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 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
