don't even think about it."
"Why not? It's the traditional route for invaders of India, after all. So why shouldn't the Indians return the compliment?"
"Because the Indians will be fielding a modern army. They are not barbarian nomads, who can haul everything with them—what little they have to haul in the first place. The Malwa are not seeking plunder, they are seeking conquest and permanent rule. It is not enough for them to march to the walls of Ctesiphon or Antioch or Constantinople and demand tribute. To conquer, they must conquer cities. And no barbarians have ever conquered a major fortified city, except by treachery."
"Alexander—"
Belisarius nodded. "Yes, I know. Alexander the Great also took that route, when he tried to conquer India. What of it? He failed in his purpose, you may recall. Not the least of the reasons being the exhaustion of his army after campaigning through those endless mountains. Which is why—and now we get to the point—he did not return that way."
Garmat frowned. "The coastal route? But that was an even greater disaster for the Macedonians, Belisarius!" He began to continue, then closed his mouth.
"Yes. Precisely. It was a disaster for the good and simple reason that Alexander did not understand the monsoons. But we do, today. And so do the Indians."
"Persia, through Mesopotamia. Then Rome."
"Yes. That is the Malwa plan. I am as certain of it as I am of my own name. I had suspected as much even before we arrived at Bharakuccha and saw the shipbuilding project. Now, after hearing your explanation of it, I am positive. That great fleet of giant ships is not designed for sea battles, Garmat. As you surmised, they are not really warships at all. They are the logistics train for a huge land campaign. The conquest of Persia, beginning in Mesopotamia. Taking advantage of the monsoons to supply an army through the Gulf of Persia, and the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers."
"Those rivers are not—"
"—are not particularly useful for an army marching upstream. Yes, I know. Unlike the Nile, where travel in either direction is always easy, because the current takes you north and the winds always blow south, the prevailing winds in Mesopotamia usually follow the current. The Tigris and Euphrates are easy to travel in that direction, to the south. But they are difficult to go upstream." He shrugged. "But you exaggerate the difficulty. They are still much—much—better logistics routes than hauling supplies overland. Trust me, Garmat. It can be done. I'm no seaman, but I'm quite experienced at using rivers. I can think of several ways I could haul huge amounts of supplies up the Mesopotamian rivers."
He arose. "So. Now we know."
"What do you plan to do?"
"For the moment, nothing. I need to think over the problem. But good strategies require good intelligence. This trip to India is already paying off."
Garmat arose also. "You do not intend to revisit the harbor?"
Belisarius shook his head. "There's no need. Instead, Garmat, I think we should spend the next few days simply wandering about the city. I want to get a feel for the attitude of the populace."
"The Malwa will think we are spying."
"So what? They expect us to. I want them to think we are simply spying. Instead of using our spying to conceal another purpose."
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, br
eathing 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."
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 fir
st, 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."
