An oblique approach b-1

by David Drake

  When he finally returned to his considerations, he was exhausted. Glumly, he reconciled himself to Belisarius’ survival.

  Perhaps it was all for the best, mused Venandakatra. He had almost canceled the planned assassination, in any event. There had been those indications, in Belisarius’ conversation aboard ship, of a man resentful of his treatment at the hands of the Roman emperor. Slight indications, to be sure, nothing more than subtle tones of bitterness and the trace of discontent in a few phrases. Still-Venandakatra decided they were worth pursuing.

  The Indian lord even smiled then. There was this much satisfaction to be had, after all: Belisarius relished tales of debauchery, and told quite good ones himself. So, in the long weeks of the journey into the interior, Venandakatra would at least enjoy his conversation. Just as he had aboard the ship.

  Memories of those conversations turned his thoughts toward the delightful news he had received upon embarking. The Princess Shakuntala herself! A gift from the Emperor, awaiting him in his own palace.

  Venandakatra had heard tales of the girl’s beauty. A pity, of course, that she was seventeen. He preferred his concubines much younger. (The one he had just beaten was twelve.) But-best of all, she was the prize of Andhra. Venandakatra detested the southerners. Marathas especially, the surly dogs. Shakuntala was not Maratha, but she was their princess nonetheless. In mounting her, he would be subjugating that entire polluted people.

  His thoughts enflamed him. He eyed the dazed and bleeding girl on his bed. He considered summoning the chamberlain to bring another concubine, but dismissed the thought almost at once. To the contrary-this one would do marvelously.

  Chapter 19

  “So, they are not warships?”

  Garmat shrugged. “They could serve as such, Belisarius. Poorly, however, except as rocket ships.” The adviser began a technical discourse, but Belisarius shook his head.

  “There’s no need, Garmat. I’ll take your word for it. It doesn’t surprise me, anyway. It’s what I expected.”

  Garmat cocked his head inquisitorily.

  Before he answered, Belisarius looked about the room. The room was rather small, quite plain and utilitarian, and windowless. It was obviously a chamber for servants, which the hostel owner had attempted to prettify with a few cheap tapestries hastily hung on the walls. The hostel owner had offered Belisarius a more suitable room elsewhere, but the general had insisted on quarters adjoining those of his men.

  His and Garmat’s room, now. On the second day of their stay in Bharakuccha, Garmat had approached Belisarius with a plea to share his quarters. It seemed the sarwen and Ousanas had arrived at the same conclusion as the cataphracts, and Garmat had no wish to remain in quarters which were now crowded with the presence of three young women. Maratha women, in this case.

  “I’m too old for orgies,” he’d explained.

  Belisarius looked back at Garmat.

  “Before I answer you, I have a question. Describe the military capabilities of Axum. Strengths and weaknesses.”

  Garmat did not hesitate. The die had been cast.

  “The army of the negusa nagast is very good, in my opinion. I have fought against them, you know, as well as with them. My bedouin were no match for them in a pitched battle, as the Arabs learned some time ago. In a raid, taking advantage of our mobility, we could occasionally overcome small detachments of sarwen. And we could always escape them. The Axumite army is an infantry army, essentially. Their cavalry is very small, and weak. Couriers, for the most part. And they have no skill with camels at all.”

  He stroked his beard.

  “Axum is not really a land power, as Rome is. True, King Kaleb rules over a vast region. But it is nowhere near as vast as Rome, even-”

  He hesitated. Belisarius smiled.

  “In private, Garmat, we will dispense with the formality that the western Mediterranean is still ruled by the Emperor.”

  Garmat smiled back. “As you wish. As I was saying, even if we exclude the western portions of your empire, Rome’s territory is still much larger than Axum’s. And the disparity is even greater in terms of population. You have visited Ethiopia yourself, now. As you saw, it is essentially a highland region, with control over the Red Sea and portions of Arabia. Mountains and deserts, for the most part. So, our people are not numerous, even if we include the Arabs and southern barbarians under our rule. And thus, our army is not large. Good, but small.”

  Garmat paused for a moment, thinking, then continued:

  “The strength of the Axumite army lies primarily in the skill and discipline of the sarawit. Their discipline lacks the subtlety of Roman discipline, mind you. The Empire of Axum does not have the history that Rome does. It was forged in conquest, true, just as your empire was. But the Ethiopians fought only barbarians, except when they conquered Meroe. And the kingdom of the Nubians, by then, was a decrepit thing. Barely a shadow of its former glory, long ago, when it ruled all of Egypt. So-”

  Belisarius nodded. “I understand. Firm discipline, which maintains a good order in battle. That is all one needs to defeat barbarians. But no subtlety in tactics. Much as the Roman army might have been, had we never faced such civilized foes as the Etruscans, Carthaginians, Greeks, and Persians.”

  “Yes. But there’s more to it. The real power of Axum lies in its control over trade routes. Especially the sea-borne trade. So, you have a peculiar situation. Although the heartland of Ethiopia is a highland region, the kingdom itself is a naval power. Our sarawit are produced and trained in the highlands, but serve primarily at sea.”

  “So they are marines, basically,” said Belisarius.

  Garmat nodded. “Yes. From what you told me, I gather that our recent affray with the Arab pirates was your first personal experience in a sea battle. You can understand, then, the qualities needed for marines.”

  Belisarius gazed up at the ceiling of the room, thinking back upon the battle.

  “Courage, and skill with weapons-the combat is close, ferocious, and unforgiving. Firm discipline-iron discipline, even. But no tactical sophistication. There’s no need for it in the tight quarters of a boarding operation. Nor room, for that matter.”

  He looked back down at Garmat.

  “And those are the weaknesses of the Axumite army. Small numbers. Inexperience in large land battles. Primitive tactics.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s about what I thought.”

  “May I ask the purpose of these questions?”

  “Of course. It goes back to the matter of the Indian ships we were talking about. You are puzzled, I think, by what we’ve seen in the harbor.”

  Garmat nodded. “I fail to understand the Malwa purpose in launching such a ship-building project. Such an enormous project, building such enormous ships. Ships of the size we saw being created in the harbor are very expensive, Belisarius. Men who are not seamen, even experienced generals such as yourself, never really grasp how expensive such vessels are. To maintain and operate, as much as to build.”

  The adviser shrugged. “So what is the point of doing it, when the ships themselves are so poorly designed for sea battles? Even given the Malwa rocket weapons. Especially in light of the rockets. If I were in charge, I would build a great number of small, swift craft. They would serve just as well for platforms from which to fire rockets. Better, for they would be more maneuverable.”

  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?�
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  “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 muchmuch — 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, 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 w
ell, 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?”