An Oblique Approach

by David Drake

  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.

  He tore his eyes away from the thing and looked back at Venandakatra. He even managed a leer of his own.

  The memory still burned, of the time he had sent the hostel proprietor into the girl's room, on some trumped-up pretext. He had instructed the Maratha woman tending her to allow the proprietor to enter (which she had done, reluctantly—she was a slave, after all). But he hadn't warned Eon in advance, because he knew the prince would have barred the way.

  It worked, of course. The proprietor saw the girl, and judging from the contempt on his face as he left, knew what he saw. Or thought he did. Venandakatra obviously placed the interpretation I hoped for on it, after he had the man interrogated.

  But I thought the prince was going to attack me, afterward, when he found out. He would have, I think, if Ezana and Wahsi hadn't restrained him.

  It was even harder to control another emotion.

  God, how I've grown to love that boy. He didn't care in the least about his own injured royal pride, or what the hostel owner thought of him. Only that I'd caused the poor girl to be terrified again. May my son Photius grow up to be like him.

  But Belisarius was a general, a great general—a breed of men among whose qualities ruthlessness is never absent. And so he managed to keep the leer on his face. And another drooling trickle of wine down his chin, thrown in for good measure.

  Venandakatra refilled his cup personally. Unlike every other visit Belisarius had made, the Malwa lord had dismissed all the servants after the meal was finished.

  "I notice the prince does not seem to mind sharing his women with his own soldiers," commented Venandakatra. "Not what you normally expect from royalty."

  Belisarius belched. "I don't see why. It's not as if they were wives, or even concubines. The bitches are just whores and slaves." Another belch. "I share the Kushan sluts with my own soldiers, for that matter. I've done it often enough before, on campaign."

  Belisarius gave Venandakatra a knowing smirk—one experienced old soldier to another (which the Malwa lord certainly was not, but liked to pretend he was).

  "Helps keep your popularity with the troops, you know. The common touch. And there's always plenty to go around. Especially after sacking a town." The general's smirk became a savage grin. "God, how I love a sack. Sieges are pure shit, but afterward—oh, yes!"

  Venandakatra giggled. "So do I!" he cried.

  Vile One, indeed. I doubt he's ever come within bow range of a besieged city in his life. But I'm sure he was the first to line up afterward, selecting the prizes from the captured women.

  Again, Belisarius fought down his gorge. He hated sacks. Would do anything he possibly could to avoid one, short of losing a campaign. It was almost impossible to keep troops under control in a captured city after a hard-fought siege, except for elite units like his own cataphracts. There was nothing so horrible as a city being sacked. It was hell on earth, Satan's maw itself. The most brutal and bestial crimes of which men were capable were committed then. Committed with a gleeful savagery that would shame the very demons of the Pit.

  But he kept his gorge well under control. He was a general, a great general, whose ruthlessness always had a purpose. The edge to the blade, when it came time for the cutting.

  "You, on the other hand, seem to have a liking for Kushan women," remarked Venandakatra idly. "And your cataphracts also, I hear."

  Time for the cutting.

  "Oh God, yes!" cried Belisarius. "When I discovered there were Kushan whores in Bharakuccha, I sent Valentinian and Anastasius straight off to round up a few." Guffaw, guffaw, guffaw. "They raced like the wind, let me tell you—and that's something to see, with a man built like Anastasius!"

  Giggle. "I can imagine! He's the large one, isn't he?" Giggle.

  Belisarius waited. Timing was the key to a trap. Timing.

  He waited until the puzzled frown had almost taken shape on the Vile One's brow. Then remarked casually, "Most lascivious women in the world, Kushans. Most lascivious people, for that matter. The men even more than the women." He coughed on a gulp of wine. "Don't misunderstand!" he exclaimed, waving off a disreputable notion. "I'm not interested in men that way. But it's true, believe me. It's why I got rid of all my Kushan mercenaries. Good men in a battle, no question about it. But they're just too much of a bother. Can't keep their hands off any woman in the vicinity. Even started sniffing around my own wife!"

  The frown on the Vile One's brow thickened. The scaly wrinkles collected around his deep-set eyes.

  "Really?" he asked. "I wasn't aware you were acquainted with the folk."

  "Kushans? To the contrary. Find them all over the Roman Empire. Soldiers and whores, mostly. It's the only things they're good at. Fighting and fucking. Especially fucking."

  Venandakatra sipped at his wine, thoughtfully.

  "I had heard, now that you mention it, that you yourself spoke excellent Kushan." He shrugged. "I assumed it was just a false rumor, of course. There seemed no way you—"

  He fell away from completing the sentence. Venandakatra had enjoyed some wine, but he was not inebriated. (Quite unlike the Roman sot.) The Malwa lord realized that he was on the verge of revealing too much of his spying operations.

  You arrogant idiot, thought Belisarius, reading the sudden silence correctly. I always assumed you knew everything, and planned accordingly.

  Belisarius filled the silence, then, with a bevy of amusing tales, one after the other. The sort of tales with which one veteran lecher entertains another. A less egotistical man than Venandakatra might have wondered why the tales exclusively concerned Kushans. And might have wondered, especially, why so many of the tales concerned the sexual exploits of Kushan men.

  Oh, such exploits! Their unbridled lust. Their strangely seductive ways. Their uncanny ability to weedle open the legs of women—young women, especially. And virgins! Lambs to the slaughter, lambs to the slaughter. Didn't matter who they were, where they were, what they were. If the girl was a virgin, no Kushan could resist the challenge. And rise to it! Oh, yes! No men on earth were more skilled at defloration than Kushans. Especially the older men, the middle-aged veteran types. Uncanny, absolutely uncanny.

  Throughout the tales, Venandakatra said not a word. But he did not seem bored. No, not at all. Very attentive, in fact.

  Every good blade has two edges. Time for the backstroke.

  "Enough of that!" exclaimed the general. He held out his cup. "Would you be so good?"

  Venandakatra refilled the cup. Belisarius held it high.

  "But I'm being a poor guest. And you are much too modest a host. I hear rumors myself, you know, now and then. And I hear you have come into a particularly good piece of fortune." Here, a wild guffaw. "A great piece, if you'll pardon the expression. A royal piece!"

  He quaffed down the wine in a single gulp.

  "My congratulations!"

  Venandakatra struggled to maintain his own composure. Anger at the crude foreigner's insolent familiarity warred with pride in his new possession.

  Pride won, of course. Trap the prey by reading its soul.

  "So I have!" he exclaimed. "The Princess Shakuntala. Of the noblest blood, and a great beauty. The black-eyed pearl of the Satavahana, they call her."

  "You've not seen her yourself?"

  Venandakatra shook his head.

  "No. But I've heard excellent descriptions."

  Here, Venandakatra launched into his own lengthy recital, extolling the qualities of the Princess Shakuntala. As he saw them.

  Belisarius listened attentively. Partly, of course, for the
sake of his stratagem. But partly, also, because he was undergoing the strangest experience. Like a sort of mental—spiritual, it might be better to say—double vision. The general had never laid eyes on the girl in his life. But he had seen her once, in a vision, through the eyes of another man. A man as different from the one sitting across the table from him as day from night. As different as a panther from a cobra.

  Once Venandakatra was finished, Belisarius saluted him again with his cup and poured himself another full goblet. Venandakatra, he noticed, had stopped drinking some time ago.

  The general found it a bit hard not to laugh. Then, thinking it over, he did laugh—a drunken, besotted kind of laugh. Meaningless. He drained his cup and poured himself yet another. From the corner of his eye he caught the Vile One's faint smile.

  I'm from Thrace, you jackass. A simple farm boy, at bottom. Raised in the countryside, where there's not much to do but drink. I could have drunk you under the table when I was ten.

  "You'll be seeing her soon, then," he exclaimed. "Lucky man!"

  He fell back into his seat, hastily grabbing the table to keep from falling. Half the wine sloshed out of his cup, most of it onto the gorgeous rug covering the floor. The candelabra in the center of the table teetered. Venandakatra steadied it hastily with a hand, but not in time to prevent one of the candles from falling.

  "Sorry," muttered Belisarius. Venandakatra's expression, for just a fleeting instant, was savage. But he said nothing. He simply placed the candle back in its holder and waved off the mishap with a casual flutter of the fingers.

  Belisarius drained what was left in his cup. Venandakatra instantly poured him another.

  Blearily, Belisarius grinned at the Malwa lord. Then, leering:

  "She'll be a virgin, of course. Bound to be, a princess!" Guffaw, guffaw. "God, there's nothing like a virgin! Love the way they squeal when you stick 'em!"