no

the great Pharos

Ousanas, but then dismissed the thought. A pointless worry, that, like fretting over how to signal prey to a crouching lion.
The general had been almost certain within two hours, actually. After the usual meaningless amenities during the meal, the wine was poured, and Venandakatra had immediately launched into the subject of Eon's amatory exploits. "Trying to pry out secrets," he'd said, one gay blade to another. But it was soon obvious there were no secrets he didn't know. Except one, which he knew, but misinterpreted exactly as Belisarius had thought he would.
As Ousanas said: Catch the prey by reading its soul.
"Ah, that explains it," said Venandakatra. He giggled. "I had wondered why he chose only Maratha bitches to accompany him on this trip. After" —another giggle— "sampling all the many Indian varieties in Bharakuccha."
Belisarius could not manage a giggle, but he thought his coarse guffaw was quite good enough.
"It's the truth. He loves conquered women. The more recently conquered, the better. They're the most submissive, you see, and that's his taste." Another guffaw, with a drooling trickle of wine down his chin thrown in for good measure. "Why, his soldiers told me that when they conquered Hymria, the kid—he was only seventeen, mind you—had an entire—"
Here followed an utterly implausible tale, to any but Venandakatra. Implausible, at least, in its gross brutality; its portrayal of Eon's stamina was remotely conceivable, in light of his performance in Bharakuccha. Which h