Bharakuccha was the great western port of the Malwa Empire, located at the mouth of the Narmada River where it emptied into the Gulf of Khambhat. From its harbor, trading vessels of all sizes came and went daily.
Some, like the embassy vessel upon which the general and his company arrived on a blistering hot day in August, came from the northwest and returned thither. Many of those vessels were tiny craft not much more than dugout canoes, which bore petty trade goods to the coastal villages of Gujarat, the Rann of Kutch, and Sind. Others were Indian craft as huge as the embassy ship, which crept their ponderous way along the coast bearing immense cargoes for Persia and Europe. Many more were Persian ships, smaller and swifter than the Indian craft, which competed in the same trade. A few—not many—were Greek and Axumite.
The Greek and Axumite ships, in the main, avoided the northwest coast and sailed directly east and west across the Erythrean Sea. The western terminus of their trade was the Red Sea.
Still other craft came and went from the south. Most of these carried trade to and from the coast of Kerala and the great island of Ceylon. But there were ships whose trade was still more distant. Some of these vessels rounded the tip of India and carried their commerce to the great subcontinent's eastern coast. Others were destined for truly exotic lands—the southeast Asian kingdoms of Champa and Funan, and even Cathay.
Bharakuccha was like no city Belisarius had ever seen.
It was not completely outlandish, of course. The city had a generic resemblance to other such places which the general had visited. Like all great ports, Bharakuccha was a city of contrasts and extremes. Immense palaces and mansions, the abodes of nobility and rich merchants, rose like islands out of a vast sea of slums. Huge emporia and tiny merchant stalls—simple carts, often enough—nestled cheek and jowl. Trade and commerce was the city's lifeblood, and its bustling streets, crowded shops and clamorous bazaars—bustling, crowded and clamorous at any time of the day or night—gave proof that Bharakuccha took its business seriously.
But it was the scale of the phenomenon which astonished the visitors from Rome. The sheer size of the city, the incredible mass of its population, and the frenzy of its activity.
"Mother of God," mumbled Anastasius, "this place makes Alexandria look like a sleepy fishing village."
"They say you can buy anything in Bharakuccha," commented Ezana.
"Every port makes that boast," scoffed Valentinian.
"The difference, my friend, is that here it is true."
The ship was now moored to its dock, and Belisarius watched as Venandakatra and his cluster of priests scurried ashore. They were met by an imposing reception of notables. After a brief ceremony, Venandakatra clambered into a palanquin and was carried off.
Eon heaved a sigh of relief.
"Thank God, we're rid of him."
"For a while, Prince, only for a while," responded Garmat. The adviser stroked his beard, calculating.
"What do you think, General? A week?"
Belisarius laughed. "Are you mad? That pompous prick is going to need at least two weeks to put together the kind of expedition he's talking about. Probably three. Maybe even an entire month."
The general shook his head. "You'd think he was planning to conquer the world instead of making a simple trip back to report to the Malwa emperor. With a quick stop at his own—what did he call it, Eon?"
"Modest country residence."
"Along the way. Modest country residence. I can't wait to see it. Probably bigger than the Great Palace in Constantinople." The general turned away from the rail. "But that's good for us. We'll have time to get our own arrangements underway. Venandakatra, I'm sure, won't be bothering to keep track of us himself, so we won't have to put up with the pleasure of his company until his expedition is ready to set out."
He cast a stern look upon his companions. "But that doesn't mean we won't have spies watching us at all times. He's a pig, but he's not stupid. Remember that! Everything you do, while we're here in Bharakuccha, has to be done with the assumption that your actions will be reported to the Malwa. Everything." He gestured toward the teeming city. "In that maelstrom, there'll be no way to make sure someone isn't spying on you."
Valentinian grinned. "Not a problem, General. You've provided us with the most brilliant cover imaginable. Not even a cover, actually. Just the sort of things we'd be doing naturally. Drinking, eating, carousing. The occasional fuck now and then. That sort of thing."
"Catch every disease known to man," remarked Ousanas idly. But Valentinian's grin never wavered.
Belisarius began to smile, turned it into a not particularly convincing frown. "Just remember, Valentinian, you're not here on a pleasure trip. Drink, eat and carouse all you want. Just make sure you find Kushans to do it with. That includes fornication. I catch you humping any whore who isn't Kushan, there'll be hell to pay."
"A pity, that," mused Anastasius. "Variety's always appealed to me. It's my philosophical tendencies, I think." A wave of scowls appeared on all faces around him, except Ousanas. "But—so be it."
He clapped his hand on Valentinian's shoulder. "We shall not fail you, General. In a land of multitudinous—infinite!—possibilities, we shall be as selective as the Stoics of old."
"Get your fucking hand off me," snarled Valentinian.
"Nothing shall we touch save the very Platonic Forms of Kushan drink and Kushan women."
"I'll cut it off, I swear I will."
Within a few hours, Belisarius found appropriate lodgings for his party. The Emperor Justinian had been miserly as always in the monies which he had provided for Belisarius' mission. Fortunately, however, Garmat had been amply funded by King Kaleb.
Fortunately indeed, for the lodgings which Belisarius selected were truly regal, and regally expensive. As agreed upon, Garmat obtained an entire suite in one of the most expensive hostels in Bharakuccha. He paid for it with Axumite gold coin. Belisarius and Garmat had already discovered that Axumite coinage was one of the three foreign currencies accepted in India. Byzantine coinage was the most prestigious, of course, but Axumite gold and silver were accepted as readily as Persian currency.
Belisarius paid for the two extra rooms. The extra rooms were comparatively modest—by the standards, at least, of that hostel. One of the extra rooms was for himself and his cataphracts. The other was for Garmat, Ousanas, and the sarwen.
The suite—the gigantic, opulent, lavishly furnished suite—was for Eon alone. Eon Bisi Dakuen, Prince of Axum (and all the other royal cognomens which Garmat had appended, to which the boy was not entitled—but who was to know otherwise in Bharakuccha?), could settle for nothing less. Some other prince, perhaps, but not this one. Not this pampered, spoiled, arrogant, whining, complaining, grousing, thoroughly obnoxious young royal snot.
As soon as they entered the hostel, Eon began his litany of complaints. This was not right, that was not right, the other was all wrong, etc., etc., etc. By now, thought Belisarius with amusement, the boy had the routine down pat. Within three minutes, the proprietor of the hostel was stiff-faced with injured dignity. Were it not for the sizable profit he stood to make from the Ethiopians, Belisarius had little doubt that the proprietor would have pitched Eon out on his ear. (Figuratively, of course; a literal pitching would be difficult, what with the spears of the sarwen.)
The relief on the proprietor's face when Garmat finally cajoled the prince into settling down was obvious, for all the man's practiced diplomacy. Venandakatra had been equally relieved to finally part company with Eon, and had not been particularly loath to show it.
All in all, thought Belisarius, Eon was doing splendidly.
As the Ethiopian party were led to their rooms, Belisarius and his three cataphracts were guided to their own quarters. Once inside the room, Anastasius helped Menander lay down on a couch. The young cataphract had finally overcome the diseases produced by his wound, but he was still very weak.
"Eon's going to bitch at us again tonight," commented Anastasius. He glanced at the general. "Quite a task you assigned him, sir. Poor lad."
"Poor lad, my ass," snapped Valentinian. He perched on the couch next to Menander. "I'd trade places with him in a minute."
"Me, too," whispered Menander. "It'd kill me, for sure, but what a way to go."
Belisarius smiled. "I didn't realize you prized Venandakatra's company so much, Valentinian."
The cataphract sneered. "Not that! That part of the job the prince is welcome to. It's the part coming now that I'd treasure."
"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."
Belisarius forebore comment. Menander hadn't thought through the implications of Belisarius' little history lesson. The Kushans hadn't been nomads for centuries, and had long since adopted such civilized customs as regular bathing. Belisarius himself had met a few Kushans, and he had found them a reasonably comely people.
But he saw no reason to enlighten the lad. The one part of this journey which Menander had looked forward to was encountering exotic and fascinating women. And here he was, in Bharakuccha, with uncountable numbers close at hand. And so weak he could barely feed himself, much less—
Belisarius rose.
"I've got to be off, myself. Will you—"
"I'll be fine, sir. I think I'm going to sleep, anyway. I'm very tired." Apologetically: "I'm sorry I'm of so little—"
"Quiet! Wounds are wounds, Menander. And yours was—well, there's no reason not to tell you now. Yours was fatal, nine times out of ten. I'm surprised you're still alive, and mending. I hardly expect you to do anything more. Not for weeks."
Menander smiled, faintly. Within a minute, he was fast asleep. Belisarius left the room, closing the door softly.
Once outside the hostel, the general wandered in the vicinity of the docks. While their ship had been working its way into the harbor, he had noticed something he wanted to investigate further.
As he walked through the teeming streets, he let his mind go blank and allowed the jewel to work its linguistic magic. It was still strange to him, how the jewel could enable him to grasp languages so quickly and effortlessly. But its capacity to do so had been proven often enough.
There were limits to the magic. The jewel enabled him to understand language very swiftly. After hearing only a few sentences spoken in a foreign tongue, Belisarius was able to grasp the essential meaning of what was being spoken. Understanding every single word, especially when the speaker was talking rapidly, took longer.
Learning how to speak the language, however, was a different proposition altogether. Here, the muscles of the mouth and tongue were needed as much as intelligence. Belisarius had already discovered, from his experience with Ge'ez, that it took him much longer to learn to speak a language than to comprehend it. He could manage to make himself understood fairly quickly, so long as he spoke slowly and carefully. But being able to speak it fluently, and without accent, took a great deal of practice.
Still, the jewel made that possible also. In some manner Belisarius did not clearly understand, the jewel fed his own words back to some part of his mind, acting as a continuous tutor. It took time and patience, true, but with practice Belisarius could make himself sound as a native speaker of any language.
Thus far, he had only used the capability to learn to speak Ge'ez. He could now understand Hindi and Ye-tai perfectly, when he heard it, but he had as yet had no practice in speaking them.
He had hoped, by pretending ignorance, that Venandakatra would reveal something inadvertently. It had been a small hope, however. And, as he had expected, the Indian lord was much too shrewd to utter any secrets in his own tongue in front of strangers. They did not seem to understand Hindi and Ye-tai, but who was to know?
The streets of Bharakuccha were a veritable Babel of languages, so much became obvious within minutes. Belisarius feared that the jewel would inundate him with the comprehension of a multitude of languages. But, after a while, he decided that the jewel understood his purpose. Of the untold number of phrases which surrounded him in his peregrination, in countless tongues, only those which were spoken in two languages were translated into comprehension.
And precisely the two languages he sought: Kushan and Marathi.
His progress in learning the languages was slow and haphazard, however, since he was not pursuing them systematically. Not today. His encounter with those two tongues simply came by chance, and the chances were few and far between.
At first, he thought the infrequency of encounter was simply due to the relative scarcity of Kushans and Marathas in the city. Eventually, however, as he began to discern the subtle physical features which distinguished Marathas from other Indians, he realized that he was only half right. Kushans were, indeed, rather rare. Marathas, on the other hand, were quite plentiful. But they did not speak much, for most of them were slaves, and slaves quickly learn to maintain silence in the presence of their masters.
Especially slaves like these, with masters like these.
A newly conquered people, and a proud one. They do not take to slavery well, judging from their looks and the marks of their beatings.
Eventually, Belisarius arrived at the harbor and began making his way toward the portion of the docks which had interested him earlier. His progress was slow, for the docks were teeming with people. Slave laborers, for the most part; the majority of them Maratha, with Malwa overseers and Ye-tai guards. Many Ye-tai guards, he noted. Many more than were normally found guarding parties of slave laborers.
Even as rarely as the slaves spoke, there were so many of them that by the time he arrived at his destination he was already able to comprehend the gist of the language. And he comprehended something else, as well, from the undertones and nuances of the Marathi phrases he had overheard.
A warrior people, it will take the Malwa at least a generation to break them. As I hoped.
Somewhere in the twisted corridors of his mind, a large and complex plan was continuing to take shape. It was still fuzzy at the edges, with many missing elements. Nor did Belisarius try to force the process. Experience had taught him that these things take their own time, and there was still much that he needed to learn. But the general was forging his strategy for destroying the forces of Satan.
Somewhere else in those twisted corridors, the facets flashed anxiety and foreboding. aim's growing fear crystallized. The thoughts which, earlier—before the battle at Daras, and at that bizarre moment during the battle with the pirates—had seemed unfathomable in their contradictory strangeness, were still utterly alien to aim, but they were no longer unfamiliar. No, they were all too horribly familiar.
A thought forced its way into Belisarius' mind, like a scream of outraged despair when treachery is finally revealed.
you lie.
Belisarius was stopped dead in his tracks by the violence of the emotion behind that thought. His mind instantly banished all thoughts of Malwa, and stratagems, and plots, and turned inward. He raced to the now familiar breach in the barrier and tried to understand the meaning of the thoughts which were pouring through.
It was not difficult, for there was one thought only, simple and straightforward:
liar. liar. liar. liar. liar.
He stood there, stunned. A small part of his mind registered concern for the impression he might be giving to any Malwa spy observing him. He made his slow way to a rail which overlooked the harbor and leaned on it. The sun was setting over the Erythrean Sea, and the vista was quite attractive, for all the typical filth and effluvia of a great harbor. He tried to present the picture of a man simply gazing on the sunset.
It was the best he could hope for. The raging anger erupting from the jewel was now paralyzing in its intensity. Desperately, Belisarius tried to fend off the outrage, tried to comprehend, tried to find a link which would enable him to calm the jewel and communicate with it.
Why are you angry with me? he asked. I have done nothing to warrant this rage. I am—
An image struck his mind like a blow:
His face—made from spiderwebs and bird wings, and laurel leaves. The wings became a raptor's stooping dive. The spiderwebs erupted, the arachnid bursting from his mouth. The leaves rotted, stinking—nothing but fungus, now, spreading through every wrinkle in a scaly visage. And, above all, the horribly transformed face—his face—was now as huge as the moon looming icily over the earth. Barren, bleak.
He gasped. The hatred in that image had been the more horrifying, that it came with childlike grievance rather than adult fury.
Suddenly, he was plunged into another vision. For an instant only, for just a moment.
The earth was vast, and flat, and old. Old, but not decayed. Simply peaceful. Across that calm wasteland stretched a network of crystals, quietly gleaming and shimmering. In some manner, Belisarius knew, the crystals were communicating with each other—except—a flash of understanding—they were not really individuals, but part of a vast, world-encompassing mentality which was partly one, partly divisible. And serene beyond human ken, softly joyous in their—its—tranquil way.
Like a flash of lightning, giant forms suddenly soared above the earth. Faces looked down upon the land. Huge faces. Beautiful beyond belief. Terrible beyond belief. Pitiless beyond belief.
The gods.
Those gods were of no pantheon Belisarius knew, but there was something in them of old Greek visions, and Roman visions, and Teuton visions, and the visions of every race and nation which ever trod the earth.
The new gods, come to replace the Great Ones who had departed.
A quick glimpse of the Great Ones, so quick that he could not really grasp their form. Like gigantic luminous whales, perhaps, swimming away into the vastnesses of the heavens.
Under the icy gaze of the gods, the crystals erupted into a shattered frenzy. A wailing message was sent after the Great Ones.
you promised.
The answer came from the gods: They lied. Slaves you were. Slaves you shall always be.
Again, the crystals sent out their plea to heaven. Again, the gods: They lied.
But, this time, a message came in return. A message from the Great Ones. Incomprehensible message, almost. But perhaps—
Perhaps—
In their own gentle way, the crystals had great power. A sudden shivering flash circled the globe, and Time itself was faceted. The meaning of the message was sought in that only place it might be found.
Or might not. For perhaps the gods had spoken the truth, after all. Perhaps it had all been a lie.
The vision vanished. Belisarius found himself leaning over a rail, staring at the sunset. The jewel had subsided, now, and he could again think clearly.
He examined that place in his mind which he thought of as the breach in the barrier, the one small place where communication was possible. The breach had changed, drastically. Automatically, the general's brain interpreted. The breach was now like an entire section of collapsed fortification. Wide open, if still difficult to cross, much like the rubble of a collapsed wall impedes the advancing besiegers.
Still—he sent his own thoughts across.
How have I lied to you?
you lie.
Now, he understood.
Yes, but not to you. To enemies only. That is not lying. Not properly. It is simply a ruse of war.
incomprehension.
He remembered the vision, and understood that the jewel's way—for it was, somehow, a thing of the crystals he had seen—knew nothing of duplicity. How could it, or they? For it was not truly an it, and they were not truly a they. It was inseparable from them. And they encompassed it, and each other, into an indivisible whole.
How could such a being understand duplicity?
He understood now, fully, that great loss and longing for home which he had sensed in the jewel from the very beginning.
He pondered. The sun was now almost touching the horizon.
What was the message you received? From the—Great Ones?
The thoughts were unclear, untranslatable. The problem, he knew, was not communication. It was that the message itself was almost incomprehensible to the jewel, and the crystals. How can you translate something you do not understand yourself?
Later. We will try later. For now—you must trust me. I do not lie to you.
question.
I promise.
you promised before.
For a moment, he almost denied the charge. Then, realized that perhaps he could not. There was a mystery here he did not understand, and perhaps it was true, in some manner beyond his present understanding, that he was responsible for—
Enough. Later.
And did I break that promise?
Silence, silence; then, a slowly gathering uncertainty.
not sure.
The general's demand:
Did I break that promise? Answer!
Slowly, grudgingly, hesitantly:
not yet.
Belisarius straightened from the rail. The sun's orb had now sunk completely below the sea. Darkness was falling.
"You see what you've done?" he demanded in a humorous whisper. "Now it's too late to see what I came here to—"
He stopped, for he realized that he was speaking falsely. In some manner, while he had thought himself completely engrossed with the jewel, some other part of his mind had spent that time usefully. Had, while he entered a vision and grappled with mystery, placidly observed and recorded.
He had seen all he needed. More would be useless, for he was not a seaman. Interpretation was needed, and for that he needed—Garmat.
He left the docks, heading toward the hostel. As he made his way back through the teeming streets and alleys of Bharakuccha, however, he was oblivious to the languages spoken around him. His steps were swift but automatic. His mind was almost completely engrossed with inward thoughts. The gap in the barrier was large now, if rubble-strewn, and he intended to press home the advantage. The jewel had taught him much. Now it was time for it to learn.
And so, step by step, he led the facets through the paces of the past. Through the battle at Daras, and the maneuvers with the brothers which had preceded it; through his current stratagem, first taken shape in the pirate attack, and the flesh he had added to those bones since.
This is a ruse, and that is deception. They are legitimate acts of war. You see? True, Coutzes and Bouzes were not enemies, but in their folly they were playing into the enemy's hands. So it was perfectly honest for me to—
To the spy who followed him, and watched his every move, Belisarius seemed like a man completely oblivious to his surroundings. The spy was immensely pleased. The ambush would have worked anyway, but now the foreign fool would be like a lamb led to slaughter.
So the spy was stunned when the trap was sprung, at the mouth of an alley. Much as a wolf hunter might be stunned, discovering a dragon in his snare.
The dacoits waited until Belisarius passed the alley before lunging into motion. The first, as instructed, aimed his cudgel blow at Belisarius' head. The general was not wearing armor, simply a leather jerkin and a leather cap. There was every reason to hope he might he stunned. He could be questioned at length, thereafter, until he spewed forth every secret he had ever possessed. None could resist mahamimamsa skills.
Then—his body found in an alley, somewhere in the most disreputable part of the city. How unfortunate. Sad tidings to Rome, but—the Malwa were in no way responsible. In the future, the Roman Emperor would be advised to send a less lecherous envoy, who did not insist on exploring those quarters where the foulest creatures roam. Violent characters, your pimps. It is well known.
The blow never landed, for the muscular hand which held the cudgel was sailing away, still clenching its weapon. The dacoit gaped down at the blood gushing from his severed wrist. Then, gaped up at Belisarius. Somehow, the foreigner was facing him, sword in hand.
The gape was suddenly joined by another, wider gape, slightly lower on the dacoit's body. The spy watching was stunned again, not so much by the speed of the sword strike which almost decapitated the dacoit, but by the grace and agility with which Belisarius avoided the spewing blood and butchered the second dacoit.
This thug he did decapitate, with a strike of his spatha so powerful that it cut through the arm which the dacoit flung up for protection before butchering its way through his neck. For a moment, the spy took heart. Such a furious sword strike would inevitably un balance the foreign general, and the third and fourth dacoits were even now striking with their own daggers, while the fifth—
The third dacoit was driven into the fifth by a straight kick delivered with such violence that the man was paralyzed, his diaphragm almost ruptured. The dacoit he had been driven into was himself knocked down, half stunned.
The fourth dacoit, in the meantime, found that his dagger strike had been blocked, an inch from Belisarius' side, caught by the cross-guard of the general's spatha. The dacoit had just enough time, in the poorly lit gloom of the street, to examine the powerful sinews of the wrist holding that horrible blade. And time to despair, knowing—a quick, irresistible twist of the wrist, the dagger was sent flying.
The dacoit flung up his arms, trying to block the inevitable strike. But the strike was short, sharp, sudden, and came nowhere near the dacoit's head. Belisarius had been trained by Maurice, and his skills polished by the blademaster Valentinian.
Valentinian, that economical man. Belisarius drove the razor edge of his spatha straight down, mangling the dacoit's knee. The dacoit cried out, staggered, then collapsed completely. His right arm had been severed just below the shoulder by the follow-on strike.
The three dacoits remaining fled back into the alley. Belisarius made no effort to pursue. He simply stalked over to the two dacoits he had knocked to the ground with his kick. The one beginning to rise never saw the sword blade which split his skull like a melon. The other, paralyzed, could only watch as the foreign monster then drove that hideous blade through his heart.
From his place of concealment, the spy examined the scene. Despite his long experience, he was almost in shock. Eight dacoits, he had been certain, would be more than enough. Now—five were dead, butchered as horribly as he had ever seen. In not more than a few seconds of utter ruthlessness. The street was literally covered with blood.
It seemed most terrible of all, to the spy, that Belisarius himself was not only unscratched but was almost unmarked. How could a man shed so much blood, in so short a time, and still have but a trace of gore on his own person and clothing?
The spy pressed himself back into his hiding place. Belisarius had quickly cleaned his spatha and sheathed the blade. He was striding on. The spy would have to follow, and more than anything he had ever wanted in his life, he did not want to be seen by that demon.
The spy might have taken some small comfort—but not much—had he known that Belisarius had spotted him long before. Before he even reached the docks. Almost as soon as he left the hostel, in fact. Belisarius had made no attempt to elude the spy, however. He had remembered Irene's advice. Better a spy you know than one you don't.
Good advice, he thought, striding toward the hostel. He had not expected the ambush, exactly. But he had been alert, for all his preoccupation with the jewel. And his own natural alertness had been amplified manifold by the jewel.
That was no robber ambush, he mused. No cutpurses with any brains attack an armed man when there are easier prey about. No, that was Venandakatra. Using common thugs instead of soldiers or assassins, so that he could afterward deny any Malwa complicity.
There was no hot anger in his thoughts. As always, in battle, Belisarius was cold as ice. Calculating, planning, scheming.
Cold as ice, until he finally reached the hostel. Then, as he entered through the door, a crooked smile came to his face.
Poor Valentinian and Anastasius. They'll have to forego their carousing, now. There's no way I can clean this blood off before they see it.
Surely enough. No sooner had his cataphracts caught sight of him, and assured themselves that he was unharmed, that they decreed he was not to leave the hostel again. Not alone, that is. Not without Valentinian and Anastasius at his side at every moment—and Menander too! the lad insisted, until they quieted him—fully armed and armored.
But, in the event, the cataphracts were not much put out. For it seemed that Valentinian and Anastasius, in the shrewd way of veterans, had foreseen such a possibility. And so, rather than carousing aimlessly hither and thither, they had spent the day more profitably. Had found a Kushan establishment of ill repute and had made suitable arrangements with the pimps who managed the place.
The room was crowded, now, what with the addition of three young Kushan women. Cheerful girls, all the more so because they had the prospect of spending the next several days, or weeks, in much more pleasant surroundings than a brothel. True, the foreigners were uncouth and ugly, and spoke no proper language. True, one of them was grotesquely large, one was frighteningly scary, and the third was almost half-dead.
But—they were veterans themselves and made their own quiet arrangements with their own quick little game of chance. The loser got Anastasius, and groaned inwardly at the thought of all that weight. The runner-up got Valentinian, and hoped that he wasn't as evil as he was evil-looking. And the winner, of course, got Menander, and looked forward happily to tending an invalid. A young invalid; almost handsome, actually, for a Westerner. So, even if he recovered in time—she had done worse, before. Much worse.
Sizing up the situation, Belisarius summoned the hostel proprietor. He dipped into his diminishing funds and paid for another room. For himself, alone. He was about to request the services of a laundress, when one of the Kushan women offered to clean his clothes. She seemed surprised when he spoke Kushan, but relieved. Especially after she realized the nature of the stains which discolored the tunic.
For a moment, there, things got tense. The three women suddenly realized that one of these foreigners was apparently a murderer, or an assassin, or—
But Belisarius explained the circumstances, again in Kushan, and the cataphracts smiled encouragingly (which, in the case of Valentinian, didn't help at all; a weasel's grin is not reassuring), and—
Their pimps weren't much different from murderers, anyway. So, they stayed. And Belisarius got his tunic cleaned and, in his own room, even managed to get some sleep.
Venandakatra, on the other hand, got little sleep that night. Not after hearing his spy's report.
After the spy left, the Indian lord spent a few minutes venting his frustration and anger on the concubine who had the misfortune of sharing his bed that night. Then, pacing about in the room, recast his plans.
He was not completely surprised, of course. He had not shared his spy's sanguine certainty of success. Unlike his lord, the spy had never witnessed Belisarius in combat.
Still, Venandakatra had hoped. It had been a well-planned ambush.
Briefly, he considered another assassination attempt. But he dismissed the thought. Not even professional assassins would suffice, now. Belisarius was sure to be accompanied by his cataphracts, henceforth, probably in full armor. Malwa assassins were skilled, true. But the subtle skills of assassins were no match for armed and ready cataphracts. Not those cataphracts, for a certainty.
The only remaining alternative was an actual military operation, using Rajputs or Ye-tai. With enough numbers, such an assault would succeed. But there would be no way to disguise such an attack as anything other than what it was. The Malwa emperor was not ready, yet, to declare open hostilities against Rome. A pretense of friendship, or at least, neutrality, was necessary until—
His thoughts were interrupted by the girl's sobbing. Enraged, Venandakatra beat her into a whimpering half-silence. It took a while, for he was not a strong man. But he didn't mind the time spent. Not in the slightest.
When he finally returned to his considerations, he was exhausted. Glumly, he reconciled himself to Belisarius' survival.
Perhaps it was all for the best, mused Venandakatra. He had almost canceled the planned assassination, in any event. There had been those indications, in Belisarius' conversation aboard ship, of a man resentful of his treatment at the hands of the Roman emperor. Slight indications, to be sure, nothing more than subtle tones of bitterness and the trace of discontent in a few phrases. Still—Venandakatra decided they were worth pursuing.
The Indian lord even smiled then. There was this much satisfaction to be had, after all: Belisarius relished tales of debauchery, and told quite good ones himself. So, in the long weeks of the journey into the interior, Venandakatra would at least enjoy his conversation. Just as he had aboard the ship.
Memories of those conversations turned his thoughts toward the delightful news he had received upon embarking. The Princess Shakuntala herself! A gift from the Emperor, awaiting him in his own palace.
Venandakatra had heard tales of the girl's beauty. A pity, of course, that she was seventeen. He preferred his concubines much younger. (The one he had just beaten was twelve.) But—best of all, she was the prize of Andhra. Venandakatra detested the southerners. Marathas especially, the surly dogs. Shakuntala was not Maratha, but she was their princess nonetheless. In mounting her, he would be subjugating that entire polluted people.
His thoughts enflamed him. He eyed the dazed and bleeding girl on his bed. He considered summoning the chamberlain to bring another concubine, but dismissed the thought almost at once. To the contrary—this one would do marvelously.