"To move along the line of natural expectation consolidates the opponent's balance and thus increases his resisting power . . . In most campaigns the dislocation of the enemy's psychological and physical balance has been the vital prelude to a successful attempt at his overthrow."
—B. H. Liddell-Hart, Strategy
Once he was satisfied that his men had finished all the necessary preparations for their departure, Kungas decided that it was time to pay a courtesy call. It would be a long journey to the Emperor's camp at the siege of Ranapur. At least a month, probably more, judging from the appearance of the caravan—and his past experience with the caravan's master. He and his men would be spending a considerable time with the party of foreigners they had been assigned to escort. Best to be introduced properly, in advance, so that no unfortunate misunderstandings would arise.
Especially with those foreigners, thought Kungas, as he passed through the courtyard of Venandakatra's palace. He stopped for a moment, to admire the scenery.
A harsh life had taught Kungas many lessons. One of those was to keep your sentiments hidden. The world had always presented a hard face to him; he returned the compliment. Old Iron-face, he knew, was one of the nicknames his men had for him. He did not object. No, not in the slightest.
Still, even for Kungas, it was hard not to grin.
Four of the Ye-tai were still alive, barely. One of them was even still making some noise. Small, mewling sounds. With luck, thought Kungas, that one might survive another day. Another day of agony and hopelessness.
Kungas would be gone by then, but he would be able to cherish the memory. He and his men had been assigned the task of cutting the stakes and spitting the Ye-tai. It had been the most pleasurable duty they'd had in years.
His eye fell on a figure perched among the Ye-tai, and his pleasure vanished.
Not all of it.
They had done what they could for the old woman. They had tried to smuggle in a longer stake, but Venandakatra had spotted it and forbidden its use. The servant was to be spitted on the same short stakes as the Ye-tai, in order to prolong the agony.
The mental grin returned. It was a bleak, bleak grin.
But we'd expected that. Too bad we couldn't get any real poison, in the short time we had. But the women in the kitchen mixed up what they could. Venandakatra watched us like a hawk, to make sure we didn't slip her anything to eat or drink. But we'd expected that, too. By the time we fit the poor soul onto the stake, the stuff had all dried. Venandakatra would have had to scrape the stake itself to spot it.
He started to turn away. Then, moved by an impulse, turned back. His eyes quickly scanned the courtyard. No one was watching.
Kungas made a very slight bow to the dead crone. He thought it was the least he could do. By the time the villagers would be allowed to remove her body, there would not be much left. The priests would refuse, of course, to do the rituals. So, the poor wretch was at least owed that much from her killer.
It was not, in any real sense, a religious gesture. Like most of his people, Kungas still retained traces of the Buddhist faith which the Kushans had adopted after conquering Bactria and north India. Adopted, and then championed. In its heyday, Peshawar, the capital of the Kushan Empire, had been the great world center of Buddhist worship and scholarship. But the glory days of the Kushan empire were gone. The stupas lay in ruins; the monks and scholars dead or scattered to the wind. The Ye-tai, on their own, had persecuted Buddhism savagely. And after the barbarians were absorbed into the rising Malwa power, the persecution had simply intensified. To the brutality of the Ye-tai had been added the calculating ruthlessness of the Malwa. They intended their Mahaveda cult to stamp out all rival tendencies within the great umbrella of Hinduism. Needless to say, they had absolutely no ruth toward Buddhists or Jains.
Between the persecution and his own harsh life, therefore, Kungas retained very little of any religious sentiment. So, his slight bow to the dead crone was more in the way of a warrior's nod to a courageous soul. Perhaps that recognition would comfort her soul, a bit, waiting for its new life. (If there was a new life. Or such a thing as a soul. Kungas was skeptical.)
Not that her soul probably needs much comfort, he thought wryly as he walked away. She seemed to enjoy the Ye-tai squawling even more than we did. Maybe we did her a disservice, poisoning her.
He rubbed the new wound on his face, briefly. It was scabbed over now, and would heal soon enough. The pain was irrelevant. Kungas did not think the scar would even last beyond a few months. The man who put it there was a weak man, for all that he'd been in a rage. And a quirt is not, all things considered, the best weapon to use, if you want to scar up an old veteran.
And I'd much rather carry around a quirt-scar than be stuck on a stake.
The thought made him pause, brought another impulse. A very wry sense of humor, Kungas had. He stopped and turned back again; again examined the courtyard to make sure no spies were about; again bowed slightly. This time to the Ye-tai.
I thank you, O mighty Ye-tai. You saved my life. And probably that of all the Kushans.
As he walked out of the courtyard, he thought back on the episode.
Leave it to Venandakatra—the great warrior, the brilliant tactician. What a genius. As soon as he got the news, he rushed here ahead of his little army. Accompanied only by a few priests and that handful of foreigners. Within the hour, he was in a full rage. He ordered all the Ye-tai guards of the palace impaled—in public, right in front of them—and then noticed that the only soldiers he had to enforce the order were a Rajput cavalry troop. Leaving aside a hundred or so Malwa infantry, who ran like rabbits as soon as the Ye-tai went berserk.
Oh, what a fray that was! And after it was over, of course, he could hardly impale us next to them. Who'd do it? Not the Rajputs! Those snotty pricks suffered most of the casualties, except a handful of common soldiers who didn't run fast enough. We were unarmed, at the beginning—at the genius' own command—so the Ye-tai ignored us. By the time we could collect our weapons, it was almost over.
Grudgingly:
I'll give that much to the Rajputs. They fought well, as always.
But it still would have been touch and go, if the foreigners hadn't waded in. Lethal, they were. Absolutely murderous.
He pondered that last thought.
Why, I wonder? The Rajputs were happy enough, of course, to chop up Ye-tai dogs. So were we, once we got our weapons. But why should foreigners care? I can understand why they'd side with Venandakatra—they're his guests, after all. By why do it with such avid enthusiasm? You'd think they'd had some quarrel of their own with the Ye-tai.
With his usual quick pace, Kungas was soon well down the tiled entryway to the courtyard. He was now beyond sight of anyone watching him from the palace. For the first time, the amusement in his mind surfaced on Kungas' face. Barely, of course. Only someone who knew the man intimately would have interpreted that faint, hairline curve in his lips as a smile.
Oh, yes, they were beautiful. I think they butchered almost as many Ye-tai as the Rajputs did. And didn't suffer anything more than scratches, except for that kid. Too bad about him. But he'll recover, eventually.
The thought brought him back to his current assignment.
Yes, I think a courtesy call is quite the right thing to do. A very courteous courtesy call.
I definitely want to be on civil terms with those men. Oh, yes. Very civil. This assignment's a bit like escorting a group of tigers.
Then:
Now that I think about it, I'm not sure I wouldn't rather have tigers.
It took Kungas a while to find the party he was looking for. To his surprise, he discovered that the foreigners had been assigned a position at the very tail end of the huge caravan. After the supply train, right in the middle of the horde of camp followers.
Odd place for honored guests.
As he walked down the line of the caravan, Kungas puzzled over the matter.
Now that I think about it, our great lord did seem a bit peeved with them. Their leader, especially. I noticed Venandakatra casting quite a few glares in his direction. Didn't think much of it, at the time. I assumed it was just the great lord's mood, being spread around as usual. He has no reason to be pissed off at the foreigners, that I can see. Did him a service, they did. Without them, a few of the Ye-tai might have gotten to the bastard and carved him up.
Odd.
Eventually, Kungas found his party. The leader was standing off to the side of the road, watching the progress in loading the howdahs on the two elephants assigned to the foreigners. He and the two men with him were apparently seeking relief from the midday heat in the shade of the trees. That alone marked them for foreigners, leaving aside their pale skins and outlandish costumes. Shade brought little relief from the humid swelter. The trees simply cut down the slight breeze and provided a haven for insects.
Looking at him, Kungas was struck again by the disparity between the man and his position.
Weirdest general I ever saw. Too young by half, and twice as deadly as any general I ever met. That man is pure murder with a sword.
Thoughts of deadliness drew Kungas' eyes to the general's companions. They were standing a few feet away from their leader, in the posture of guards.
Kungas examined the one on the left first—the smaller one.
I do believe that is the wickedest-looking man I ever saw in my life. Like the world's meanest mongoose.
He transferred his gaze to the one on the right—the huge one.
Legends live. The great ogre of the Himalayas walks among us. With a face carved out of the very stone of the great mountains.
The general caught sight of him. He seemed to stiffen a bit, but Kungas wasn't certain. The general had one of those expressionless faces which are almost impossible to read. Kungas marched up to him. Summoned up his poor Greek.
"You is General Belisarius? Envoy for—from Rome?"
The general nodded.
"I is name Kungas. Commander for—of Lord Venandakatra's Kushan—ah, group? Force. Lord Venandakatra has—ah, what is word?—"
"I speak Kushan," said the general.
Kungas sighed inward relief.
"Thank you. I fear my Greek is wretched. We have been assigned to serve as your escort during the trip to Ranapur."
Again, Kungas found it almost impossible to read the man's expression. But, yes, he did seem a bit stiff. As if he were unhappy to see the Kushan. Kungas couldn't think of a reason why that would be true, but he was almost sure he was correct.
However, the general was cordial. And his Kushan was certainly good. Excellent, in fact—without even a trace of an accent.
"A pleasure, Kungas." His voice was a rich baritone.
The general hesitated, and then said:
"Please do not take this the wrong way, Kungas. But I must say I'm surprised to see you. We don't really need an escort. We didn't have one on the trip here from Bharakuccha. We're quite capable of taking care of ourselves."
Kungas' face cracked into a tiny smile.
"Yes, I have seen. However, the lord was quite insistent."
"Ah." The general was diverted for a moment, swiping at a fly which landed on his neck. Kungas noted, however, that the foreigner's keen brown eyes never left off their scrutiny of him. And that he killed the fly regardless.
After flicking away the dead insect, the general commented idly:
"I would have thought you would be assigned to join the hunt for the princess and her rescuers—ah, excuse me, abductors."
The iron face grew harder still.
"I fear my lord has developed a certain distrust for us. I do not understand why. The princess was not resc—ah, abducted—while we were guarding her."
Kungas thought the general was fighting back a smile. But he was not certain. A hard man to read.
"Besides," Kungas continued, "Lord Venandakatra really has no need for us to join the pursuit. He already has hundreds of Rajput cavalry scouring the countryside, and well over a thousand other troops."
The foreign general looked away for a moment. When the eyes turned back, his gaze seemed particularly intent.
"What is your professional assessment, Kungas? Do you think the princess and her—ah, abductors—will be caught?"
"One abductor only, General."
"One?" The general frowned. "I had heard a whole band of vicious cutthroats were responsible. The palace was a scene of utter massacre, according to rumor."
"Massacre? Oh, yes. Massacre, indeed. The majordomo, three high priests, and two mahamimamsa guards garroted. Eleven priests and mahamimamsa butchered in their beds—their throats cut by a razor, apparently. A priest and a mahamimamsa slain in the great hall. Handwork, that, by a deadly assassin. Three mahamimamsa knifed outside the antechamber. A priest and six more mahamimamsa guards slaughtered in the antechamber. Blade-work again, mostly. Then, two more mahamimamsa slain in the princess' own sleeping chamber. Assassin handwork again, although—"
"Although?"
Kungas made a quick assessment. Partly, the assessment was based on his memory of Venandakatra's scowls toward the general. But, in the main, it was based on the faint but unmistakable trace of humor in the general's voice when he used the word "abductors."
"Well, as it happens, I examined the scene of the—ah, crime—myself. At Lord Venandakatra's behest. That is why I said `one abductor.' The entire operation was carried out by one man."
"One man?" demanded the general. But he did not seem particularly astonished.
Kungas nodded. "Yes. One man. The trail of slaughter was that left by a single man, not a group. One man, alone. A man by the name of Raghunath Rao. The Panther of Maharashtra, he is sometimes called. Or the Wind of the Great Country. Other names. It was he. I am certain of it. He is known to have a personal attachment to the princess. There are not more than three—possibly four—assassins in India who are that deadly. And none has that proficiency with their bare hands and feet."
Kungas almost grimaced. "No one else can shatter bones and pulverize bodies that way. That is why—ah, that is, the two mahamimamsa who were killed in the princess' own chamber were also slain by hand. But the blows, though skillful, had none of the pure fury of the Panther's."
The general frowned.
"But—you said one man—"
"The princess. She killed them. She was trained by Raghunath Rao, you see. Such, at least, is my personal belief. I watched her dance, many times, in the long months I served as her captor—ah, guardian. Wonderful dancer, but—well, there was always that scent of the assassin about her movements. And in Amaravati, at the end of the siege, she killed several Ye-tai who attacked her in her room. One of them after she was disarmed."
The general's eyes widened. Slightly.
Kungas lowered his head, stared at the ground. When he spoke, his voice was as hard as his face.
"As to your first question—will they be captured? Yes. They will. Their position is hopeless."
"Why are you so certain?"
Kungas shrugged, looked up. "She is but a girl, General. A princess. Oh, true, a princess like no other you've ever seen. A princess out of legend. But still—she's never been hunted. She has no experience, or real training, in the skills of eluding a thousand men through the forest and mountains."
Kungas shook his head, forestalling the general's question.
"It doesn't matter. Even with Raghunath Rao to help her and guide her, she—" A pause. "You've hunted, I'm sure, in a large party. Or even with just one other man. Who sets the pace? Who frightens off the game? Who misses the shot?"
The general replied instantly: "The weakest man. The poorest hunter."
Kungas nodded. "Exactly. So—well, if Raghunath Rao were alone, I believe he would outwit and escape his pursuers. But even for him, the task would be extraordinarily difficult, with such an immense number of hunters on his trail. Encumbered by the princess—" He shrugged again. "It is simply not possible. No, they will be caught."
Kungas saw the general glance aside. He seemed to stiffen a bit. Perhaps.
Kungas followed his glance. The last members of the foreign party had arrived and were approaching their howdah. The young black prince from Ethiopia and his women.
Kungas had heard tales of the prince. His rampant lust; his viciousness toward his concubines. He had shrugged off the tales, for the most part. Resentful, malicious envy toward royalty and high nobility was so common as to make all such tales suspect.
But, as he watched, he decided that the tales were perhaps true, after all. The women certainly seemed fearful and abject. All of them were veiled and kept their heads down. Very submissive. None of their faces could even be seen, so timid were the wretched creatures. There were none of the flashing, excited, inquisitive gazes one normally saw from young girls embarking on a journey.
One woman's face was partially visible to Kungas, now. She was weeping softly, comforted by a second woman who was holding her and guiding her along. The prince suddenly cuffed one of the other women on the back of her head. Then cuffed the last in the little group. Hurrying them aboard, out of royal petulance and impatience. Apparently, however, the prince's temper was not particularly aroused. The young royal was massively built, if not tall. Wide-shouldered, thick-chested, extremely muscular. With that frame, his cuffs could have easily knocked the girls off their feet. Yet they barely seemed to nudge them.
One girl was hoisted up into the howdah, helped by the black soldier who was apparently serving as the mahout. Then another, the weeping one.
"They are all Maratha, I understand," commented Kungas, making idle conversation.
The general nodded. "Yes, Prince Eon's developed quite a taste for the breed. He has a whole gaggle of the creatures." A little laugh. "I'm not sure how many, actually. Nobody can keep track."
A third girl, the one who had been comforting the weeper, made ready to climb aboard. Smallish. Much darker-skinned than the average Maratha. Very lithe in her movements, too. Kungas admired the fluid grace with which the girl took the hand of the mahout, began the climb up the great elephant. Her bare foot stretched out—
A beautiful dancer. Such incredible grace. Lithe, fluid. And I was always struck by her feet. The prettiest feet I ever saw. Quicksilver. High-arched, slim-heeled, perfectly shaped toes.
The girl entered the howdah. The fourth and fifth girls followed. The prince went up last, drew the curtains behind him.
Kungas stood as rigid as a post. He could not help it. Neither that, nor his face. Like iron, his face, as always when he faced danger. Now, like carbon steel.
At his side, he sensed the general's alertness. Behind, he could hear the slight sound of the general's guards moving forward.
This may be the most dangerous moment in my entire life.
His had been a harsh existence, filled with hard decisions. Now, Kungas made the easiest decision he had ever made. And, he thought, perhaps the best—certainly the purest—in a generally misspent life. He took some pride, too, in the fact that his own survival played not the slightest role in making the decision.
Which doesn't solve my immediate problem. Keeping from getting my throat slit. No point in trying to pretend—oh, no, not with this general. Not with those men behind me.
Besides—
A rare grin broke out on his face. (To Kungas, a grin. No one else would have called it that. A flaw in the iron, perhaps.)
"So many women. Well, we'll certainly have to make sure that they're well protected. I shall instruct my men to keep anyone from pestering the prince's concubines. From even approaching the howdah, in fact. Or his tent, at night. He's a prince, after all, bound to be full of royal pride. I'm sure he'd be outraged if anyone caught so much as a glimpse of his women."
Kungas could sense the quick thoughts in the man next to him. A moment or so later, the general spoke. Still, a trace of hesitation in his voice.
"An excellent idea, I think. Of course, your own men—"
Kungas waved his hand casually. "Oh, I shall give them firm instructions to keep their own distance from the howdah. I'll do the same myself, for that matter."
The general's face broke into an odd, crooked smile. If there had been a trace of hesitation, it seemed to vanish.
"That'll be difficult for you and your men, I imagine. That sort of self-control around women." An apologetic cough. "Given the Kushan reputation."
Kungas frowned slightly. "Reputa—?"
The general laughed. "Oh, come now! Don't deny it, Kungas. It's well known. You can't trust Kushans around women, particularly young women. Especially virgins. Not" —a chuckle— "that there are any virgins left in that howdah."
Kungas was still frowning.
"Such an act!" admired the general. "But there's no point in it, Kungas, I assure you. Not in this crowd. Why, I remember swapping a few amusing anecdotes with Venandakatra himself on the subject, during our journey from Bharakuccha. Although, now I think about it—my memory's a bit vague, I'm afraid. I was quite drunk, that evening. But—um, yes, now that I think about it, I seem to recall that I was telling all the stories. Odd, actually. It all seemed to come to the great lord as quite a revelation."
Anyone in the world, now, would have agreed that the expression on Kungas' face was a grin. The smallest, faintest, thinnest grin ever seen, true. But a grin, a veritable grin, it could not be denied.
"Alas. Our reputation is finally out. And we've been so careful to keep our talents hidden, all these months." He shook his head ruefully. "Well, it can't be helped. Everyone will know, now. Damn. Husbands will start watching their wives. Fathers their daughters."
"Princes their concubines."
Kungas glanced at the general's guards. "Soldiers, their camp women."
The general scratched his chin. "I foresee a scandal, I'm afraid. The talk of the caravan. Even Lord Venandakatra himself will probably hear of it. I can see the scene now. Kushan soldiers—ruffians, the lot of 'em, filled with unbridled lust—constantly surrounding the foreigners' howdahs and tents, filled with so many lovely girls. Flies drawn to honey. Dealing brutally, of course, with any other men who should happen to sniff around."
"We have a short way with competitors," agreed Kungas, "when it comes to women." Casually, his hand gripped the hilt of his sword, drew the blade an inch or so out of the scabbard, clashed it back loudly.
"Yes, yes," mused the general. "Pity the poor Malwa chap who should just happen to wander by, idly curious about the women."
Kungas shuddered. "I shudder to think of the poor fellow's treatment." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the general's guards grinning. The one who looked like a mongoose. The most evil-looking grin he had ever seen, for a certainty.
"Then, of course," continued Kungas, "should any enterprising Malwa manage to slip through the Kushan escort and make his way to—"
"Oh, terrible!" exclaimed the general. His eyes squinted. His large hand gripped his own sword hilt. "He'd be butchered. By keen-eyed cataphracts or sarwen always on guard to fend off the endless, relentless, persistent hounding of their women by those horrible, lust-filled, lascivious Kushans. Ah, such a tragic case of mistaken identity."
The general spread his hands.
"But, the Lord Venandakatra could hardly complain. He assigned you to escort us, after all. Probably—" here came the general's grin, which no one in the world would have mistaken for anything else "—with that very purpose in mind. Making us miserable, I mean."
Kungas nodded sagely. "The great lord does seem to be quite irritated with you. I can't imagine why."
The sounds of a caravan setting into motion began filtering down the line. Kungas looked toward the front—which, of course, was far out of sight.
"Well, I'd best be off. Round up my men and explain our duties to them. Very carefully. Making sure they understand what they need to understand, and not what they don't. We don't want any—ah, how shall I put it? Walking a tightrope can be done, so long as you maintain the proper balance."
"Well said," commented the general. "A man after my own heart. You don't anticipate—"
"From my men? No, none. If I tell them to paint their faces blue and keep their left eyes closed all the way to Ranapur, well then—they'll damn well paint their faces blue and keep their left eyes closed all the way to Ranapur. And be right fucking quick about it, and keep their fucking mouths fucking shut. Orders are orders. Obey. Just do it." The iron face was back. "I'm not the man to brook insolence."
"I can well imagine," said the general.
Quite attractive, thought Kungas, that odd little crooked smile. He gave his own smile, such as it was, and departed.
When the Kushan was out of sight, around a bend of the road, Valentinian whispered to Belisarius: "That was a close call."
Belisarius shook his head.
"No, Valentinian, it wasn't close at all. I cannot imagine a world, anywhere, anytime, in any turn of the wheel, where that man would not make that same decision."
The general turned away, headed toward his horse.
As he left, he muttered something under his breath.
"Did you catch that, Anastasius?"
The giant grinned. "Of course. So would you, if your ears were attuned to philosophical thoughts like they should be. Instead of—"
Valentinian snarled. "Just answer the fucking question!"
"He said: Only the soul matters, in the end."
The prince relaxed. His fingers let the curtain fall back into place. The fabric moved but a quarter of an inch. He had opened it only the merest crack.
"He's gone," he said softly. The prince leaned back against the silk-covered cushions which lined the interior of the howdah. He blew out his cheeks with relief.
The four Maratha women in the howdah reacted in various ways to the news. The fifth woman, who was not Maratha, watched their reactions carefully. She had been taught that the ways in which people relaxed from stress told you much about them. Taught by a man who was an expert in stressful situations and their aftermath.
The one Maratha woman she knew—had known for years—clutched her yet more tightly. But, for the first time since they had met again, under the most unexpected circumstances, stopped weeping. Her name was Jijabai, and her mind was lost in horror. But perhaps, Shakuntala thought—hoped—the horror would begin to recede and sanity return. Horror had begun for that woman when she had been taken from her princess. Now that her princess had returned, perhaps Jijabai could return also.
But there was nothing more that Shakuntala could do for Jijabai at the moment, beyond hold her. So she gazed elsewhere.
The Maratha woman seated immediately to the prince's right blew out her own cheeks, smiled broadly, and leaned into the prince's shoulder. The prince's arm enfolded her gently. She closed her eyes and nuzzled the prince's neck.
Shakuntala knew a bit about this one, from her conversations with the prince the day before. Her name was Tarabai, and she was the prince's favorite. Prince Eon had asked her to return with him to his homeland and become one of his concubines. Tarabai had readily agreed.
The prince had obviously been delighted by that answer. Almost surprised, like a boy whose idle daydream had come true.
Shakuntala had found his delight quite informative. She had been trained to observe people by the most observant man she had ever known. A man whose sense of humor was as keen as his perception—and that, too, that wry and tolerant way of perceiving people, Shakuntala had learned from him.
So, on the one hand, she was amused by the prince's delight. What woman in Tarabai's position—a Maratha captive cast into a hellhole of a slave brothel—would not have jumped at the chance to become a royal concubine? (A true concubine, in the honored and traditional sense—not one of the abject creatures which the Malwa called by the name. A woman with a recognized and respected status in the royal household. Whose children would not be in line for the succession, but would be assured positions of power and prestige.)
But there had been nothing supercilious in Shakuntala's amusement. Quite the contrary. She had respected the prince for his bemused delight. She had been taught to respect that kind of unpresumptuous modesty. Not by teaching, but by example. By the example of a man who never boasted, though he had more to boast about that any man produced by India since the days chronicled in the Mahabharata and the Ramayana.
(But that thought brought pain, so she pushed it aside.)
Tarabai's actions, and the prince's response, told Shakuntala much else. Her own father, the Emperor of Andhra, had possessed many concubines. Shakuntala had often observed them in her father's presence. Her father had never mistreated his concubines. But not one of them would have dared initiate such casual and intimate contact in the presence of others. Her own mother, the Empress, would not have done so. (Not even, Shakuntala suspected, in the privacy of the Emperor's bedchamber.)
A cold, harsh, aloof man, her father had been. Every inch the Emperor. He had brooked familiarity from no one, man or woman. Nor, so far as the princess knew, had he ever expressed the slightest tenderness to anyone himself. Certainly not to her.
There was no grievance in that thought, however. Her father had been preoccupied, his entire life, with the threat of Malwa. Years ago, Shakuntala had come to realize that, in his own hard way, her father had truly loved her. He had placed her in the care of a Maratha chieftain—in defiance of all custom and tradition—for no other reason than that he treasured the girl and would give her the greatest gift within his power. To that gift, the princess owed her very life.
(That thought, however, brought pain again. The princess forced her thoughts back to the moment.)
So, a gentle and tender prince as well as a modest one. A warm-hearted prince.
And a resourceful one!
Shakuntala repressed a giggle. Childish! Stop.
It was difficult. The princess had an excellent sense of humor, when her temper was not aroused. And, for all its tension, the episode had been rather comical.
The prince had found her in the cupboard where Raghunath Rao had hidden her. Just as planned. On a shelf barely big enough to fit a girl, a jug of water, a bit of food, and—her nose wrinkled slightly, remembering—a bedpan. With a stack of linens piled on top of her.
As soon as he had taken possession of the guest suite in a corner of the palace, Prince Eon had sped to open the cupboard and retrieve Shakuntala. In passable Marathi, the prince had begun to explain the details of the scheme. Shakuntala had kept her eyes averted, for the most part. The prince had been in a hurry to wash the blood and gore off his body. (The princess, hearing the sounds of the battle raging in the palace grounds, had been hard-pressed not to climb out of the cupboard and watch.)
So his man—dawazz was his title—had poured the bath for him right there in the bedchamber, while Eon stripped himself naked. Shakuntala had peeked, once, not so much out of girlish curiosity as imperial assessment. A very impressive body, the prince had. But she had been far more impressed by the casual, unthinking way in which he cleaned the grisly residue of mayhem from it.
So. A courageous prince. Skilled and experienced in battle, for all his youth. As princes must be, in the new world created by the Malwa. She had approved. Greatly.
The sound of voices—Rajputs quarreling with foreigners—had come through the door. The prince's man immediately seized a huge spear. But the prince hissed quick instructions in their own language. Suddenly, the dawazz leaned the spear against a wall and began ambling toward the door, wearing such a grin as Shakuntala had never seen in her life.
The prince instantly raced to the cupboard and removed the traces of Shakuntala's habitation. There was very little to hide—simply an empty water jug and a bedpan half filled with urine. The prince placed both items in plain view, after emptying the bedpan in the bloody water of his bath.
Then, before she quite realized what was happening, Eon had seized her and flung her onto the bed. A moment later, the prince—still naked—was lying completely on top of her. He swept the bed linens over them, and immediately began heaving his buttocks vigorously. Shakuntala herself had been completely hidden—partly by the linens, but mostly by the prince himself. He was not that much taller than she, but twice as broad. She had felt like a kitten lying under a tiger. She could see absolutely nothing except the prince's bare chest.
A moment later, the voices had entered the room, still quarreling. She could understand the Rajput, now. Belatedly, Lord Venandakatra had ordered a search of the entire palace and its grounds. The Rajput officer in charge of the squad was apologetic. Without quite saying so, he made clear that he thought the entire exercise was idiotic. A great lord in a childish snit, squawling at the world indiscriminately. The criminals had obviously fled the palace entirely. Hadn't the three Ye-tai dogs guarding the front gate been found butchered, the morning after the massacre? Almost two full days had passed since. It was absurd to think—but—orders were orders.
Prince Eon had raised his head, then, a bit. Roaring royal outrage. But his buttocks never ceased plunging up and down, his groin thrusting at her own. Her body, of course, was still clothed. But the Rajputs had no way of seeing that. The only visible part of the princess was her hair. Long, black hair, in no way different from that of most Indian women. And then, a moment later, a little hand which reached up and clutched the prince's neck with apparent passion. Quite apparent passion, judging from the unknown girl's soft moaning. (Shakuntala hadn't been quite sure she was making the right noise. But, like all bright girls in a large and crowded palace, she had done her share of eavesdropping, in days past at Amavarati.)
Keeping their eyes averted from the prince at his sport, the Rajputs conducted a very hasty search of the suite. Then, uttering many apologies, scurried out.
As soon as they were gone, Eon had immediately climbed off Shakuntala. Had made fulsome apologies, stressing the dire necessity which had precipitated his actions. Emphasized the depth of his respect for the imperial personage and dignity of the princess. Reiterated the perilous—
Shakuntala had waved off his apologies. Had responded with a most dignified—indeed, regal—acknowledgment of the sincerity of his regrets. Had uttered the most royal—indeed, imperial—phrases assuring the prince that she recognized both the necessity of his actions and appreciated the quickness of his wits. Had added further assurances that she had no doubt of his own regal propriety, good breeding, and monarchical majesty.
But then—unable to resist—had added demurely:
"Yet I fear, prince, that one of your provinces is in revolt."
It had been hard to tell. The prince's skin was even darker than a Dravidian's. But she thought he had definitely blushed.
Especially after the dawazz added, with that amazing grin:
"Indeed so! Most insolent uprising! Prince do well to beat rebel down!" Then, with a flourish: "Here! Use my spear!"
Remembering, and smiling, Shakuntala's eyes met those of the prince. A little smile came to his own face. Then, a subtle expression—a wry, apologetic twist of his lips; a little roll of his eyes; a faint shrug—combined with an equally subtle movement of his arm. His left arm, the one which was not encircling Tarabai.
Understanding, Shakuntala eased over and nestled against his shoulder. His left arm encircled her. She turned her face into his muscular neck. A moment later, she felt Jijabai snuggling into her own left shoulder. Trembling with fear at the princess' departure. Shakuntala cradled the girl and pressed her head into her own neck. She felt Jijabai's shivering ease.
Inwardly, she sighed. It would be tedious—even, after a time, uncomfortable—spending days and weeks in that position. But she suppressed the thought ruthlessly. They were at war, and war required many tactics. This tactic had worked before. A tried and tested tactic. Should anyone manage to look within the howdah, they would see nothing but the notorious Axumite prince, surrounded as always by his submissive women. Whose faces were rarely seen, of course, so timid had the creatures become in his brutal presence.
Across the prince's chest, her eyes met those of Tarabai. The Maratha girl smiled shyly.
She was still in awe, Shakuntala realized. The Maratha women had known for some time that the foreigners into whose care they had placed themselves were engaged in some strange activity. (And had sensed, even, that the activity was in some way opposed to the hated Malwa.) But they had not known the exact nature of that activity until that very morning. Just before departing for the caravan, the Maratha women had been ushered into the room, Shakuntala had been introduced to them by Eon and his men, and the plan explained.
Hearing the name, Jijabai had looked up, begun to cry out in startlement. The cry had been choked off by Shakuntala herself, embracing her former maidservant. From that moment until they climbed into the howdah, the girl had not stopped weeping. Shakuntala had stayed by her the entire time. At first, from love and pity. Then, as well, from a realization that the pose was perfect for their purpose.
The other three Maratha women had been too stunned to do more than walk through the exercise in a daze. Which, also, had been perfect, if unplanned.
Tarabai was no longer stunned. Eon's close presence, Shakuntala realized, had restored the girl's courage. But she was still in awe. The girl had all the signs of a simple upbringing. Of vaisya or sudra birth, undoubtedly (insofar as Maratha measured such things—but that thought, as ever, was too painful to bear, so Shakuntala banished it). Never in her life had Tarabai imagined she would share a howdah—much less a man's chest!—with royalty.
Shakuntala now gazed at the two Maratha women whom she did not know. They, too, were staring at her with round eyes. But there was more than simple awe in those eyes, she realized. The two women were almost shivering with terror. Then, seeing the princess' eyes upon them, the two women dropped their heads. Now, they did begin to shiver.
This must stop, thought Shakuntala.
"Look at me," she commanded. For all its youthful timbre, her voice was sharp. Not harsh, simply—commanding.
Immediately, the women raised their eyes. Eon, listening, was impressed.
"You are very frightened," stated the princess. After a moment, the women nodded their heads.
"You fear the Malwa fury, if they discover what is happening. You fear you will be destroyed."
Again, they nodded.
For a moment, Shakuntala simply gazed at them. Then said:
"Your fear is understandable. But you must conquer it. Fear will gain you nothing, and may betray us all into disaster. You must be courageous. These men—these foreigners—are good men. Brave, and resourceful. You know this to be true."
She waited. After a moment, the two women nodded.
"You trust these men."
Again, waited. Again, the nods.
"Then trust them. And me as well."
Waited.
"I am your princess. Your empress, now. I am the rightful heir to the throne of Andhra."
The Maratha women nodded immediately. Majarashtra was one of the few lands of India where a woman in power was accepted without question, if she held that power legitimately. Maratha women had even led armies, in the past.
(But thoughts of Majarashtra brought pain, so she forced her way past them.)
"I call you to service, women of the Great Country. Andhra will rise again, and the Malwa filth be destroyed. To that end I devote my life. If you are destroyed by the Malwa, your empress will be destroyed with you. You will not be deserted."
After a moment, the women bowed. The bow, Shakuntala acknowledged, but did not cherish in her heart. The fading fear in their eyes, and the hint of dawning courage, brought her great joy.
(But joy brought pain, and so she banished it. There would be no joy in her life, she knew. Only courage, and duty. She had made her vow to these women, and she would keep it. Though that vow would banish joy forever.)
She heard the prince mutter something. A phrase in his own language.
"What did you say?" she asked, glancing up at him.
His dark eyes were staring at her, very seriously. After a moment, the prince said softly:
"What I said was: `And so, once again, Belisarius was right.' "
Shakuntala frowned, puzzled. She knew who Belisarius was, of course. Raghunath Rao had explained (as much as he knew himself, which was little). But she had not met him yet, only seen him out of the corner of her eye.
"I do not understand."
A quirky smile came to his lips.
"I asked him, once, why we were doing all this. I was not opposed, you understand. It seemed a worthy project in its own right, rescuing a lovely princess from such a creature as Venandakatra. But—I am a prince, after all. In direct line of succession to the throne of Axum. My older brother Wa'zeb is quite healthy, so I don't expect I'll ever be the negusa nagast. Which is fine with me. But you learn early to think like a monarch, as I'm sure you know."
Shakuntala nodded.
"So I asked Belisarius, once—as the cold-blooded heir of a ruler rather than a hot-blooded romantic prince—why were we taking these risks?"
He began to make some sort of apologetic aside, but Shakuntala cut him off.
"There's no need, Eon. It's a perfectly good question. Why did you do it?" A smile. "Not that I'm ungrateful, you understand."
Eon acknowledged the smile with one of his own. Then, when the smile faded:
"We are doing it, he said, for three reasons. First, it is worth doing in its own right. A pure and good deed, in a world which offers few such. Second, we are doing it to free the soul of India's greatest warrior, so he can turn that soul's full fury onto the enemy. And finally, and most importantly, we are doing it because we cannot defeat India alone. India itself must be our ally. The true India, not this bastard sired by a demon. And for that, we need to free India's greatest ruler from her captivity."
"I am not a ruler," she whispered. "Much less India's greatest."
Again, the quirky smile. "That's exactly what I said."
The smile disappeared. " `She will be,' replied Belisarius. `She will be. And she will make Malwa howl.' "
When night fell, and the caravan halted, Prince Eon and his women moved from the howdah into his royal tent, unseen by any, in the darkness. Throughout, Shakuntala never left his side. After he fell asleep, she lay against him, just as she had in the howdah, nestled in his arm. So that if any should intrude, she could once again be shielded from their sight.
But the princess—the empress, now—did not sleep. Not for hours. No, once she was certain that all the others in the tent were asleep, Shakuntala finally let the tears flow. Allowed the pain of her loss to sweep through her, like a knife cutting away her heart.
It would be the last time she would allow herself that liberty. But she could not bear to let the treasure of her soul depart without farewell.
She had loved one man only, her entire life, and would never love another. Not truly. (Although, even then, in her pain, she could remember the smile on the face of the man she loved. "A good heart has lots of room," he was fond of saying. And smile herself, remembering, until the memory renewed the pain.)
She had loved that man as long as she could remember. A hopeless love, perhaps, she had often thought. He never seemed to return it; not that way, at least. But—she would age, and she would be beautiful. (She had always known she would be. When the truth had matched the knowing, finally, she had been pleased but not surprised. She always achieved her goals, once she set her mind to them.) And, she thought, the day would come when she would dance at his wedding. As his bride. Her quicksilver feet flashing in the wine of his heart, dancing the dances which he had taught her, as he had taught her everything worth knowing.
Her father, of course, would have disapproved of her intentions. Would have been furious, in fact. And so she had hidden her feelings, letting no sign of them show. Lest her father take her away from the man into whose care he had given her, and to whom she had lost her heart.
For the princess of Andhra, that man was completely unsuitable. Oh, a fine man, to be sure. A great man, even. But his blood was not acceptable.
True, the man was kshatriya, as Maratha counted such things. But no other people of India recognized Maratha blood claims. Few Maratha families could trace their ancestry back beyond two or three generations. (Quite unlike Rajput, or Guptan, or Andhran, or Keralan brahmin and kshatriya, who could trace their genealogies endlessly.) A hard and stony land, Majarashtra. The Great Country, to those who lived there. But they were outcasts, refugees, unknown ones, in their origin. People who moved there from elsewhere, seeking refuge in its hillforts, and small farms, and stony ridges; refuge from the grandees and landlords who ruled elsewhere. A fractious folk, who took blood lightly and pollution more lightly still. A fierce folk, too, who measured nobility by their own standards. Hard and stony standards, which gave little respect to tradition and breeding.
A hard and stony people, the Marathas. Not unworthy—no honest man said that. Not even the haughtiest high-caste Rajput; not, at least, after testing Maratha mettle in battle. But not noble. Not fit for true kshatriya blood. And quite unthinkable for the purest blood of imperial Andhra.
Still, she had dreamed. Her father would die, someday, and one of his sons succeed him. Andhra would demand of her some royal marriage, to further Andhra aims. But she would refuse. She was not Andhra's ruler, after all, bound by its destiny. She would refuse, and win the heart of the man she loved, and flee with him into the reaches of the Great Country where none could find them. Not that man, for a certainty, did he choose to remain unfound.
But Andhra was her destiny, now. She alone survived of the ancient Satavahana dynasty. She would rule, and rule well. And choose her husband well, guided only by the needs of Andhra. The need to forge alliance against the asura who ravaged her people. That consideration, and that alone, would guide her now.
Perhaps this prince, she thought, feeling his heart beat where her head lay resting on his massive chest. The thought pleased her, slightly, for a moment. She would never love him, of course, not truly. But he seemed a fine man, a good prince. Everything a prince should be, in truth. Courageous, bold, skilled in battle, quick-witted, even warm and loving. Perhaps even wise—in later years, at least, if not now.
Perhaps. If Andhra's needs lead to an alliance with his people. And if not—
I will marry the foulest creature on earth, and bear his children, so long as the doing of it will make Malwa howl. Oh, yes. I will make Malwa howl.
Her heart had long been lost, to another, but her soul remained. Her soul, like everyone's, belonged to her alone. Was the one thing inseparable from her, the one thing which could not be given away.
And so, in a foreign tent in an enemy land, the empress Shakuntala seized her soul and dedicated it to her people. Dedicated it to howling Malwa. And bade farewell to her soul's treasure.
It seemed bitterest of all, to her, in that bitterest of all nights, that she had finally come to understand the one lesson he had despaired of ever teaching her.
Only the soul matters, in the end.
That same night, in another tent, a slave also seized his soul and dedicated it to a purpose. The decision to do so had been long in the making, and did not come easily. There is nothing so difficult, for a soul which has resigned itself to hopelessness, than to reopen the wound of life.
His master's purpose was now clear to the slave. Some part of that purpose, at least—the slave suspected there was more to come. Much more. From experience, the slave had learned that his master's mind was a devilish thing.
The slave would dedicate himself to that deviltry.
Though it was late, the lantern was still lit. Rolling over on his pallet, the slave observed that his master was still awake. Sitting on his own pallet, cross-legged, his powerful hands draped over his knees, staring at nothingness. As if listening to some inner voice, which spoke to him alone.
Which, the slave knew, was true. The slave even thought he could name that voice.
As always, despite his preoccupation, the slave's master missed nothing in his surroundings. The slight motion of the slave rolling over drew the master's attention. He turned his head and gazed at his slave. Cocked his eye quizzically.
"My name is Dadaji Holkar," said the slave softly. He rolled back and closed his eyes. Sleep came, then, much more quickly than he would have thought possible.
A general and an aide
For a moment, Belisarius stared at the back of his slave's head. Then, half-stunned, looked away.
The slave's unexpected announcement had not caused that reaction. It had simply jolted the general into a recognition of his own blindness.
His thoughts raced back to the breach in the barrier. This time he made no effort to clear away more rubble. Simply called across:
What is your name?
The facets flashed and shivered. What?—More meaningless—it was impossible! The mind was too—
aim brought the facets into order, harried them into discipline.
It was not impossible! The mind was not—
The struggle broke loose meaning. At last—at last!—some part of the message sent back by the Great Ones came into focus. The very end of the message, which was still obscure due to the absent body, but no longer incomprehensible. The facets glittered crystalline victory. aim transmuted triumph into language:
Then:
Find the general who is not a warrior.
Give all into his keeping;
Give aim to his purpose and assistance to his aim.
He will discover you in the purpose,
You will find us in the aim,
Find yourself in the seeking,
And see a promise kept
In that place where promise dwells;
That place where gods go not,
Because it is far beyond their reach.
The thought which came to Belisarius then was a burst of sweet pride. Like the smile of a child, taking its first step:
Call me Aide.
"Ready?" asked Maurice.
Antonina and John of Rhodes nodded. The hecatontarch knocked out the pole bolt with his mallet.
The arm of the onager whipped forward, driven by the torsion of the twisted cords which held its base. The arm slammed into the cushion of hair-cloth stuffed with fine chaff resting on the crossbeam. The clay jar which had been held in the sling at the tip of the arm flew through the air.
The three people standing to the side of the artillery piece followed the trajectory of the jar. Within two seconds, the jar slammed into a stone wall some distance away and erupted into a ball of flame.
"Yes! Yes!" howled John, prancing with glee. "It works! Look at that, Antonina—spontaneous eruption!"
She herself was grinning from ear to ear. The grin didn't vanish even after she caught sight of Maurice's frown.
"Oh, come on, you damned Cassandra!" she laughed. "I swear, you are the most morose man who ever lived."
Maurice smiled faintly. "I'm not morose. I'm a pessimist."
John of Rhodes scowled. "And what are you pessimistic about this time?" The retired naval officer pointing to the wall, which was still burning hotly.
"Look at it! And if you still don't believe, go and try to put it out! Go ahead! I promise you that fire will last—even on stone—until the fuel burns itself up. The only way you'll put it out is to bury it under dirt. You think an enemy is going to march into battle carrying shovels?"
Maurice shook his head.
"I'm not contesting your claims. But—look, John, you're a naval officer. No big thing for you, on a nice fat ship, to haul around a pile of heavy clay pots. Carefully nestled in cloths to keep them from breaking and bursting into flame. Try doing that with a mule train, sometime, and you'll understand why I'm not jumping for joy."
John's scowl deepened, but he said nothing in reply. Antonina sighed.
"You're being unfair, Maurice."
The hecatontarch's scowl made John's look like a smile.
"Unfair?" he demanded. "What's that got to do with anything? War is unfair, Antonina! It's the nature of the damned beast."
His scowl faded. The hecatontarch marched over and placed his hand on John's shoulder.
"I'm not criticizing you, John. There's no doubt in my mind you just revolutionized naval warfare. And siege warfare, for that matter. I'm speaking the plain, blunt truth, that's all. This stuff's just too hard to handle for an army in the field."
The naval officer's own scowl faded. He looked down and blew out his lips. "Yes, I know. That's why I made sure we were all standing back and to the side. I wasn't sure the impact of hitting the crossbeam wouldn't shatter the pot right here."
He rubbed his neck. "The problem's the damn naphtha. It's still the base for the compound. As long as we're stuck with that liquid, gooey crap we're not going to get any better than this."
Maurice grunted. "What did you add this time?" He nodded toward the distant flame, still burning. "Whatever it was, it makes one hell of a difference."
John peered at the flame. His blue eyes seemed as bright as diamonds, as if he were trying to force the flames into some new shape by sheer willpower.
"Saltpeter," he muttered.
Maurice shrugged. "Then why don't you try mixing the saltpeter with something else? Something that isn't liquid. A clay, or a powder. Anything else that'll burn but isn't hard to handle."
"Like what?" demanded John crossly. With a sneer: "Brimstone?"
"Why not?" asked Antonina brightly. As usual, she found herself cheering the naval officer up after another long effort had fallen short of its mark.
John made a face. "Give me a break. Have you ever smelled burning sulfur?"
"Give it a try," said Maurice. "Just make sure you stand upwind."
John thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Why not?" Then, with a smile: "As long as we're at it, why not make it a regular salad? What else burns easily but doesn't make old soldiers grumpy?"
"How do you feel about coal, Maurice?" asked Antonina. (Brightly, of course. Men were such a grumpy lot. Like children with a permanent toothache.)
Maurice grumped. "Too heavy."
John of Rhodes threw up his hands with exasperation.
"Charcoal, then! How's that, damn you?"
Before Maurice could form a reply, Antonina sidled up to John and put her arm around his waist.
"Now, now, John. Be sweet."
John began to snarl at her. Then, catching movement out of the corner of his eye, transformed the snarl into a leering grin.
"Sweet, is it? Well! As you say, as you say. Let's to the workshed, shall we, and mix up this unholy mess of Maurice's."
His own arm slid around Antonina's waist. The two of them began walking toward the workshed. On their way, John's hand slid down slightly, patting Antonina's hip.
Maurice didn't bother to turn around. He knew what he would see. Procopius, emerging from the villa, his eyes ogling the intimate couple.
Maurice puffed exasperation and stared up at the heavens.
Someday you're going to outsmart yourself, Belisarius, playing it too close. You might have told me, young man. If I hadn't figured it out fast enough and passed the word to the boys, your mechanical genius would have been found with a dagger in his back.
Maurice turned back toward the villa.
Sure, enough. Procopius.
Another little puff of exasperation.
And since then it's all I can do to keep the boys from sliding a blade into this one's back.
Generals and their damned schemes!
Weeks later, Raghunath Rao decided he had finally eluded his pursuers. The key, as he had hoped, had been his turn to the west. The enemy had expected him to continue south, in the straightest route to Majarashtra. Instead, he had slipped west, into the Rann of Kutch.
In the days which followed, making his way through the salt-marshes, he had seen no sign of his pursuers. Now that he had finally reached the sea, he was certain he was no longer being pursued.
He decided to camp that night on the shore. True, there was a chance of being spotted, but it was so small that he decided to take the risk. He was sick of the marshes. The salt-clean air would be like a balm to his soul.
He had had nothing to eat for two days, but ignored the pangs. Fasting and austerity were old friends. Tomorrow he would begin making his way around the coast of the Kathiawar peninsula. Soon enough he would encounter a fishing village. He spoke Gujarati fluently, and had no doubt he would find a friendly reception. Jainism still retained a strong hold in Gujarat, especially in the small villages away from the centers of Malwa power. Rao was confident that he could gain the villagers' acceptance. And their silent, quiet assistance.
Rao was not a Jain himself, but he respected the faith and knew its creed well. He had studied it carefully in his youth, and, although he had not adopted it for his own, he had incorporated many of its teachings into his own syncretic view of God. Just as he had done with the way of the Buddha.
It would take him time to work his way around the peninsula. And then more time, to find a means to cross the Gulf of Khambhat. Once across the Gulf, the labyrinth of the Great Country was easily within reach.
He began to speculate on the methods he might use, but quickly put the thoughts aside. There would be time to make plans later, based on the reality which emerged.
A smile came to his face.
Indeed, on this one point Ousanas was quite right. Good plans, like good meat, are best cooked rare. Such a marvelous man! Even if he does believe in the most preposterous notions. "Eternal and unchanging Forms," if you would!
The smile faded. Rao wondered how the treasure of his soul was faring. She was in the best of hands, of course. But, still, she was in the very heart of the asura's domain.
Again, he pushed the thoughts aside. He had agreed to the plan of the foreigners, and he was not a man given to useless doubts and second thoughts. Besides, it was a good plan—no, it was an excellent plan. Shakuntala was hidden in the one place the Malwa, full of their arrogance, would never think to look for her. And there had been no alternative, anyway. Remembering the past weeks, Rao knew for a certainty that he would never have been able to escape if Shakuntala had been with him. It had been a very close matter as it was.
And now? Now the future was clear. Once he reached the Great Country, the Panther of Majarashtra would begin to roar. Word would spread like lightning. Again, the Wind had struck the enemy. A deadly blow! Satavahana freed! The Wind himself sweeping through the hills!
The new army he would create would make Majarashtra a name of woe to Malwa. In the Great Country, the asura's rule would become a wraith—a thing seen only by day, in large cities. The land would become a deathtrap for Ye-tai and Rajputs and all the motley hordes of the demon.
He began to think of his stratagems and tactics, but again, put the thoughts aside. There would be time enough for that. More than time enough.
Again, he smiled, remembering his last conversation with Shakuntala. As he had expected, the princess had been utterly furious when he explained the plan to her. But she had acquiesced, in the end.
Not from conviction, of course. She had not believed that she would be an encumbrance in his escape. No, she had acquiesced from duty. Duty which he had hammered into her stubborn, reluctant soul.
She was no longer a princess. No longer a girl, for whom life could be an adventure. She was the empress, now, the ruler of broken Andhra. The sole survivor of great Satavahana. Upon her shoulders—her very soul—rested the fate of her people. Her life was not hers to risk. So long as she survived, rebellion against the asura could find an anchor, a point of certainty around which to pivot and coalesce. Without her, rebellion would become simple brigandry.
Hers was the duty of surviving and forging such alliances as bleeding Andhra needed. For now, no better alliance could be imagined than one with the very men who risked their lives to free her. Those men, and their purpose, might prove the key which unlocked the demon's shackles. Duty. Duty. Duty.
In the end, she had agreed, as Raghunath Rao had known she would. Her soul could do no other.
An old ache began to surface; he forced it down with long-practiced habit. But then, as he had never done before, allowed it to rise up anew.
This time, this one and only time, I will allow it. And never again.
He spent some minutes, then, lost in reverie. Pondering the vastness of time, wondering if there might ever be, in some turn of the wheel, a world where his soul and its treasure might not be forever separated by dharma.
Perhaps. What man can know?
Soon enough, reverie fell away. His life had been one of harsh self-discipline and great austerity, habits which now came automatically to him. So an old ache was driven under, again, and more ruthlessly than ever before.
Due, perhaps, to the effort that task demanded—greater than ever before—his thoughts turned to sacrifice. He was not given to the ancient rites, as a rule. The Vedas themselves he treasured, but the old rituals held little sway over his mind. Long ago he had embraced the way of bhakti, of devotion to God, even before the Mahaveda had turned honorable rituals into rites of cruelty and barbarism.
The sun was beginning to set over the Erythrean Sea, bathing the waters and the shore with lambent glory.
Yes, he would sacrifice.
Quickly, he constructed the three ritual fires. Once the flames were burning, he drew forth his offering from its leather container.
He had saved the last sheet, only. The others he had destroyed in his fire in the forest, weeks earlier. The other sheets, had they been found on his body in the event of his death or capture, could have led to the discovery of the man who wrote that message. But the last sheet, even if found by the Malwa, would have been simply a thing of myth and mystery.
That message was the most precious thing he had ever owned. He would sacrifice it now, in devotion to the future.
Before casting the sheet into the flames, he read it one last time.
— as you may imagine. More I cannot say, for a certainty. He is a strange fellow. Like a child, often, filled with mute hurt and fumbling grievance. Great hurt and grievance, that I doubt not. And just ones, as well, I believe.
But power also he possesses, of that I am equally certain. The greatest power of all, the power of knowledge.
His name I do not know. I do not think he knows it himself.
Yet, I have a belief. It comes not from my faith—though I do not see where it is forbidden by it, nor do the holiest of men that I know. It comes from a vision. A vision I had, once, of you yourself, dancing on the rim of destruction.
I believe he is Kalkin. The tenth avatara who was promised, sent to bind the asura and slay the asura's minions.
Or, at the least, teach us to dance the deed.
Raghunath Rao cast the papyrus into the flames and watched until it was totally consumed. Then he drew the dagger. The dagger, too, he would sacrifice.
Truly, an excellent dagger. But the time for daggers was past.
But, just as he prepared to place it in the flames, an impulse came upon him. An irresistible impulse; and, he thought, most fitting.
Aching pain and joyful wonder merged in his soul, and Raghunath Rao leapt to his feet.
Yes! He would dance!
And so he danced, by the seashore, on the golden rim of the Erythrean Sea. He was a great dancer, was Raghunath Rao. And now, by the edge of nature's molten treasure, in the golden sunlight of bursting hope, he danced the dance. The great dance, the terrible dance, the never-forgotten dance. The dance of creation. The dance of destruction. The wheeling, whirling, dervish dance of time.
And as he danced, and whirled the turns of time, he thought never once of his enemies and his hatreds. For those were, in the end, nothing. He thought only of those he loved, and those he would come to love, and was astonished to see their number.
He danced to his empress in her greatness, and his people in their splendor. He danced to the Erythrean Sea, and to the triumph which would arise from its waves. He danced to the friends of the past and the comrades of the future. And, most of all, he danced to the future itself.
Finally, feeling his strength begin to fade, Raghunath Rao held up the dagger. Admired it again, and hurled the precious gift into the waves. He could think of no better place for its beauty than the rising tide of the Erythrean Sea.
He made a last swirling, capering leap. Oh, so high was that leap! So high that he had time, before he plunged into the water, to cry out a great peal of laughter.
Oh, great Belisarius! Can you not see that you are the dancer, and Kalkin but the soul of your dance?