But the general’s companions made no objection, after they gave the matter a bit of thought. For the storage cabin in the bow had one outstanding feature, which they knew was Belisarius’ purpose in obtaining it. Privacy.
Belisarius had needed that privacy, two nights after the battle, when his small company had settled into their new quarters. He had things to tell, and a thing to show, which no Malwa must hear or see.
For that purpose, the storage cabin served to perfection. Much better, in fact, that would one of the comfortable cabins amidships. The storage cabin was isolated, far distant from any Indian sleeping (or feigning sleep), and easily guarded from spies and eavesdroppers.
It was in those noisome surroundings, thus, that Belisarius imparted his great secret to his companions. He did so with neither reluctance nor hesitation. Nor, now, simply from a sense of obligation, or a need to forestall rumors of sorcery and demonism.
Those reasons remained, of course. But his overriding purpose in telling his companions his secret was that he now had a plan-or, at least, the beginnings of one. It was a plan which would require their combined efforts to succeed and would, moreover, require several members of his company to do things which would seem utterly bizarre unless they understood the reasons which underlay them. And for that, they needed to know the secret. Not so much for its own sake, but for the sake of his stratagem.
In some strange manner, in the very fury of the battle, the framework of his plot had come to him. Had sprung into his mind, actually, in midstroke of his sword.
Later, so magical had that moment been, that he had suspected the jewel was its cause. In the quiet hours which followed, he had probed the barrier relentlessly. But the jewel had reacted not at all. It was exhausted again, he realized, and with the realization came an understanding of just how feverishly the jewel had worked to augment his senses during the battle.
It was that augmentation, he thought, which had produced the sudden image of his stratagem. The plan was his, not the jewel’s. The jewel was responsible for it only in the sense that its efforts had enabled his mind to work in such a wondrous manner. He understood, too, that the human subtleties and nuances which were the essence of his stratagem were utterly beyond the capabilities of the jewel. For now, certainly; perhaps always.
And so it was, in the gloom and stench of a taper-lit storage cabin, that Belisarius introduced his comrades to glory and wonder and terror.
He told the tale first, all of it, from its very beginning in a cave in Syria. He stressed that the jewel had originated with Michael of Macedonia, and had been brought to the general with the blessings of that monk and the bishop Anthony Cassian. For his cataphracts, he knew, those names would bring great assurance. And he thought the Ethiopians would take comfort in them also. True, none of the Ethiopians had probably ever heard of Michael of Macedonia or Anthony Cassian. Still, they were Christian folk, even if they were heretics. (Monophysites, essentially, though not without their own stiff variations on that creed.)
As it turned out, Garmat was quite familiar with both Michael and Anthony-by reputation, if not by personal acquaintance. Belisarius suspended his tale for a moment, upon that discovery, allowing Garmat to inform the other Ethiopians of the nature of those persons. Eon and the sarwen seemed suitably impressed.
Thereafter, Belisarius spoke without interruption until his tale reached the present moment. He withheld nothing, save the subtleties of his standing with the Emperor. He saw no need to involve his companions in that delicate matter. It was enough to speak of his meeting with the Empress Theodora (that part of the meeting, at least, which dealt with India), and to remind them of the Emperor’s official blessing for his mission. He suspected that Garmat understood quite a bit more of the maneuverings of the Byzantine court, but the adviser said nothing.
No one did, after Belisarius finished. The crowded cabin was utterly still.
Oddly enough, it was Menander who finally broke the silence. The young cataphract was very weak, but quite alert. The fever and delirium which all the veterans knew would soon be produced by his abdominal wound had not yet made their appearance.
“May I see it?” whispered Menander. There was nothing in his voice of the young warrior, just the awe of a village lad.
“You may all see it,” replied Belisarius. The general reached into his tunic and withdrew the pouch. He spilled the jewel into his palm and held it out. All save Menander leaned forward to see. A moment later, the young Thracian’s shoulders were gently held up by Ezana, so that he too might observe the miraculous sight.
Miraculous, indeed. Weary, aim might have been. But it understood the importance of the moment and drew the facets to itself.
The jewel did not blaze, here, as it had once in Belisarius’ villa in Antioch. There was no energy for such a solar display. But there were none in the cabin, gazing upon that shifting and flashing wonder, those cool, translucent combinations of every hue known to man and many never seen before, who doubted for one moment that they were witness to a miracle.
Eventually, Garmat spoke.
“It is not enough,” he whispered. Belisarius cocked his eyebrow.
The adviser shook his head. Not in an unfriendly manner, no, but in a manner which bespoke no deference either.
“I am sorry, Belisarius. I do not distrust you, or what you say, and the jewel is certainly as awesome as you described, but-”
Garmat made a gesture which encompassed the ship and everything in the world beyond it.
“What you say involves not us alone, but those to whom we are responsible.”
“You want to touch the jewel yourself,” said Belisarius gently.
Garmat shook his head, smiling.
“Certainly not! At my age, terrible visions are the last thing I need. I’ve seen enough of those already.”
Belisarius shifted his gaze-and, subtly, his hand-to the Prince. “Eon, then.”
The prince stared at the jewel, his brow furrowed with thought. Thought only, however, not fear-so much was obvious to all who watched. Belisarius was not the only one present, then, who saw the adult majesty of the future in that dark young face.
“No,” said Eon, finally. “I do not trust myself yet.” He turned to Ousanas. “Take it.”
“Why me?”
“You are my dawazz. I trust you more than any man living. Take it.”
Ousanas stared at his charge. Then, without moving his eyes, extended his hand to Belisarius. The general placed the jewel on his palm.
A moment later, the dawazz closed his hand; and left the world, for a time.
When he returned, and opened his eyes, he seemed completely unchanged. The others present were a bit surprised. Belisarius was astonished.
When the dawazz spoke, however, the general thought he detected a slight tremor in his rich baritone.
His first words were to his Prince.
“Always dawazz wonders. And fears.”
He took a deep breath, and briefly looked away. “No longer. You were great prince. King, at the end.”
The dawazz fumbled for words.
“Oh, stop speaking pidgin!” snapped Eon.
Ousanas cast him an exasperated look.
“It was your silly idea in the first place.” The dawazz glanced at Garmat, unkindly. “And you backed him up.”
Garmat shrugged. Ousanas grinned at the Romans. (That much, at least, had not changed. Not the grin.)
“You must forgive my companions,” said the dawazz. His Greek was now perfect, mellifluous, and completely unaccented. Belisarius managed not to gape. His cataphracts failed.