The general examined his new slave. His study was brief and perfunctory, however, for the slave master’s selling chamber was poorly lit by a single small oil lamp. There were no windows to let in sunlight. Or air—the stink of human effluvium coming from the nearby slave pens was nauseating.
The man was perhaps fifty years of age, Belisarius estimated. Short, slender, gray-haired. His eyes were so deep a brown as to be almost black—what little Belisarius had seen of them. The slave had kept his eyes downcast, except for one brief glance at his new owner.
He began to leave, gesturing for the slave to follow.
“You have not manacled him!” protested the slave trader.
Belisarius ignored him. Back on the street, Anastasius and Valentinian fell in at the general’s side. Belisarius paused for a moment, breathing deeply, cleaning the stench from his nostrils and lungs. The powerful aromas of teeming Bharakuccha came with those breaths, of course, but they were the scents of life—cooking oils and spices, above all—not the miasma of despair.
The general began striding down the street back toward the hostel. Valentinian and Anastasius marched on either side. Their weapons were not drawn, but the two veterans never ceased scanning the street and side alleys, alert for danger. Those keen eyes kept watch on the general’s newly acquired slave as well, following them a few steps behind.
Once they were beyond sight of the slave pens, Belisarius stopped and turned back, still flanked by his cataphracts. The slave stopped also, but did not raise his eyes from the ground. The small knot of armored men standing still were like a boulder in a stream. The endless flow of people in the crowded street broke around them without a pause. Only a few of those people cast so much as a glance at the bizarre foreigners in their midst, standing in a semicircle facing a half-naked slave. Curiosity was not a healthy trait in Malwa-occupied Bharakuccha.
“Look at me,” commanded Belisarius.
The slave looked up, startled. He had not expected his new owner—an obvious foreigner—to speak Marathi.
“I will not shackle you, unless you give me reason to do so. I suggest you do not try to escape. It would be futile.”
The slave examined the general, examined the cataphracts, looked back at the ground.
“Look at me,” commanded Belisarius again.
Reluctantly, the slave obeyed.
“You are a skilled scribe, according to the slave trader.”
The slave hesitated, then spoke. His voice was bitter.
“I was a skilled scribe. Now I am a slave who knows how to read and write.”
Belisarius smiled. “I appreciate the distinction. I require your services. You must teach me to read and write Marathi.” A thought came to him. “What other languages are you literate in?”
The slave frowned. “I am not sure—do you understand that the northern tongues can be written both in the classical Sanskrit and modern Devanagari script?”
Belisarius shook his head.
The slave continued. “Well, I can teach you either, or both. For practical matters I suggest Devanagari. Most of the major northern tongues are written in that script, including Hindi and Marathi. If you wish to write Gujarati you will have to learn a different script, which I can teach you. All of the principal southern languages have their own script as well. Of those I am proficient only in Tamil and Telugu.” The slave shrugged. “Beyond that, I am literate in Pallavi and Greek.”
“Good. I will wish to learn Hindi as well. Perhaps others, at a later time.”
There was a questioning look in the slave’s eyes, with an undertone of apprehension. Belisarius understood immediately.
“I will not fault you if I find the task difficult. But I think you will be surprised at how good a student I will be.”
He paused for a moment, making a difficult decision. But not long, for the decision was inevitable, given his character. The slave would know too much, by the time Belisarius was done with him. Some other man would have solved the problem in the simplest way possible. But Belisarius’ ruthlessness was that of a general, not a murderer.
“I will take you back to Rome with me, when I leave India. There, if you have served me faithfully, I will manumit you. And give you what funds you require to start a new life. You will have no difficulty, if your literary talents are as you have described. There are any number of Greek traders who would be glad to employ you.” Another thought came to him. “For that matter, there is a bishop who might find you useful. He is a kind man, and would make an excellent employer.”