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 first, 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.”
The dawazz glanced at Belisarius.
“It is true, the general asked me to keep an eye out for such an opportunity. But he did not ask for this.”
The dawazz then glanced at the slave. Meaningfully.
“I shall leave, if you desire,” said the slave, beginning to rise.
“Stay,” commanded Belisarius. The general did not even look at him. His eyes were riveted on the dawazz.
The dawazz shrugged.
“She’s perfect, Belisarius. Exactly what you hoped for. Not only from the palace, but from the girl’s own retinue. Except-” The black man grimaced. “I did not realize until-I thought she was just-”
Belisarius rose. “Show me.”
Angrily, Eon charged through the door. On his way out, he transferred the glare to his dawazz. The dawazz sighed and exited after him. Belisarius began to follow, then turned in the doorway. It was obvious to the slave, from the way his master was staring at him, that the general was making a decision. And it was just as obvious that the decision-whatever it was-involved the slave himself.
As usual, his new master did not linger.
“Come,” he commanded.
The slave followed Belisarius into the prince’s suite. By now, the commotion had aroused the attention of all the members of his master’s party. The cataphracts and the sarwen were standing in the corridor of the hostel which linked all of their rooms. They were unarmored-almost completely undressed, in the case of the cataphracts-but they were all bearing weapons. Even the young cataphract, the sick one, was there. The Kushan and Maratha women who shared the soldiers’ quarters were clustered behind them, peering over their shoulders. Garmat eased his way past the small crowd and went into the prince’s suite. The slave followed him.
He found Belisarius, Eon, the dawazz, and Garmat standing around the huge bed in the prince’s sleeping chamber, staring down at the figure who lay upon it.
The slave recognized the girl as Maratha. For an instant, he was consumed with an immediate rage-until he realized that the prince was not responsible. The bruises and half-healed lacerations on the girl’s body had not been recently caused. And the dazed, vacant expression on her face was the product of protracted horror.
“I will not do this!” shouted the prince.
Belisarius shook his head. Eon snorted, but his glare faded somewhat. Hesitantly, the prince stretched out his hand. The girl on the bed moaned, flinched, drew herself up into an even tighter fetal curl.
“Don’t touch her,” said Belisarius.
From the door to the chamber, Valentinian’s voice came.
“Mary, Mother of God.”
The slave looked back at the cataphract. As before, he was struck by Valentinian’s appearance. Probably the most evil-looking man the slave had ever seen. Especially now, with his expression filled with cold, experienced disgust.
The cataphract turned his head and spoke over his shoulder:
“Anastasius! Get the women.”
Valentinian turned back.
“Move away from the bed,” he commanded. “All of you. Now.”
It did not seem strange to the slave, at the time, that all those present instantly obeyed their subordinate. Later, after he thought it over, it still did not seem strange. The most evil-looking man in the world, perhaps. Certainly at that moment.
Very soon thereafter, Anastasius entered the room, followed by the young cataphract and the half dozen young women. When the new arrivals saw the girl on the bed, they reacted differently. Anastasius’ face-which looked like a slab of granite at the best of times-grew even harder. The women gasped, cast quick frightened glances at the men in the room, and drew back. Menander gaped, confused, and began moving forward. He was instantly restrained by Anastasius’ huge hand.
“Don’t,” rumbled the giant cataphract.
“What’s wrong with her?” whispered Menander. It was not the bruises which confused him, the slave knew. It was the near-insane expression on her face.
Anastasius and Valentinian exchanged glances.
“I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be that innocent,” muttered Valentinian.
Anastasius took a breath. “You’ve never been in a town that’s been sacked, have you?”
Menander shook his head.
“Well, if and when you do, you’ll see plenty of this. And worse.”
The young cataphract, already pale from his illness, grew slightly paler as comprehension dawned. Anastasius motioned to the women, shooing them forward.
“Help the girl,” he said, in his thick, broken Kushan. “Comfort her.”
A moment later, Belisarius was issuing instructions to the girls in fluent, unaccented Kushan and Marathi. The girls hastened to do as he bade them. They were still casting reproachful glances at the soldiers in the room, but it was obvious to the slave that the reproach was generic, not specific.
Very odd soldiers, indeed.
