An Oblique Approach

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.

But, he knew, not unique. He had not recognized the phenomenon at first, for he was unaccustomed to the informal Roman ways. But he had encountered such soldiers before, on occasion. Not often. Only Maratha and Rajput kshatriya possessed that code of honor. Men who would not stoop to murder, rape, and mindless mayhem, for they were the deadliest killers in creation. Such gross and common criminality was beneath their dignity.

The Malwa kshatriya had little of that code; the Ye-tai beasts derided them for what little they still possessed. And the common soldiers who made up the great mass of the Malwa army had none of it at all. Jackals, once discipline was loosened.

The slave shuddered, remembering the sack of his own town.