“Not everyone approaches these things like a weasel, Valentinian,” said Anastasius mildly.
“Crap! He’s a prince, for the sake of Christ. Probably got his first concubine when he was twelve.”
“Thirteen,” said Belisarius. “Her name is Zaia. She’s still with him, by the way, and he’s very fond of her.”
Belisarius took a seat himself. He grimaced, remembering the night in Venandakatra’s cabin when Eon—as instructed beforehand by Belisarius, coached by Garmat, and slapped atop the head innumerable times by Ousanas—had finally broached the subject of his insatiable sexual appetites. The prince had performed perfectly in the hours which followed, swapping tales with the Vile One. For all their boastfulness, none of Eon’s tales came close to Venandakatra’s in sheer debauchery, but the lad did quite well. His long and lascivious description of his first concubine had been particularly well done.
Afterward, in their own cabin, the boy had refused to speak to anyone for a full day. To Belisarius, not for three days.
Perfect. Now that they were ashore, of course, the boy would have to live up to his boasts. There had been no women aboard the ship, and Eon had hastily declined Venandakatra’s offer of a cabin boy. His tastes, he had explained, were exclusively oriented to the female sex.
“Poor lad, my ass,” muttered Valentinian again. He eyed Anastasius coldly. “And you have some nerve, lecturing me about weasels.”
Anastasius grinned. “I’m not a young prince, full of righteousness and royal propriety.” He stretched his arms and yawned. “I’m just a simple farm boy, at heart, with fond memories of haystacks. And such.” He returned Valentinian’s cold stare.
“Furthermore, I don’t see what you’re complaining about. Nobody said we have to remain abstinent. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
He raised his huge hand, forestalling Belisarius. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Kushans only. Not a problem, I assure you.”
“What do Kushans look like?” asked Menander. The young man’s expression bore equal parts of curiosity and frustration.
“Oh, you won’t be missing a thing, Menander!” exclaimed Anastasius. “Horrid folk, Kushans. Ugliest people in the world, especially the women.”
Valentinian shuddered. “I shudder to think of it.” He shuddered again. “See?”
“I hate mustaches on a woman,” grumbled Anastasius.
“I can live with the mustaches,” retorted Valentinian. “It’s those damned beards that bother me.”
“And the knobby fingers.”
“The scrawny legs.”
“Which go so oddly with those”—here Anastasius cupped his hands before his stomach—”bloated bellies.”
“And where did they get that habit of filing their teeth into sharp points?” demanded Valentinian crossly.
“Oh, well,” groaned Anastasius. “Duty calls.” He arose. “Come, Valentinian. We must be off, about the general’s business.”
As the two veterans were leaving the room, Anastasius shook his sausage-sized finger in Valentinian’s face.
“Remember! Kushans only! I won’t have you leading me astray!”
“Kushans only,” grumbled Valentinian. As they went through the door, a last repartee:
Valentinian, whispering: “But those eyes—those rheumy, salt-encrusted, lifeless—”
“It’s because of the diseases they all carry, you know. That’s what causes the sores on their—”
The door closed.
Menander looked at Belisarius. “They’re lying, aren’t they?”
Belisarius chuckled. “Through their teeth, Menander. Kushans are quite attractive folk, in their own way. They look much like Ye-tai. More like Huns, perhaps. They’re of the same stock.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Belisarius nodded. “Oh, yes. They’re all part of that great mass of central Asian nomads which erupts into civilized lands every century or so. The Kushans conquered Bactria and parts of north India a long time ago. Over the centuries, they lost most of their barbarousness and became rather civilized. They did quite well, in fact. Bactria under Kushan rule used to be quite a pleasant place, by all accounts.”
“What happened?”
Belisarius shrugged. “I don’t know, in detail. Fifty years or so ago, their Ye-tai cousins erupted into the area. They ravaged parts of Persia, conquered Bactria and reduced the Kushans to vassals, and then plundered their way into north India. Where, in the end, they seemed to have reached an accommodation with the Malwa.”
Frustration replaced curiosity on Menander’s face.
“Damn.” He struggled to find solace. “Oh, well, it’s not that bad. I never found Huns attractive anyway. They stink, all the ones I’ve met. And I think their way of greasing up their hair is grotesque.”