Rao was amused by the reluctance with which his young men obeyed orders. His lieutenant Maloji was not.
"You're too easy on them, Rao," he complained. His words came easily, despite the fact that he and the Panther were racing along the steep slope of a ridge, just below the skyline. On the other side of that ridge, they could hear the roar of battle. The clash of steel was fading, slowly. The angry shouts of Malwa officers were not.
"Here," said Rao. He scrambled up the slope, flinging himself to the ground just before reaching the crest. Maloji followed. On their bellies, the two men crawled to the crest itself, and peered over into the small valley below.
"You see?" hissed Maloji accusingly. He pointed angrily, with a bristling thrust of his beard. "Some of the disobedient dogs are still even using their swords."
"Only two," murmured Rao. He watched while the two young Marathas below finished cutting down a Malwa soldier before they began their own scramble up the slope on the opposite side. On the crest of that ridge, a line of guerillas was firing arrows into the swarming Malwa troops below.
"They are brothers, you know. One of them probably got tangled up and the other came to his rescue."
"Still—"
"Do not fret, Maloji. They will learn discipline soon enough." Grimly: "After they sustain heavy casualties from excessive enthusiasm."
He broke off, gauging the Malwa. The officers were finally bringing order back to their little army. At their command, ranks of soldiers began slogging up the slope. They suffered considerable losses from the arrows raining down on them, but their advance was inexorable. The Malwa had tried to cram too many soldiers down the narrow valley—not much more than a ravine. Those packed ranks made an easy, slow target for ambush, but, once they began their counter-attack, were far too massive to be repelled.
"They should break off now, the dogs!" snarled Maloji. "Your orders were very clear!"
Rao did not argue the point. He had, in fact, ordered his men to fire no more than two volleys after the Malwa began their counter-attack. The guerrillas should already have been retreating. Instead, the young Maratha rebels waited until the Malwa were halfway up the slope before they finally scrambled away.
Rao turned, and edged his way down the slope. Maloji followed, still grumbling.
"You shouldn't have given them those horses. That's why they're so bold. Disrespectful young dogs. They think those horses can outrun anything."
Now well below the skyline, Rao stood up. He grinned at his lieutenant. "Those horses can outrun anything. Anything these sorry Malwa have. The best horses foreign money could buy!"
Maloji rose and brushed himself off. "Fine steeds, I admit," he agreed reluctantly. "They were a wonderful gift."
"I think of it as an exchange," demurred Rao. He looked to the west. He could not see Bharakuccha, of course. The great port was many miles away, hidden behind the Satpura mountains. "They gave us the horses, we gave them the opportunity."
"Will they make their escape, do you think?"
Rao shrugged. "I should imagine. We stopped the couriers, and we've been"—a gesture toward the ridge; a wide grin—"distracting the Malwa."
He turned and began loping toward the dell where their own horses were hidden away. Speaking easily, despite the rigorous pace, he said over his shoulder:
"As I told you before, Maloji, those men are capable."
Capability was unneeded. The escape, at the end, was child's play.
Garmat simply marched across the ramp connecting the Axumite trader with the wharf, and presented himself to the captain. Before he had even reached the man, the captain was goggling.
"Stop looking like a frog, Endubis," he growled.
The captain gaped.
"And close your mouth, fool. Spies may see you."
Endubis' mouth snapped shut. The captain glanced hurriedly at the shore, scanning for danger with an experienced eye.
Like all Ethiopian merchant captains, Endubis was no stranger to combat. Such merchants served as a reserve for the Kingdom of Axum's navy. No seaman could reach the rank of ship captain, even in the merchant fleet, without the negusa nagast's approval. For all their relaxed customs in other areas of life, the Axumites were never casual about their naval power.
"Trouble?" asked Endubis.
Garmat smiled, thinly. "You might say so. The entire Malwa Empire is baying for our blood."
Endubis winced. "The Prince?"
"He is well." Garmat made a little gesture with his head. "In that warehouse. With his dawazz and the sarwen. Some others."
The adviser examined the ship briefly. "Thirteen men, in all. It will be crowded, but—"
"We'll manage," muttered Endubis. The captain turned and began bellowing orders. His seamen immediately scurried about the ship, preparing for departure.
"I wish you'd gotten here tomorrow," Endubis grumbled. "I'd have a cargo, then. I hate sailing empty. Surest way I know to poverty."
Garmat grinned. "Not so, Endubis. An empty ship will make a fast trip, and we'll not be too crowded. As for poverty—" His hand dipped into a pouch, came out, spread wide.
The captain, again, was goggling like a frog.
"You'll accept Malwa coin, I assume?" murmured Garmat. "Oh, and look! I believe there's even a ruby here. No—three rubies."
On the way out of Bharakuccha's harbor, a Malwa vessel hailed them and tried to come alongside.
"Ignore it," commanded the Prince. "Sail on."
The captain glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "That'll make it hard on the next Axumite trader," he pointed out.
Eon shrugged. "There won't be any `next Axumite trader.' We are at war, now, with Malwa."
The captain sighed. "Ah. Too bad. It was good business."
The officer in the bow of the Malwa ship hailed them again. His voice sounded angry.
"You can outsail them?" demanded Eon.
Endubis sneered. "That Malwa tub?" He disdained any further answer, beyond the orders he shouted at his seamen.
An hour later, the officer commanding the Malwa vessel broke off the pursuit.
He was practically gibbering.
Some of his rage was due to the superior seaworthiness of the Ethiopian ship. Most of it was due to the bare black ass hanging over the stern of the Axumite vessel, defecating. And the great, gleaming grin on the face above it.
* * *
A week later, in the port at Tamralipti on India's opposite coast, another Malwa naval officer grinned with sheer delight. As well he should. He had made more money that day than in the previous three months put together.
His lieutenant was grinning, too. His own cut of the nobleman's bribe was enough for a lavish spree in the Bay of Bengal's most notorious harbor district.
The lieutenant gestured with his head toward the merchant ship which was even now passing the harbor's breakwater.
"Should we notify Murshid and his men? There's a fortune in that nobleman's chests. And his wife's young. Pretty, too, probably. She and the other women would bring a good price."
The commanding officer stroked his beard, considering the question. He and his officers made a tidy profit, on the side, selling information on lucrative targets to the local pirates.
He did not ponder the matter for very long.
"No," he said firmly. "Not with that escort."
"There weren't more than thirty of them," argued his lieutenant. "Murshid can muster three ships, with over a hundred—"
The commander glared.
"A hundred what?" he snarled. "Three-to-one odds, you're talking about—four-to-one, at best. Murshid's rascals against—those?"
The lieutenant grimaced. "Well—"
The commander brushed the idea aside, as a man might brush away flies.
"Forget it. Murshid wouldn't thank us afterward, believe me. And what would our cut be—a barrel of guts? Two barrels?"
Looking back at them from the stern of his vessel, the captain of the merchant ship decided he was reading the posture of the Malwa officers properly. The distance was great, but he had very good eyes. And much experience.
Satisfied, he turned away. "We can relax," he said to his own lieutenant. "There'll be no problem."
His lieutenant heaved a sigh of relief. He had thought his captain mad, to accept such a cargo in these waters. They normally hauled nothing but bulk goods in the Bay of Bengal, infested as it was by pirates. The type of goods which no brigand finds attractive.
But, his captain had decided to take the chance. The nobleman's offered price had been too good to pass up. A small fortune to transport him, his wife, and their retinue to Muziris, the principal port of the south Indian kingdom of Kerala.
Besides—
The lieutenant glanced at the nearest of the nobleman's soldiers. He was not certain, but he thought the man was the officer commanding the nobleman's escort.
The officer was leaning against the rail, watching the receding harbor, idly honing his sword with a small whetstone. It seemed a pointless exercise. The blade was already like a razor.
His eyes met the lieutenant's.
"Trouble?" The whetstone never ceased its motion.
The lieutenant shook his head.
"We don't think so."
No expression at all crossed the officer's face. It seemed, in its rigid immobility, like an iron mask.
"Too bad," he murmured. He held the blade up to the sunlight, inspecting its edge. "My men are a little rusty. Could use a bit of honing."
A month later, Rana Sanga returned to his home near Jaipur. He had not seen his family in a year, and he had decided he must do so before he went on to Kausambi. He might never have the chance again. When he reported his failure to capture Belisarius, he would be punished. Possibly even executed.
To Sanga's surprise, Lord Damodara was waiting for him at the Rajput king's residence. He had arrived two weeks earlier, sure that Sanga would come there first, whether the news was good or foul.
As eager as he was to greet his family—Lord Damodara politely offered to wait until he had done so—Sanga insisted on giving his report first. He and Damodara met in a small room adjoining the great hall which served Sanga as his royal audience chamber. They sat on cushions across from each other at a low table. Alone, after servants had placed tea and pastries for their refreshment.
Sanga's report was full, precise, and unsparing. But as he came to the final episodes of their pursuit of Belisarius, Damodara cut him short.
"Never mind the rest, Sanga. The gist, I assume, is that you found no sign of him in Barbaricum or any of the other small ports?"
Sanga shook his head. "None, Lord Damodara. I am convinced he took ship there, somewhere, but he disguised his traces perfectly. If they investigate—long enough—Nanda Lal's spies can probably discover the truth. But—"
"What is the point?" asked Damodara. He waved a pudgy little hand in dismissal. "If they find any evidence, it will be far too late to do any good."
He sipped at his tea. Munched on a pastry.
"Such an investigation would do nothing but harm," he stated. "Great harm, in fact."
Sanga sat stiffly, silent. Damodara eyed him for a moment. Then, surprisingly, smiled. "You are, indeed, the true Rajput. Honor above all."
Sanga, if such were possible, stiffened further.
"I am not Rajput," rasped Damodara. "I respect your view of things, Rana Sanga—I even believe that I understand that view—but I do not share it." Harshly: "I am Malwa. And, thus, am a practical man. I was sent here to meet you, and assess the results of your search. I have now done so."
Another sip of tea.
"Here are my findings. Rana Sanga, acting on the possibility that Belisarius might have made his escape to the west, led a long, rigorous, and most diligent search—all the way to Barbaricum, no less!"
Another sip of tea.
"No trace of Belisarius was found. For a time, it appeared that the Rajputs were on his trail. But, in the end, it proved a false lead. The only things actually found were a ragged peddler and the bloody trail of a Ye-tai deserter from the royal bodyguard, who fled the Empire after viciously murdering several soldiers and royal couriers and robbing a merchant."
Sanga began to protest. Damodara drove him down.
"Nothing proves otherwise, Rana Sanga. Your suspicions were simply groundless. That is all." Another wave of his hand. The gesture done, the hand reached for a pastry.
"There is no evidence," concluded Damodara. "Nothing solid. Nothing concrete."
Satisfied—self-satisfied—Damodara popped the pastry into his mouth.
"There is," grated Sanga. He reached into his tunic, brought forth a small pouch, opened it, and spilled its contents onto the table between them.
An emerald. Small, but dazzling.
Damodara choked on his pastry. Coughing, he reached for his tea and hastily washed his throat clear.
"Rajput," he muttered, setting down the tea cup. He glared at the emerald.
The glare was brief. When he looked up, Damodara was smiling again.
"This, I presume, is the emerald which you say Belisarius gave the peddler? One of the emeralds from the Emperor's gift?"
Sanga nodded stiffly.
Damodara laughed. "What nonsense!" Shaking his head: "Any Rajput in the world can gauge a sword or a horse at a glance, but show them a jewel—"
For all its plumpness, Damodara's hand moved like a lizard on a hot rock snatching an insect. The emerald disappeared into his own tunic. Sternly: "These counterfeiters! Shameless criminals! I shall report this latest outrage to the appropriate bureau in Kausambi upon my return." Again, the waving hand. "Whichever it is. I believe the Ranabhandagaradhikara's office in the treasury handles counterfeiting. Perhaps the police Bhukti. One of those small departments, buried somewhere in the Grand Palace. Staffed by somnolent dullards."
The Rajput King's protest was cut short.
"It is done, Rana Sanga! Finished. That is all."
He rose. Sanga rose with him. The short Malwa commander stared up at the Rajput. He did not flinch in the least from the taller man's anger.
"My name is Lord Damodara," he said softly. "And I have reached my conclusion."
Still without moving his eyes from Sanga's hot gaze, Damodara leaned over and scooped up another pastry. Popped it in his mouth.
"These are truly excellent," he mumbled. "Please give my compliments to your baker."
Sanga was still glaring. Damodara sighed.
"Rana Sanga, so far as Malwa is concerned, the truth is clear. Belisarius escaped—with his men—to the south. The royal couriers who were to have alerted the port garrisons were all ambushed along the way by savage Maratha brigands. So the wicked foreign general and his accomplices were able to make their escape on an Axumite ship waiting in the harbor. By predesign, undoubtedly. We have—had—a clear description of one of those accomplices from a naval officer who failed to stop the ship. A vivid description." Coldly: "For his failure to capture that ship, the naval officer has been executed. Along with the commander of Bharakuccha's garrison."
Sanga snorted. Damodara, expressionless:
"Impaled, both of them. At Lord Venandakatra's command, as soon as the Goptri arrived in Bharakuccha."
Damodara, his face as blank as ice:
"Upon my return, upon my demand, the officer in charge of the unit from which the Ye-tai murderer deserted will also be executed. For dereliction of his duty."
He looked away. "I will not demand impalement. Beheading will suffice."
Sanga's face twisted.
Damodara murmured, "It has been done, and it will be done. Do not make those—sacrifices—vain exercises in murder, Rana Sanga. Please. Let it be."
He laid a hand on Sanga's arm.
"Now, I have news myself. I have been appointed head of the northern army for the upcoming Persian campaign. Lord Jivita, of course, will be in overall command."
The Rajput glanced at him, stonily. Looked away.
"I have requested—and my request has been approved—that most of the Rajput forces be assigned to my army. You—and your cavalry—in particular."
Now, Sanga's eyes came back. Fixed.
Damodara's lips quirked. "My official argument was that my army will be operating, more than any other, in broken country. Hence—so I argued—I require the bulk of our best cavalry units." He shrugged. "The argument is valid enough, of course. And it spared me the embarassment of explaining to Lord Jivita that I do not share his faith in the invincibility of gunpowder. Personally, I want good Rajput steel guarding my flanks, on the backs of good Rajput steeds."
Sanga almost smiled. Not quite.
Damodara's hand gave Sanga's arm a little shake. "I need you, Rana Sanga. Alive, healthy, and in command of your troops." He dropped the hand and turned away. "I will leave now. I have kept you from your family long enough."
Rana Sanga escorted Damodara all the way to the courtyard. As he waited for his horse to be brought around, Damodara murmured his last words:
"Do not fret over Belisarius' escape, Rana Sanga. Let it go. Leave it be. We will be seeing him again, anyway. Soon enough—too soon, for my taste. Of that I am as sure as the sunrise."
"So am I," muttered Sanga, after Damodara left. "As sure as the sunrise." A rueful smile came to his face. "But, unfortunately, not as predictable."
He turned back to his home. His wife and children were already rushing out the door, arms spread wide. All other emotions vanished, beyond simple joy in their loving embrace.
A week later, on his way back to Kausambi, Lord Damodara and his escort came to the Jamuna River.
Lord Damodara ordered a halt, and dismounted.
"I have to piss," he announced to his soldiers. "Wait here," he commanded, waving his hand casually. "I can manage the task quite well myself."
Once he reached the river, he paced a few feet along the bank, looking for a suitable spot. Having found it, Damodara went about his business.
He was a practical man, Damodara. Malwa. He saw no reason not to complete two necessary chores simultaneously.
He did have to piss, after all. While, in the middle of his urination, tossing a small emerald into a deep spot in the river.
At the very moment when that emerald nestled into the mud of a riverbed, a ship nestled against a dock an ocean's width away. Sailors began to lay the gangplank.
"There's your father," announced Garmat. The adviser pointed up the slope overlooking the harbor of Adulis. At the top of a steep stone stairway, a regal figure loomed.
Axumites did not favor the grandiose imperial regalia of other realms. The negusa nagast wore a simple linen kilt, albeit embellished with gold thread. His massive chest was covered by nothing more than crossed leather straps sewn with pearls. A heavy gold collar circled his thick neck and five gold armbands adorned each of his muscular arms. On his head was a plain silver tiara, studded with carnelians, signifying his status as a king of kings. The tiara held in place the traditional phakhiolin, the four-streamered headdress which announced his more important position as king of the Axumites. In his right hand, Kaleb held the great spear of his office, with its Christian cross surmounted on the shaft; in his left, a fly-whisk. The spear, symbolizing his piety and power; the fly-whisk, his service to his people.
Nothing more. Other than, of course, the gravity of his own figure—thick-shouldered, heavy-thewed, majestically-bellied—and the dignity of his own face. Glowering brow over powerful nose; tight lips; heavy, clenched jaws.
"He looks grumpy," surmised Menander.
"He looks downright pissed," opined Anastasius. "You'd think he already heard the bad news. His headstrong youngest son just got him in a war with the world's mightiest empire."
"Of course he's heard!" cried Ousanas happily. "Look at his companion—the world's fastest bringer of bad news. Crooked Mercury himself!"
Belisarius. Standing, now, next to the King. Smiling his crooked smile.
"Damn," muttered Valentinian. "Rather face the King's glare than that smile, any day." Sigh: "Exciting adventures, coming up."