“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.
He would never see his beloved family again, but he knew their fate. His wife would be a drudge somewhere, slaving in the kitchen of a Malwa lord or merchant. His son would be a laborer, in the fields or in the mines. And his two daughters He glanced at the three Maratha women who were now on the bed, surrounding the half-crazed girl with female touches, female sounds and female scents. Three young slave girls, owned by a whoremaster.
He looked away, holding back a sob. Then forced himself to look back at the girl on the bed. There was a horrible comfort to be found in the sight. That much, at least, his wife and daughters had been spared. Spared, because by good fortune their own house had been seized by Rajputs during the sack, not Ye-tai or common soldiers. A Rajput cavalry troop, commanded by a young Rajput lord. A cold man, that lord; arrogant and haughty as only a Rajput kshatriya could be. The Rajputs had stripped their home of everything of value, down to the linen. Had then eaten all the food, and drank all the wine. But when the inevitable time came, and the cavalrymen began eyeing their captured women, the Rajput officer had simply said: “No.”
Coldly, arrogantly, haughtily. His men had obeyed. Had not even grumbled. They were not kshatriya themselves, simply commoners. But they possessed their own humble share of Rajput discipline, and Rajput pride, and Rajputana’s ancient glory.
He was brought back to the present by his master’s voice. Belisarius, he realized, was ordering all of the men out of the room.
Once in the corridor, Belisarius began digging into his purse. Garmat interrupted.
“I will pay for it, Belisarius. We both know your funds are meager.”
The Ethiopian gave instructions to one of the sarwen. The black soldier disappeared, searching for the hostel proprietor. Shortly thereafter, he reappeared, with the proprietor in tow. The man was smiling, as well he might be. Yet another room for his guests! By all means!
Within an hour, the injured girl had been moved into the new room. It was a small room adjoining Eon’s suite, but separated from the suite by a door. Belisarius instructed the women to make sure that one of them was with her at all times. And, under no conditions, to allow any men into the room unless he said otherwise.
The girls glanced hesitantly at the soldiers. Their thoughts were obvious: And just how, exactly, does the idiot general expect us to prevent men like this from going anywhere they choose?
Belisarius shook his head. “They will not try to enter, I assure you.”
That matter taken care of, for the moment, Belisarius led all of the men into his own room. The slave followed. Uncertainly, hesitantly, and with great reluctance.
Once everyone had taken a seat-those who could, that is, the room was small-Belisarius sighed and stated:
“This is going to play hell with our plans.”
As one, just as the slave had feared, every man there looked at him. Their thoughts were also obvious:
Dead men tell no tales.
Belisarius smiled crookedly. “No,” he said. “I’m keeping him with me, all the way back to Rome. The problem is with the girls. The Malwa will certainly question them, after we leave Bharakuccha. Until now, I didn’t care. But the way we are treating this new girl will not gibe with the image that we’ve been carefully forging. Venandakatra’s no fool. He’ll smell something wrong.”
Garmat coughed. Belisarius cocked his eye.
“Actually, Belisarius, I’m afraid the problem existed already. Even before the new girl arrived.” Another cough. “Because of you, actually.”