"My husband is Calopodius the Blind. I will tell him what you have said to me, and he will place the words in his next Dispatch. You will be a lucky man if all that happens to you is that General Belisarius has you executed."
She left the tent without waiting to hear his response. By the time she reached the tent's entrance, the garrison commander's face was much whiter than the tent fabric and he was gasping for breath.
The next morning, a chest containing a hundred solidi was brought to the hospital and placed in Zeno's care. The day after that, the first of the tools and artifacts began arriving.
Four weeks later, when Calopodius' note finally arrived, the mortality rate in the hospital was less than half what it had been when Anna arrived. She was almost sorry to leave.
In truth, she might not have left at all, except by then she was confident that Zeno was quite capable of managing the entire service as well as its finances.
"Don't steal anything," she warned him, as she prepared to leave.
Zeno's face quirked with a rueful smile. "I wouldn't dare risk the Wife's anger."
She laughed, then; and found herself wondering through all the days of their slow oar-driven travel to Barbaricum why those words had brought her no anger at all.
And, each night, she took out Calopodius' letter and wondered at it also. Anna had lived with anger and bitterness for so long-"so long," at least, to a nineteen-year-old girl-that she was confused by its absence. She was even more confused by the little glow of warmth which the last words in the letter gave her, each time she read them.
"You're a strange woman," Illus told her, as the great battlements and cannons of Barbaricum loomed on the horizon.
There was no way to explain. "Yes," was all she said.
The first thing she did upon arriving at Barbaricum was march into the telegraph office. If the officers in command thought there was anything peculiar about a young Greek noblewoman dressed in the finest and filthiest garments they had ever seen, they kept it to themselves. Perhaps rumors of "the Wife" had preceded her.
"Send a telegram immediately," she commanded. "To my husband, Calopodius the Blind."
They hastened to comply. The message was brief:
Address medical care and sanitation in next dispatch STOP Firmly
STOP
The Iron Triangle
When Calopodius received the telegram-and he received it immediately, because his post was in the Iron Triangle's command and communication center-the first words he said as soon as the telegraph operator finished reading it to him were:
"God, I'm an idiot!"
Belisarius had heard the telegram also. In fact, all the officers in the command center had heard, because they had been waiting with an ear cocked. By now, the peculiar journey of Calopodius' wife was a source of feverish gossip in the ranks of the entire army fighting off the Malwa siege in the Punjab. What the hell is that girl doing, anyway? being only the most polite of the speculations.
The general sighed and rolled his eyes. Then, closed them. It was obvious to everyone that he was reviewing all of Calopodius' now-famous Dispatches in his mind.
"We're both idiots," he muttered. "We've maintained proper medical and sanitation procedures here, sure enough. But…"
His words trailed off. His second-in-command, Maurice, filled in the rest.
"She must have passed through half the invasion staging posts along the way. Garrison troops, garrison officers-with the local butchers as the so-called 'surgeons.' God help us, I don't even want to think…"
"I'll write it immediately," said Calopodius.
Belisarius nodded. "Do so. And I'll give you some choice words to include." He cocked his head at Maurice, smiling crookedly. "What do you think? Should we resurrect crucifixion as a punishment?"
Maurice shook his head. "Don't be so damned flamboyant. Make the punishment fit the crime. Surgeons who do not boil their instruments will be boiled alive. Officers who do not see to it that proper latrines are maintained will be buried alive in them. That sort of thing."
Calopodius was already seated at the desk where he dictated his Dispatches and the chapters of the History. So was his scribe, pen in hand.
"I'll add a few nice little flourishes," his young voice said confidently. "This strikes me as a good place for grammar and rhetoric."
Chapter 12
The Thar Desert
Near the Iron Triangle
Three days later, at sunrise, Belisarius and a small escort rode into the Thar Desert. "The Great Indian Desert," as it was also sometimes called.
They didn't go far. No farther than they'd been able to travel in the three days since they'd left the Triangle. Partly, that because Belisarius' bodyguards were by now pestering him almost constantly regarding his security. They hadn't been happy at all when he'd informed them he planned to leave the Triangle on a week-long scouting expedition of his own. The bodyguards had the not-unreasonable attitude that scouting expeditions should be done by scouts, not commanders-in-chief.
Belisarius didn't disagree with them, as a matter of general principle. Nor was this expedition one of the periodically calculated risks he took, proving to his men that he was willing to share their dangers and hardships. It was, in fact, purely and simply a scouting expedition-and not one in which he expected to encounter any enemies.
Why would he, after all? The Thar was enemy enough, to any human. With the exception of some small nomadic tribes, no one ventured into it willingly. There was no logical reason for the Malwa to be sending patrols into its interior. In any event, Belisarius had been careful to enter the desert much farther south than the most advanced Malwa contingents.
Aide wasn't any happier at the situation than the bodyguards.
This is purely stupid. Why are you bothering, anyway? You already crossed the Thar, once before, when you were fleeing India. And don't try to deny it! I was there, remember?
Belisarius ignored him, for a moment. His eyes continued to range the landscape, absorbing it as best he could.
True, he had crossed this desert once-albeit a considerable distance to the south. Still, what he could see here was not really any different from what he'd seen years earlier. The Thar desert, like most deserts, is much of a sameness.
Yes, I remember-but my memories were those of the man who crossed this desert then. One man, alone, on a camel rather than a horse, and with plenty of water and supplies. I needed to see it again, to really bring back all the memories.
I could have done that for you, Aide pointed out peevishly. One of the crystal's seemingly-magical powers was an ability to bring back any of Belisarius' memories-while Aide had been with him, at least-as vividly as if they'd just happened.
Belisarius shook his head slightly. It's still not the same. I need to feel the heat again, on my own skin. Gauge it, just as I gauge the dryness and the barrenness.
He gave Abbu, riding just behind him to his left, a little jerk of the head to summon him forward.
"What do you think?" he asked the leader of his Arab scouts.
Abbu's grizzle-bearded countenance glared at the desert. "It is nothing, next to the Empty Quarter!"
Bedouin honor having been satisfied, he shrugged. "Still, it is a real desert. No oases, even, from what I've been told."
He's right, Aide chimed in. There aren't any. The desert isn't as bad as it will become a millennia and a half from now, when the first real records were maintained. The Thar is a fairly recent desert. Still, as the old bandit says, it is indeed a real desert. And no artesian wells, either.