by David Drake
For his part, the bishop turned immediately to Hermogenes and said:
“To answer your earlier questions directly, merarch, while my own opinion on the Trinity is that of the five councils of the orthodox tradition, I also believe that there can never be a final solution to the problem. And thus I feel that any attempt to impose such a solution is, from the social and political standpoint, unwise. And, from the theological standpoint, downright impious.”
“Impious?” asked Hermogenes. “ Impious? ”
Cassian’s nod was vigorous. “Yes, young man-you heard me aright. Impious.”
Hermogenes groped for words. “I’ve never heard anyone say-” He fell silent, taking a thoughtful sip of his wine.
Cassian smiled. “Mine is not, I admit, the common approach. But let me ask you this, Hermogenes-why is the subject of the Trinity so difficult to fathom? Why is it such an enigma?”
Hermogenes hesitated. “Well, it-I’m not a theologian, you know. But it’s very complicated, everyone knows that.”
“Why?”
Hermogenes frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Why is it so complicated? Did it never strike you as bizarre that the Almighty should have chosen to manifest himself in such a tortuous fashion?”
Hermogenes opened his mouth, closed it; then, took a much deeper sip of wine-almost a gulp, actually. As a matter of fact, he had — now and then-puzzled over the matter. Privately. Very privately.
Cassian smiled again. “So I see. It is my belief, my dear Hermogenes, that the Lord chose to do so for the good and simple reason that He does not want men to understand the Trinity. It is a mystery, and there’s the plain and simple truth of it. There is no harm, of course, in anyone who so chooses to speculate on the problem. I do so myself. But to go further, to pronounce oneself right — to go so far as to enforce your pronouncement with religious and secular authority-seems to me utterly impious. It is the sin of pride. Satan’s sin.”
Hermogenes was struck, even more than by Cassian’s words, by the bishop’s expression. That peculiar combination of gentle eyes and a mouth set like a stone. The merarch knew the bishop’s towering reputation as a theologian among the Greek upper crust. And he knew, as well, that Cassian’s reputation as a saintly man was even more towering among the Syrian peasantry and plebeian classes. Both of those reputations suddenly came into focus for him.
“Enough theology!” protested Irene. “I want to hear John’s latest progress report on his infernal devices.”
Almost gratefully, Hermogenes looked away from the bishop. John of Rhodes straightened abruptly in his chair and glared at Irene. He slammed his goblet down on the table. Fortunately, it was almost empty, so only a few winedrops spilled onto the table. But, for a moment, Hermogenes feared the goblet would break from the impact.
“There is no progress report, infernal woman! As you well know-you were present yourself, yesterday, at the latest fiasco.”
Irene grinned. She looked at the bishop.
“Did you hear that, Anthony? He called me a devil! Doesn’t that seem a bit excessive? I ask for your expert opinion.”
Cassian smiled. “Further clarification is needed. If he called you a devil, then, yes-’twould be a tad excessive. However, John was by no means specific. ’Infernal woman,’ after all, could refer to any denizen of the Pit. Such as an imp. In which case, I’m afraid I would have to lend my religious authority to his words. For it is a certain truth, Irene, that you are indeed an imp.”
“I didn’t think there was such a thing as a female imp,” retorted Irene.
The bishop’s smile was positively beatific.
“Neither did I, my dear Irene, until I made your acquaintance.”
Laughter erupted at the table. When it died down, Maurice spoke.
“What happened, John?”
The naval officer scowled. “I burned down the workshop, that’s what happened.”
“Again?”
“Yes, thank you- again! ” John began to rise, but Antonina waved him down with a smile.
“Please, John! I’ve had too much to drink. I’ll get dizzy, watching you stump around.”
The naval officer subsided. After a moment, he muttered: “It’s the damned naphtha, Maurice. The local stuff’s crap. I need to get my hands on good quality naphtha. And for that-”
He turned to the bishop. “Isn’t your friend Michael of Macedonia in Arabia now?”
The bishop shook his head. “Not any longer. He returned a few weeks ago and has taken up residence nearby. He would not have been much help to you, in any event. He was in western Arabia, among the Beni Ghassan. Western Arabia’s not the best place for naphtha, you know. And, besides, I don’t think-”
He coughed, fell silent.
Hermogenes was about to ask what the famous Michael of Macedonia had been doing in Arabia when he suddenly spotted both Antonina and Irene giving him an intent stare. He pressed his lips shut. A moment later, both women favored him with very slight smiles.
Something’s afoot, he thought to himself. There are hidden currents here, deep ones. I think this is a very good time for a young officer to keep his mouth shut, shut, shut. No harm in listening, though.
Maurice spoke again.
“There’s an Arab officer in our cavalry-well, he’s half-Arab-a hecatontarch by the name of Mark. Mark of Edessa. His mother’s family lives near Hira, but they’re not affiliated to the Lakhmids. Bedouin stock, mostly. I’ll speak to him. He might be able to arrange something.”
“I’d appreciate it,” said John. A moment later, the naval officer rose from the table.
“I’m to bed,” he announced. “Tomorrow I’ve got to rebuild that damned workshop. Again.”
As he left, he and Antonina exchanged smiles. There was nothing in that exchange, noted Hermogenes, beyond a comfortable friendship. He thought back on the bizarre, leering expression which had crossed Antonina’s face earlier in the evening, in the presence of Procopius.
Deep currents. Coming from a hidden well called Belisarius, if I’m not mistaken. I do believe my favorite general is up to his tricks again. So. Only one question remains. How do I get in on this?
Maurice arose. “Me, too.” The hecatontarch glanced at Hermogenes.
“I believe I’ll stay a bit,” said Hermogenes. He extended his cup to Irene. “If you would?”
Maurice left the room. Antonina yawned and stretched.
“I’d better look in on Photius. He wasn’t feeling well today.” She rose, patted Irene on the shoulder, and looked at Hermogenes.
“How long will you be staying?”
“Just for the night,” replied Hermogenes. “I’m leaving early in the morning. I really can’t be absent from the army for long. Sittas seems to have finally gotten lance charges out of his system, and he’s beginning to make noises about general maneuvers.”
“Come again, when you can.”
“I shall. Most certainly.”
Moments later, he and Irene were alone in the room. Hermogenes and she stared at each other in silence, for some time.
He understood the meaning in her gaze. A question, really. Is this man staying at the table to seduce me? Or He smiled, then.
I’ve done some foolish things in my life. But I’m not dumb enough to try to seduce her. As my Uncle Theodosius always said: never chase women who are a lot smarter than you. You won’t catch them, or, what’s worse, you might.
“So, Irene. Tell me about it. As much as you can.”
The next morning, Antonina arose early, to give her regards to Hermogenes before he left. As she walked out of the villa, the sun was just coming up. She found the young merarch already in the courtyard, holding his saddled horse. He was talking quietly with Irene.
Antonina was surprised to see the spymaster. As a rule, Irene viewed sunrise as a natural disaster to be avoided at all costs.
When she came up, Hermogenes smiled and bowed politely. Antonina and the merarch exchanged pleasantries,
before he mounted his horse and rode off.
Antonina glanced at Irene. The spymaster yawned mightily.
“You’re up early,” she commented.
Irene grimaced. “No, I’m just up later than usual. I haven’t slept.”
She nodded toward the diminishing figure of Hermogenes, who was now passing through the gate. “He’s quite a bright fellow, you know. He figured out much more than I would have expected, just from watching the people around him.”
“Is that why he stayed at the table? I assumed it was because he had intentions toward you.”
Irene shook her head, smiling. “Oh, no. His conduct was absolutely impeccable. Propriety incarnate. No, he wanted to join the conspiracy. Whatever it is. He doesn’t care, really, as long as Belisarius is involved. A bad case of hero worship, he’s got.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Enough. Not too much. But enough to make him happy, and win his allegiance. I think quite highly of that young man, Antonina. He’s everything Belisarius said, and more.”
Antonina put her arm around her friend’s waist and began to guide her back into the villa.
“Fill me in on the details later. You look absolutely exhausted, Irene. You need to get to bed.”
Irene chuckled. “ Back to bed, actually.” Feeling Antonina’s little start of surprise, Irene grinned wearily.
“I said I hadn’t slept, Antonina. We didn’t talk about conspiracies the whole damned night.”
“But-”
Irene’s grin widened. “I find handsome young men who are smart enough not to try to seduce me to be quite irresistible.”
Chapter 21
Gwalior
Autumn, 529 AD
“I believe I owe Venandakatra an apology,” remarked Belisarius.
Garmat frowned. “Why in the world would you owe that swine an apology?” he demanded crossly.
“Oh, I have no intention of giving it to him. That’s an obligation which wears very lightly on my shoulders. But I owe it to him nonetheless.”
Belisarius gestured ahead, to the enormous procession which was snaking its way along the right bank of the Narmada.
The small Roman/Axumite contingent was located far back from the head of the caravan. The general and Garmat were riding next to each other, on horseback. Just behind them came Valentinian and Anastasius, and the slave scribe, also on horseback. The rest of their party were borne by the two elephants given them by the Malwa. Ezana and Wahsi served as mahouts for the great beasts. Eon and the Maratha women rode in the howdah atop one elephant. The Kushan women and Menander rode in the other. The young cataphract had protested the arrangement, insisting that he was quite capable of riding a horse. But Belisarius had insisted, and truth be told, the lad’s protest had been more a matter of form than content. Menander might not yet be well enough to ride a horse, but, in certain other respects, his health had improved dramatically. Judging, at least, from the cheerful and complacent look on his face, on those rare occasions when the curtains of his howdah were opened.
Ousanas, as always, insisted on traveling by foot. Nor was he hard-pressed by the chore. The caravan’s pace could barely be described as an ambling walk.
Belisarius smiled. “I accused Venandakatra, you may recall, of putting together this grandiose exhibition for purely egotistical motives.”
“So? He is an egotist. A flaming megalomaniac.”
Belisarius smiled. “True, true. But he’s also an intelligent megalomaniac. There’s a purpose to this spectacle, beyond gratifying his vanity. Are you aware that this is not the normal route from Bharakuccha to the Gangetic plain?”
“It isn’t?”
Belisarius shook his head. “No. We are traveling south of the Vindhyas.” He pointed to the mountain range on their left. The mountains were not high-not more than a few thousand feet-but they were heavily forested and looked to be quite rugged.
“At some point we shall have to cross those mountains, which, by all accounts, is not an easy task. Especially for a caravan like this one.”
“This isn’t a caravan,” grumbled Garmat. “It’s a small army!”
“Precisely. And that’s the point of the whole exercise. The normal route, according to my cataphracts-who got the information from their Kushan ladies-would take us north of the Vindhyas. Semidesert terrain, but well traveled and easily managed. But that route, you see, goes through Malwa territory.”
“So does this one.”
“Today, yes. But this is newly conquered land, Garmat. Until a year ago”-he gestured toward the surrounding countryside-“all this was part of the Andhra Empire.”
Comprehension dawned. “Ah,” muttered Garmat. “So this procession is designed to grind down the new subjects even further. Remind them of their status.” He examined the scenery. The great forest which seemed to carpet the interior of India had been cleared away, at one time. But the fields were untended, as were the thatched mud-walled huts of the peasantry scattered here and there. The area seemed almost uninhabited, despite the fact that it was obviously fertile land. A warrior himself, in his younger days, Garmat had no difficulty recognizing war-ravaged terrain.
The Ethiopian adviser then examined the spectacle ahead of them on the trail. The “caravan” was enormous. He could not even see the very front of it, but he could picture the scene.
The caravan was led by an elephant followed immediately by surveyors. The surveyors were measuring the route by means of long cords which one would carry forward, then the other leapfrog him, calling the count at each cord. A third surveyor recorded the count.
Garmat and Belisarius had spent the first day of the journey puzzling out the purpose of this exercise. The conclusion they came to fell in line with everything they had seen in Bharakuccha. A picture of the rising Malwa power was taking shape in their mind. A huge, sprawling empire, encompassing a vast multitude of different peoples and customs. Which, it was becoming clear, the Malwa were determined to hammer into a centralized, unified state.
The phenomenon, they realized, was new to India. True, great empires had existed here before: the Gupta Empire, the immediate predecessor of the Malwa; and the even larger Mauryan empire of ancient history, which had encompassed most of India. But those empires, for all their size and splendor, had rested lightly on the teeming populace below. The Guptan and Mauryan emperors had made no attempt to interfere with the daily lives of their subjects, or the power and privileges of provincial satraps and local potentates. They had been satisfied with tribute, respect, submission. Beyond that, they had occupied themselves with their feasts, their harems, their elaborate hunts, and their great architectural projects. Even the greatest of those ancient rulers, the legendary Ashoka, had never tried to meddle with Indian customs and traditions beyond his patronage and support for the new Buddhist faith.
But, of course, neither the Guptan nor the Mauryan Empires had ever had the ambitions of the Malwa. The empires of the past were quite satisfied with ruling India, or even just northern India. They had not aspired to world conquest.
“All roads lead to Rome,” Belisarius had murmured. “That’s how the legions conquered the Mediterranean, and ruled it. The Malwa, it seems, intend to copy us.”
Yes, the explanation fit. It fit, for instance, with the new bureaucracy which Belisarius and Garmat had noted in Bharakuccha. There had been much resentment and disaffection expressed, by the populace, toward that bureaucracy. It was impossible to miss, even from conversations in the streets. (Within a few years, Belisarius and Garmat had agreed, the conversations would be far less open; already the Malwa spies and provocateurs were doing their work.)
Strange new bureaucracy, by traditional Indian standards. Appointed by annual examinations, instead of breeding. True, most of the successful applicants were of brahmin or kshatriya descent, scions of one or another of the castes of those noblest of the four respectable classes, the twice-born varna. But there were vaisya bureaucrats also, and even-so it was rumored-a
sudra official!
No untouchables, however. The Malwa regime was even harsher toward untouchables than tradition required. But that small bow toward hallowed custom brought little comfort to the twice-born. The Malwa were also grinding down the four respectable varna, among every people except the Malwa themselves and their privileged Rajput vassals. (And the Ye-tai, of course; but the barbarians had no proper varna and castes to begin with; uncouth, heathen savages.)
More and more sudra castes were finding themselves counted among the untouchables, now. Even, here and there, a few vaisya castes. As yet, the noble varna-the kshatriya and brahmin-seemed immune. But who was to know what the future might bring?
A much-hated new bureaucracy. Hated, but feared. For these new officials were armed with authority to override class and caste customs-overbearing and officious, and quick to exert their power against traditional satraps and long-established local potentates.
Great power, enforced by the Malwa weapons, and the massive Malwa army, and the privileged Rajput vassals, and the even more privileged Ye-tai. Enforced, as well, by their horde of spies and informants, and-worst of all-by the new religious castes: the Mahaveda priests and their mahamimamsa torturers.
For all the power of the new dynasty, however, it had become clear to Belisarius and Garmat that the process by which the Malwa were reshaping India was very incomplete. Incomplete, and contradictory. Much of the real power, they suspected, still lay in the hands of traditional rulers. Who chafed, and snarled, and snapped at the new officialdom.
True, they rarely rebelled, but the danger was ever present. Even at that moment, in fact, a great rebellion was taking place in the northern province whose capital was Ranapur. Their own expedition, eventually, was destined to arrive there. The emperor was overseeing the siege of Ranapur personally, which gave Belisarius and Garmat a good indication of how seriously the Malwa took the affair.
Following the surveyors and their elephant, a quarter mile back, came a party of Rajput horsemen. Two hundred of them, approximately, elite cavalry. Behind them came several elephants carrying pairs of huge kettledrums beaten by men on the elephants’ backs. Then a party of footmen carrying flags.
