Belisarius was now fifty yards from the barge, well into the mainstream of the Jamuna. He paused, treading water, to take his bearings. Slowly he circled, to examine his situation, beginning with the near shore.
He was safely out of range of lantern or torchlight from the wharf where Great Lady Holi's barge was moored. There was a bit of moonlight shimmering on the water, but not much. The moon was only the slimmest crescent. And, from the look of the clouds which were beginning to cover the sky, he thought there would soon be one of the downpours which were so frequent during the monsoon season. Visibility would be reduced almost to nothing, then.
All he had to fear, immediately, was being spotted from one of the oared galleys which patrolled the river. He could see several of those galleys, beating their way toward the wharf. The officers in command had obviously heard the commotion on the barge, and were coming to investigate.
Suddenly, a rocket was fired from the wharf. A signal rocket, Belisarius realized, watching the green burst in the sky when the rocket exploded, at low altitude. Another. Another.
Instantly, the galleys picked up the tempo of their oarstrokes. The officers commanding them were shouting commands. Belisarius could not make out the words, but their content was unmistakeable. The galleys were converging rapidly on the wharf—and he could see new ones appearing, from all directions. Within seconds, no fewer than fourteen galleys were in sight.
He decided that he had time, finally, to shed his clothing. He needed to wait, anyway, to observe whatever search pattern the galleys would adopt.
It was the work of a minute to remove his clothing. Another minute, to remove his boots without losing them. Another minute, carefully, to make sure that the pouch carrying his small but extremely valuable pile of coins and gems was securely attached to his waist. Another minute, very carefully, to make sure the pouch containing the jewel was secure around his neck. A final minute, then, to tie all his clothing into a bundle, the boots at the center. Before doing so, he removed the little knife from its pouch and held it in his teeth. He might need that knife, quickly. It would be no use to him bundled away out of reach.
He finished the work by tying the sleeves of his tunic in a loop around his neck. He would be able to tow his bundle of boots and clothing without obstructing his arms. The knife in his teeth would interfere, a bit, with his breathing. But there was nowhere else to put it.
Throughout, he had been keeping a close eye on the galleys. By the time he was finished, the small fleet of warcraft were moving away from the wharf. He could hear commands being shouted, but, again, could not make out the words.
There was no need. The search pattern which the Malwa adopted was obvious. Most of the galleys began rowing along the near shore, upstream and downstream of the Great Lady Holi's barge. Soldiers in the galleys were leaning over the sides, holding lanterns aloft. A matching line of torches was being carried along the south bank of the Jamuna, in the hands of soldiers searching the shore line.
Six of the galleys, however, began rowing their way out into the river. Belisarius was most interested in these craft. After a minute, watching, he understood the logic. Two of them would remain in the center of the river, patrolling in both directions. The other four were headed for the opposite shore, spreading out as they went. The Malwa were taking no chances. Clearly, they thought Belisarius was either staying by the south bank or had already gone ashore. But they would patrol the entire river, anyway.
He decided upon the galley farthest to his right. That galley was heading for the opposite shore, and it would reach the shore farther upstream than any other.
He began swimming toward it. He maintained the same powerful breaststroke. It was a relatively slow method—Belisarius was an excellent swimmer, and was quite capable of moving more rapidly in water—but it would be fast enough. And the breaststroke had several advantages. It was almost silent; it kept his arms and legs from flashing above the surface of the water; and—with the knife in his teeth—it enabled him to breathe easily.
Fortunately, the angle was good, and so he was able to position himself where he needed to be a full half-minute before the galley swept through the area. Treading water, directly in the galley's path, he waited. As he had hoped, the Malwa soldiers aboard the galley were not holding lanterns over the bow. The lanterns were being held toward the stern. The soldiers on that galley, like all the Malwa, did not really think that Belisarius had gone anywhere but the near shore. It was that south bank of the river that the soldiers were watching, even as they headed in the opposite direction.
The galley was almost upon him. Belisarius took a deep breath and dove below the surface. For a moment, he feared that the bundle he was towing might act as a buoy, hauling him back toward the surface. But his clothing was now completely waterlogged. If anything, the bundle simply acted as a weight.
Now, swimming below the barge, down its starboard side, Belisarius encountered the first snag in his hastily-improvised plan.
He was blind as a bat. He couldn't see a thing.
He had expected visibility to be limited, of course, at night-time. But he had thought he would be able to see enough to guide himself. What he hadn't considered, unfortunately, was the nature of the Jamuna itself.
This was no mountain stream, with clear and limpid waters. This was a great, murky, slow-moving valley river. Heavy with silt and mud. It was like swimming through a liquid coal mine.
He guided himself by sound and touch. To his left, he used the splashing oars as a boundary. To his right, stretching out his fingers, he groped for the planks of the hull.
He misgauged. Driven, probably, by an unconscious fear of his sudden blindness, he swam too shallow. His head, not his fingers, found the hull.
The impact almost stunned him. For a moment, he floundered, before he brought himself under control. Quickly, he found the hull with his fingers.
The wood planks were racing by. He heard a sudden dimunition in the sound of the oars, as if they had passed him.
Now.
He took the knife from his teeth and thrust it upward, praying the little blade wouldn't break. The tip sank into the wood. Not far—half an inch—but enough.
Using the knife to hold himself against the hull, Belisarius desperately sought the surface. He was almost out of air.
Again, he had misgauged. He was still too far from the stern. The side of his face was pressed against the hull. He could feel the surface of the water ruffling through his hair, but could not reach it to breathe.
He jerked the knife out, let the current carry him for a split second, stabbed again. The thrust, this time, was even feebler.
It was enough, barely. The blade held. He let the current raise him up against the hull. His head broke water.
His lungs felt like they were about to burst, but he took the time for a quick upward glance before taking a breath.
Finally, something went as planned. As he had hoped, he was hidden beneath the overhang of the stern. He opened his mouth and took a slow, shuddering breath, careful to make as little sound as possible.
For a minute, he simply hung there, breathing, resting. Then he took stock of his situation.
The situation was precarious. The knife was barely holding him to the hull. It could slip out at any moment. If it did, the galley would sweep forward, leaving him cast behind in its wake. He was not worried so much at being spotted, then, but he could not afford to lose the shelter of the galley. The shelter—and the relaxation. He had no desire to make the long swim to the opposite shore on his own effort. He could make it, yes, but the effort would leave him exhausted. He could not afford exhaustion. He still had many, many hours of exertion before him. A day, at least, before he could even think to rest.
He studied the underside of the galley, looking for a solid plank to replant the knife. He did not have to worry about interfering with a rudder. The galley did not use a rudder. Few ships did, in his day, other than the craft built by north European barbarians. Instead, the galley was steered by an oar. The oar was on the opposite side of the stern from where Belisarius was hidden. Like Romans, the Malwa hung their steering oars off the port side of the stern. Belisarius had chosen to swim down the starboard side precisely in order not to become fouled in that oar.
He heard a sudden, distant explosion. Then another.
Another. Another.
Now, a veritable barrage was rumbling across the river. The sound of the explosions had an odd, muffled quality.
Cautiously, he turned his head, raised it a bit. He could now see the nature of the activity on the shore behind him. The Malwa were casting grenades into the river. He watched several plumes of water spout from the surface.
Those grenades, he thought, could be dangerous to him.
A thought from Aide surfaced. The facets had restored their identity.
Depth-charges. Very dangerous. Water transmits concussion much better than air.
He caught a quick, gruesome image of his own body, ruptured, bleeding from a thousand internal wounds.
He shook the image off. First things first. For his immediate needs, the thunderous sound of the grenade blasts was a blessing. He jerked the knife out of the hull—paused a split-second, timing the galley's passage—and drove it upward again. The knife sank solidly into the thick plank. It—and he—were securely anchored.
That powerful knife-thrust, striking the wood, had been far from silent. But the noise was completely drowned under the cacophony of the grenade blasts—the more so since many of those blasts, now, were nearby. The Malwa soldiers on the galleys racing across the river were tossing their own grenades.
It was an absurd exercise, thought Belisarius. He did not know much about the effects of underwater explosions. But, no matter how effective concussion was in water, he did not believe the Malwa had more than a small portion of the grenades necessary to saturate the entire, vast sweep of the Jamuna.
The real problem, he knew, would come later. He could not stay hidden beneath the galley for long. At daybreak, he was sure to be spotted. And he needed to make his escape onto shore long before daybreak, anyway. He would need the hours of darkness to make his way safely out of the city.
The fact that the Malwa grenades were no immediate danger to him, therefore, brought little consolation. If they maintained that barrage, he would be in danger the moment he left the galley and began swimming toward the far shore. Unless the galley actually docked at one of the wharves—which he doubted; none of the galleys on the opposite side were doing so—he would have to swim at least thirty yards to shore. The Malwa would be scanning the shore, by then. And, even if they did not spot him, they could kill him with one of the random grenades they were casting about.
He looked up at the sky. The cloud cover was advancing rapidly. He prayed for a downpour.
The galley continued its powerful sweeping progress across the Jamuna. It had reached the middle of the river.
Belisarius prayed for a downpour.
The galley began angling upstream, west by northwest. Now, it was a hundred yards from shore, and more than two hundred yards west of Great Lady Holi's barge on the opposite bank.
Belisarius prayed for a downpour.
Once the galley was fifty yards from the north bank, the officer in command shouted new orders. The galley began to travel almost parallel to the shore, heading west. The officer brought the galley within thirty yards of the shore, but no closer.
Soon, they were three hundred yards upstream from Great Lady Holi's barge. Four hundred yards.
But the galley never came closer to shore. Thirty yards.
Belisarius cursed under his breath. He would have to make the swim. Right under the eyes of watchful soldiers, with grenades in hand.
He glanced up, one last time. The cloud cover was almost complete. Again, he prayed for a downpour.
His prayers were answered.
Not by rain, but by fire. A great, blooming, volcanic eruption shattered the sky to the southeast. The thunderclap from that eruption swept over the Jamuna, drowning the grenade blasts like raindrops under a tidal wave.
For a moment, all was still. Then, from the same area to the southeast, the first immense blast gave way to a barrage. One blast after another after another. None of them had the same intensity as the first, but, in their rolling fury, they were even more frightening. Now, too, rockets began hissing their way into the sky, at every angle and trajectory—as if they were completely unaimed. Simply firing in whatever direction they had been tumbled, by a giant's hand.
The officer in command of the galley began shouting new orders. The galley backed oars, turning away from the north bank. Turning back to the southeast, back to the wharf where Great Lady Holi's barge was rocking in the shockwave of the blasts.
Belisarius could not make out the officer's exact words—his voice, like all other sounds, was buried beneath the continuing thunder of the distant explosions. But he knew what had happened. The Malwa search of the north bank had been half-hearted to begin with. And now, with further—dramatic!—evidence that the nefarious foreign general had made his escape to the south, it was being abandoned completely.
He jerked the knife out of the hull, pushed himself away, submerged. When he raised his head, a minute later, the stern of the rapidly receding galley was barely visible in the darkness.
A minute later, Belisarius was wading ashore. Within seconds, he found cover under a low-hanging tree. There, he unrolled his bundle, wrung out his clothes and emptied his boots, dressed quickly.
As soon as he stepped out from the shelter of the tree, the sky finally broke. Within seconds, his clothing was as saturated by the downpour as it had been by the river.
Striding away, however, Belisarius was not disgruntled. Quite the contrary. He was grinning as widely as Ousanas.
For all his reputation as a brilliant strategist—a master of tactics and maneuver—Belisarius had always known that war never followed neat and predictable lines. Chaos and confusion was the very soul of the beast. The secret was to cherish the vortex, not to fear it.
Chaos was his best friend; confusion his boon companion.
He turned his head, admiring the fiery chaos to the southeast. Raised his eyes, lovingly, to the thundering confusion of the heavens.
A wondering thought came from Aide.
You are not afraid? We are all alone, now.
Belisarius sent his own mental image.
Himself, and the jewel. Soaring through the turbulence of the vortex. Catching every gust of wind, sailing high; avoiding every downdraft. Against them, flapping frantic wings and gobbling stupified fury, came the beast called Malwa.
It looked very much like a gigantic chicken.
That very moment, on the other hand, Valentinian was cursing chaos and confusion.
The armory had exploded just as the cataphracts began their cavalry charge into the Malwa army camp.
The result was the most absurd situation Valentinian had ever encountered in his life.
He and Anastasius had timed the charge perfectly. They had allowed many minutes to elapse, after their first volley into the camp, before starting the charge. Minutes, for the Ethiopians to get a good distance along their escape route. (The Axumites would need that headstart. They were competent horsemen, to be sure; but—except for Garmat—had none of the superb cavalry skills of the cataphracts.) Minutes, for the shocked comrades of the slain Malwa soldiers to spread the alarm. Minutes, for the half-competent officers of those half-competent troops to gather around and begin shouting contradictory orders. Minutes, for chaos to turn to confusion. Minutes, to allow Kujulo and the other Kushans to race about the Malwa camp in their Ye-tai impersonation, shouting garbled news of the escape of the treacherous foreign general Belisarius.
Finally, the time came. By now, Valentinian estimated, Kujulo and the Kushans—coming from the opposite side of the encampment—would have reached the officers in command of the Malwa camp. There, in broken Hindi, interspersed with savage Ye-tai curses, they would have ordered the officers to begin a charge to the south, where the foreign general was known to be lurking.
All that was needed, to give the proof to their words, was a sudden cataphract charge on the south edge of the camp.
Valentinian gave the order. He and his two comrades plunged out of the line of trees. Their horses thundered toward the Malwa camp, some sixty yards distant. They drew their bows, fired their first volley—
The northeast sky turned to flame and thunder.
Every Malwa soldier in the camp turned, as one man, and gaped at the spectacle. They did not even notice the first three casualties in their midst. Three soldiers, hurled to the ground by arrows plunging into their backs.
They did not notice the next three casualties. Or the next three. Or the next three.
By the time Valentinian and his comrades reached the pathetic little palisade—say better, low fence—which circled the camp, they had already slain eight Malwa soldiers and badly wounded as many more.
And, for all the good it did, they might as well have been boys casting pebbles at cows. All of the Malwa soldiers were still facing away, gaping with shock at the incredible display to the north, completely oblivious to the carnage in their ranks to the south.
The cataphracts reined in their horses at the very edge of the palisade. It was no part of their plan to get tangled up with the Malwa soldiers. They simply wanted to draw their attention.
The roaring explosions continued to the north. Rockets were firing into the sky in all directions, hissing their serpentine fury at random targets.
Valentinian's curses, loud as they were, were completely buried under the uproar.
Random chaos came to the rescue. One of the rockets firing off from the exploding armory sailed directly toward the Malwa army camp. The milling soldiers watched it rise, and rise, and rise. Still heading directly toward them.
In truth, the rocket posed little danger to them. But there was something frightening about that inexorable, arching flight. This rocket—quite unlike its erratic fellows—seemed bound and determined to strike the camp head-on. Its trajectory was as straight and true as an arrow's.
The mob of soldiers began edging back. Then, almost as one, turned and began pushing their way southward. Away from the coming rocket.
Finally, the Malwa saw the cataphracts. Finally, stumbling over the littered bodies, they caught sight of their murdered comrades.
"It's about time, you stupid bastards!" cried Valentinian. He drew an arrow and slaughtered a Malwa in the first rank. Another. Another. Anastasius and Menander added their own share to the killing.
Valentinian saw a Ye-tai charge to the fore. He was about to kill him, until—he transferred his aim, slew a soldier nearby.
"It Romans!" he heard the Ye-tai cry, in crude, broken Hindi. "That Belisarius he-self! After they! Get they!"
The Ye-tai sprang over the palisade, waving his sword in a gesture of command.
"After they!" he commanded. Valentinian saw three other Ye-tai push their way through the Malwa mob, beating the common infantrymen with the flat of their blades and shouting the same simple command.
"After they! After they!"
Valentinian reined his horse around and galloped off. Anastasius and Menander followed. Seconds later, with a roar, the entire mob of Malwa soldiers was pounding in pursuit.
On his way, the cataphract sent a silent thought back. You are one brave man, Kujulo. You crazy son-of-a-bitch! I might have killed you.
Brave, Kujulo was. Crazy, he was not. As soon as he was satisfied that the momentum of the Malwa soldiers was irreversible, he began edging his way to the side of the charging mob. His three comrades followed his lead. A minute later, passing a small grove, Kujulo darted aside into its shelter.
Under the branches, it was almost pitch black. Kujulo had to whisper encouragement in order to guide the other Kushans to his side.
"What now?" he was asked.
Kujulo shrugged. "Now? Now we try to make our own escape."
Another complained: "This plan is too damned tricky."
Kujulo grinned. He, too, thought the plan was half-baked fancy. But he had long since made his own assessment of Ousanas.
"Fuck the plan," he said cheerfully. "I'm counting on the hunter."
Then: "Let's go."
A minute later, the four Kushans exited the grove on the opposite side and began running west. They ran with a loping, ground-eating stride which they could maintain for hours.
They would need that stride. They had a rendezvous to keep. They were hunting a hunter.
The noble lady charged into the stables through the western gate, shouting angrily.
"The city has gone mad! We were attacked by dacoits!"
Startled, her husband and the stablekeeper turned away from the north gate, where they had been watching the explosions. The explosions were dying down, now. If nothing else, the pouring rain was smothering what was left of the holocaust. But there were still occasional rockets to be seen, firing off into the night sky.
The nobleman's wife stalked forward. Her fury was obvious from her stride alone. The stablekeeper was thankful that he couldn't see her face, due to the veil.
Shocked as he was by her sudden appearance, the stablekeeper still had the presence of mind to notice two things.
The man noticed the comely youthful form revealed under the sari, which rain had plastered to her body.
The low-caste man noticed the bloodstains spattering the tunics of her fierce-looking escort of soldiers.
The man disappeared, submerged by the reality of his caste. Like all humble men of India, outside Majarashtra and Rajputana, the last thing he wanted to see in his own domicile was heavily-armed, vicious-looking soldiers. He had been unhappy enough with the fifteen soldiers the nobleman had brought with him. Now, there were ten more of the creatures—and these, with the stains of murder still fresh on their armor and weapons.
The stablekeeper began to edge back. To the side, his wife was quietly but frenziedly driving the other members of his family into the modest house attached to the stables.
The nobleman restrained him with a hand. "Have no fear, stablekeeper," he murmured. "These are my personal retainers. Disciplined men."
He stepped forward to meet his wife. She was still spluttering her outrage.
"Be still, woman!" he commanded. "Are you injured?"
The wife fell instantly silent. The stablekeeper was impressed. Envious. He himself enjoyed no such obedience from his own spouse.
The wife shook her head, the veil rippling about her face. The gesture seemed sulky.
The nobleman turned to the man who was apparently the commander of his soldiers. "What happened?"
The soldier shrugged. "Don't know. We were halfway here when"—he gestured to the north—"something erupted. It was like a volcano. A moment later, a great band of dacoits were assaulting us." He shrugged, again. The gesture was all he needed to explain what happened next.
The stablekeeper was seized by a sudden, mad urge to laugh. He restrained it furiously. He could not imagine what would possess a band of dacoits to attack such a formidable body of soldiers. Lunatics.
But—it was a lunatic world. Not for the first time, the stablekeeper had a moment of regret that he had ever left his sane little village in Bengal. The moment was brief. Sane, that village was. Poverty-stricken, it was also. He had done well in Kausambi, for all that he hated the city.
While the nobleman took the time to inquire further as to the well-being of his wife and retainers, the stablekeeper took the time to examine the soldiers more closely.
Some breed of steppe barbarians, that much he knew. The physical appearance was quite distinct. The faces of those soldiers were akin, in their flat, slant-eyed way, to the faces of Chinese and Champa merchants he had seen occasionally in his youth, in the great Bengali port of Tamralipti. So was the yellowish tint to their skin. Even the top-knot into which the soldiers bound their hair, under the iron helmets, was half-familiar. Some Chinese favored a similar hairstyle. But no Chinese or Champa merchant ever had that lean, wolfish cast to his face.
Beyond that, the stablekeeper could not place them. Ye-tai, possibly—although they seemed less savage, for all their evident ferocity, than Ye-tai soldiers he had encountered, swaggering down the streets of Kausambi.
But he was not certain. As a Bengali, he had had little occasion to encounter barbarians from the far northwestern steppes. As a Bengali immigrant to Kausambi, the occasion had arisen. But, like all sane men, the stablekeeper had avoided such encounters like the plague.
The nobleman approached him.
"We will be going now, stablekeeper. I thank you, again, for your efficiency and good service."
The stablekeeper made so bold as to ask: "Your wife is well, I hope, noble sir?"
The nobleman smiled. "Oh, yes. Startled, no worse. I can't imagine what the dacoits were thinking." He made a small gesture toward the soldiers, who were now busy assisting the wife and her ladies into their howdahs. The gesture spoke for itself.
The stablekeeper shook his head. "Dacoits are madmen by nature."
The nobleman nodded and began to leave. An apparent sudden thought turned him back.
"I have no idea what madness has been unleashed in Kausambi tonight, stablekeeper. But, whatever it is, you would do well to close your stable for a few days."
The stablekeeper grimaced.
"The same thought has occurred to me, noble sir. The Malwa—" He paused. The nobleman, though not Malwa himself, was obviously high in their ranks. "The city soldiery will be running rampant." He shrugged. It was a bitter gesture. "But—I have a family to feed."
The expression which came to the nobleman's face, at that moment, was very odd. Very sad, it seemed to the stablekeeper. Though he could not imagine why.
"I know something of that, man," muttered the nobleman. He stepped close and reached, again, into his purse. The stablekeeper was astonished at the small pile of coins which were placed in his hand.
The nobleman's next words were spoken very softly:
"As I said, keep the stable closed. For a few days. This should make good the loss."
Now, he did turn away. Watching him stride toward the howdahs, the stablekeeper was seized by a sudden impulse.
"Noble sir!"
The nobleman stopped. The stablekeeper spoke to the back of his head.
"If I might be so bold, noble sir, may I suggest you exit the city by the Lion Gate. It is a bit out of your way, but—the soldiers there are—uh, relaxed, so to speak. They are poor men themselves, sir. Bengali, as it happens. Whenever I have occasion to leave the city, that is always the gate which I use. No difficulties."
The nobleman nodded. "Thank you, stablekeeper. I believe I shall take your advice."
A minute later, he and his wife were gone, along with their retinue. They made quite a little troupe, thought the stablemaster. The nobleman rode his howdah alone, in the lead elephant, as befitted his status. His wife followed in the second, accompanied by one of her maids. The three other maids followed in the last howdah. Ahead of them marched a squad of their soldiers, led by the commander. The rest of the escort followed behind. The stablemaster was impressed by the disciplined order with which the soldiers marched, ignoring the downpour. An easy, almost loping march. A ground-eating march, he thought.
He turned away from the pouring rain, made haste to close and bar the gates to the stable.
Not that they'll need to eat much ground with those mounts, he thought wrily. The most pleasant, docile little elephants I've ever seen.
Halfway across the stable, his wife emerged from the door to the adjoining house. She scurried to meet him.
"Are they gone?" she asked worriedly. Then, seeing the closed and barred gates, asked:
"Why did you shut the gates? Customers will think we are closed."
"We are closed, wife. And we will remain closed until that madness"—a gesture to the north—"dies away and the city is safe." Wry grimace. "As safe, at least, as it ever is for poor folk."
His wife began to protest, but the stablekeeper silenced her with the coins in his hand.
"The nobleman was very generous. We will have more than enough."
His wife argued no further. She was relieved, herself, at the prospect of hiding from the madness.
Later that night, as they prepared for bed, the stablekeeper said to his wife:
"Should anyone inquire about the nobleman, in the future, say nothing."
His wife turned a startled face to him.
"Why?"
The stablekeeper glared. "Just do as I say! For once, woman, obey your husband!"
His wife shrugged her thick shoulders with irritation, but she nodded. (Not so much from obedience, as simple practicality. Poor men are known, now and then, to speak freely to the authorities. Poor women, almost never.)
Much later that night, sleepless, the stablekeeper arose from his bed. He moved softly to the small window and opened the shutter. Just a bit—there was no glass in that modest frame to keep out the weather.
He stood there, for a time, staring to the east. There was nothing to see, beyond the blackness of the night and the glimmering of the rain.
When he returned to his bed, he fell asleep quickly, easily. Resolution often has that effect.