“My plan is, after all,” he said cheerfully, “a bit on the crazed side.”
That announcement did not seem to bring any great cheer to the other men in the tent. But they did not protest—not, at least, beyond thinking private dark thoughts. Those men were all very familiar with Belisarius’ tactical principles and methods. Many of those methods struck them as bizarre, but not the one which—always—stood at the very center.
Win the war. That’s all that matters.
Chapter 8
AXUM
Spring, 532 a.d.
Eon’s regimental ceremony did not take place until days after the bombing of the Ta’akha Maryam. Initially, the prince had insisted on doing it at once. But calmer voices—older ones, at least—prevailed.
Foremost among those voices had been that of Wahsi, the commander of the regiment itself.
“There is no time now, King of Kings,” he insisted.
“I am not the negusa nagast!” roared Eon. “I cannot be—not until I am accepted into the Dakuen sarwe!”
The prince—king, now; his father and brother’s corpses had already been found—rose from his labors. Eon had worked through the night, along with his soldiers and most of Axum’s populace, clearing away the rubble and debris. It was now mid-morning of the next day, and there was still much work to be done. The royal quarters themselves had been excavated, but the Malwa explosives had shattered well over a third of the great complex. Hundreds of corpses had been found, and as many survivors. The rescue workers could hear the faint moans of a few victims who were still alive, buried beneath the stones.
Wahsi placed a gentle hand on Eon’s shoulder. “The Dakuen can wait, King.”
The Dakuen commander gestured with his head, indicating the knot of soldiers standing just a few feet behind him. Those men were all of the officers of the regiment, other than the ones who were with Ezana in India. “None of us are concerned about the matter.”
Hearing Wahsi’s words, the regimental officers growled their agreement. Several of them glanced at the figure of Ousanas. The dawazz was just a few yards away, oblivious to the exchange. He was too busy pulling away stones.
Not even Eon failed to miss the obvious approval in those glances.
“There is no need,” repeated Wahsi softly. Then, very softly, in words only Eon could hear: “No need, Eon. There is no question of the regiment’s approval of Ousanas, and you.”
Wahsi chuckled but, again, so softly that only Eon could hear. “They will have harsh words to say, of course, about the hunter’s ridiculous philosophies, and will relish every detail of your childhood follies. But that is just tradition.” He cast a glance at the distant figure of Antonina, who was directing her own soldiers in the rescue operation. All of the Roman troops had survived the explosion, and they had immediately pitched into the work. “They are especially looking forward to hearing about all the times Ousanas was forced to slap you silly, until you finally learned not to ogle the wife of Belisarius.”
Eon managed a smile. It wasn’t much of a smile, but Wahsi was still relieved to see it. For just a fleeting instant, Eon’s was the face of a young man again. For hours, since the bodies of Zaia and Tarabai had been found, his face had been that of an old man broken with grief. Zaia had been his concubine since Eon was thirteen years old. If the passion had faded, some, from their relationship, he had still loved her deeply. And he had been almost besotted with Tarabai, since he met her in India.
“You lost everyone yesterday, Eon,” said Wahsi gently. “Your women and your only child, along with your father and brother. No man in the world—prince or peasant, it matters not—can think clearly at such a time, or deal with anything beyond his grief. So let us simply concentrate on the work before us. There will be time, soon enough, for the ceremony.”
He stepped back a pace, and raised his voice slightly.
“For the moment, you are the negusa nagast. That is the opinion of the Dakuen sarwe, as well as the Lazen and the Hadefan.”