He scanned the room majestically. “Many great warriors here,” he commented. “I ask a question. How you hunt crocodile?”
After a moment, someone ventured: “Stab it with a spear.”
Ousanas beamed happily. “Spoken like true warrior!” The beam was replaced by a look of humble abasement. “I myself not warrior. Miserable slave, now. Before, though, was great hunter.”
Someone snorted. “Is that so? Then tell us, O miserable slave, how did you hunt crocodile?”
Ousanas goggled. “Not hunt crocodile in first place! Great giant monster, the crocodile! Stronger than ox! Teeth like swords!”
He grinned. “He also very stupid reptile. So I feed him poisoned meat.”
Suddenly, the dawazz reached out his long arm and slapped the prince on top of the head.
“You see that one?” he demanded, pointing to Anastasius. “He feeding you poisoned meat.”
Anastasius grinned. The prince eyed him skeptically. Ousanas slapped him again.
“Royalty stupid as crocodile!”
Now the prince was glaring hotly at his dawazz. Not for the first time, watching the scene, Belisarius was struck by the peculiar courage required of a good dawazz.
Ousanas slapped him again. “Not even crocodile stupid enough to glare at his dawazz!” The two sarwen chuckled.
“Enough,” repeated Belisarius.
Eon tore his gaze away from Ousanas.
“There’s someone here I’d like you to meet, Prince. And you, Garmat.” Then, after a moment, grudgingly: “And you too, Ousanas, and the sarwen.”
Returning to the villa, Belisarius introduced the Ethiopians to John of Rhodes. Antonina was waiting with the naval officer in the main salon, as were Sittas and Irene. After they had taken their seats, the general said to Garmat:
“Tell him what you know of the Indian weapons, if you would.”
Belisarius absented himself while the Axumites filled in the naval officer. He had other business to attend to, back in the barracks.
As soon as he entered the dining hall, the conversation which had been filling the room died down. But not before the general caught the final remarks uttered by young Menander.
“The slave offends you, does he?” demanded Belisarius. Menander was silent, but his whole posture exuded pout.
Belisarius restrained his temper.
“Tell him, Valentinian,” he commanded.
The veteran cataphract never ceased from whittling on his little stick, and he didn’t bother to look up.
“If you don’t learn how to read men, Menander, you’ll never live to collect your retirement bonus. The prince is nothing, at the moment, beyond a big muscle. Later, who knows? Now, nothing. The two soldiers are good. Very good, I’d wager, or they wouldn’t be here.” He paused briefly, estimating. “The adviser is dangerous. In his prime, probably something to watch. But-he’s old. The slave, now, there’s the terrible one.”
“He’s a slave!” protested Menander.
“Feeding you poisoned meat,” chuckled Anastasius. The room echoed with laughter. When the laughter died down, Valentinian finally looked up. His narrow, close-featured face was cold. He fixed the young cataphract with dark eyes gazing down a long, pointed nose.
“That slave could slaughter you like a lamb, boy. Never doubt it for a moment.”
Belisarius cleared his throat. “I’m going to need three of you to accompany me to Axum. And beyond, to India. We’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, and we’ll be gone for at least a year. The rest of you will remain on the estate. As you know, Sittas is here. At the Emperor’s behest, he is replacing me as commander of the Syrian army. You’ll give him whatever assistance he requires, so long as that doesn’t interfere with your duty to guard my wife and the estate. Maurice will be in charge.”
Maurice said nothing, but a slight twist to his lips indicated his continuing displeasure with the general’s plans. A faint buzz of startled conversation began to fill the room, then died down quickly.
“Any volunteers?” he asked.
Within seconds, as Belisarius had expected, almost all of the cataphracts had volunteered. The younger ones had volunteered to a man, except for Menander.
“Excellent!” he exclaimed. Then he smiled his crooked smile.
“Shit,” hissed Valentinian.
“Poisoned meat,” groaned Anastasius.
“Those of you who had enough sense not to volunteer are coming. Valentinian. Anastasius. Oh-and you, Menander.”
By the time Belisarius returned to the villa, the Axumites had finished recounting to their audience what they had been able to learn about the Malwa weapons. It wasn’t much, in truth. Over the past few years, several Axumite traders had observed the new and bizarre weapons in use-but only at a distance. The Malwa kept their special weapons closely guarded, and did not allow foreigners near them. In one instance, they had suspended siege operations against a coastal town until a passing Axumite vessel was shepherded away by Malwa warships.
When the Ethiopians finished, John of Rhodes leaned back in his chair and began tapping his hands on his knees. He was frowning slightly, and his eyes seemed a bit unfocussed.
“It’s not much to go on, is it?” asked Antonina, somewhat apologetically.
“Quite the contrary,” replied the naval officer. “Our friends here from Axum have provided me with the most important fact of all.”
“What’s that?” demanded Sittas.
John of Rhodes looked at the Greek general and smiled thinly.
“The most important fact is that these weapons exist, Sittas.” He shrugged. “ What they are, and how they work, remains a complete mystery. But the fact that they do exist means that it is a problem to be solved, rather than a fantasy to be speculated about. There’s a world of difference between those two things.”
He arose and began stumping about, with his hands clasped behind his back. “We shall need to compile a library here. Unfortunately, the books which I own myself relate to seafaring only.”
“Books are expensive,” grumbled Sittas.
“So?” retorted Antonina. “You’re stinking rich. You can afford them.”
“I knew it,” growled Sittas. “I knew it. Soak the rich Greek, that’s all anybody-”
Irene cut him off. “What books do you need?” she asked John.
The naval officer frowned. “It’s obvious to me, from listening to what the Axumites have told us, that the Malwa weapons involve more than simply burning naphtha, or some similar fuel. Every account of the weapons describes them in terms of eruptions-as if they could somehow control the force of a volcano, on a smaller scale. The closest physical phenomenon that I know of is what’s called combustion. And there’s only one scholar to my knowledge who studied combustion to any great extent.”
“Heron of Alexandria,” stated Irene.
John of Rhodes nodded. “Precisely. I need a copy of his Pneumatics.”
Sittas glowered. “There aren’t more than fifty copies of that book in existence! Do you have any idea how much it costs? If we can even find one in the first place without raiding the library at Alexandria.”
“I own a copy,” said Irene. “I will be glad to loan it to you. It’s still at my villa in Constantinople, however, so it will take a little time to get it here.”
Everyone in the room stared at Irene. She smiled whimsically. “Actually, I own most of Heron’s writings. I also have the Mechanics, Siegecraft, Measurement, and Mirrors. I almost got my hands on a copy of his Automaton-making last year, but some damned Armenian beat me to it.”
Some of the men in the room were now goggling her; Sittas was gaping.
“I like to read,” explained Irene dryly. Slyly.
Antonina started laughing.
“It’s unnatural!” choked Sittas. “It’s-”
“Marry me,” said John of Rhodes.
“Not a chance, John. I know your type. You’re just lusting after my books.”
The naval officer grinned. “Well, yes, to a degree. But-”
“Not a chance!” repeated Irene. She was laughing now herself.