by Eric Flint
His next grunt was not soft at all. More like an explosive breath-a man kicked by a mule. But the eruption ended almost as soon as it began. As the Ye-tai's head came down, Ajatasutra's dagger plunged into his eye. Halfway to the hilt, before a quick and practiced twist removed the blade before it could become jammed in the skull.
As the Ye-tai slumped to the ground, Ajatasutra stepped aside.
"Wrong answer," he said mildly. His eyes were on the three survivors.
For perhaps two seconds, the Ye-tai seemed frozen in place. The youngest and least experienced of them began moving his hand toward his sword, but one of his companions slapped the hand away.
"Uglier than sin, the both of them," the man rasped. "Rather fuck a crocodile, myself."
Ajatasutra's lips might have quirked a bit. It was difficult to tell, in the darkness. The same darkness, perhaps, explained the ghostly ease with which he now crowded the three mercenaries.
"I can find you anywhere in India," he murmured. "Anywhere in the world. Don't doubt it for a moment."
"A crocodile," husked the young Ye-tai.
Now, even in the darkness, Ajatasutra's smile was plain to see. "Splendid," he said agreeably. His hand-his left hand-dipped into his cloak and emerged holding a small pouch.
"A bonus," he explained. Then, nodding to the corpse: "For seeing to the quiet disposal of the body."
Feeling the weight of the pouch, the newly-promoted mercenary leader grinned. "Crocodile food. River's full of them."
"See to it." Ajatasutra gave a last glance at the elephant. The younger sister was already in the howdah and the older was handing up the baby. A moment later, the two mahouts were assisting her aboard the great creature.
The Ye-tai began to watch the procedure. Then, struck by a very recent memory, tore their eyes away and moved them back to their master.
But he was gone. Vanished into the night, like a demon from the ancient fables.
* * *
That very moment, in the far-distant Malwa capital of Kausambi, a demon from the fabled future came to its decision.
"No choice," it pronounced. "The Kushans grow more unreliable by the day. And the Ye-tai are not enough to bolster the regime. We must weld the Rajputs to our side."
The Emperor of Malwa made a last, feeble attempt to safeguard the exclusivity of his dynasty. "They are bound to us by solemn oaths as it is. You know how maniacally the Rajputs hold their honor. Surely-"
"That is not enough. Not with Belisarius coming. The pressure will become intense. Not even Rajput honor can be relied upon to withstand those hammer blows. They must also be welded by ties of blood. Dynastic ties."
Skandagupta's corpulent little body began to swell like a toad. His mouth opened, ready to utter a final protest. But the sharp glance of Nanda Lal held him silent. That, and the frozen immobility of the four Khmer assassins standing against the nearby wall of the royal chamber. The assassins were all members of Link's special cult, as were the six enormous tulwar-bearing slaves kneeling against the opposite wall. The emperor had seen those knives and tulwars flash before, more than once. They would not hesitate for an instant to spill the life of Malwa's own ruler.
Ruler, in name only. The true power behind Malwa's throne resided in the body of the young woman who sat in the chair next to him. Lady Sati, she was called, one of Skandagupta's first cousins. But the name was as much of a shell as the body itself. Within that comely female form lurked the being called Link, the emissary and satrap of the new gods who were reshaping humanity into their own mold.
"It will be done," decreed the thing from the future. The slender hands draped loosely over the carved armrests made a slight gesture, as if to indicate the body within which Link dwelled. "This sheath is perfectly functional. Much healthier than average. It will serve Rana Sanga as wife and mother of his children. The dynasty will then be Rajput as well as Malwa. The swords and lances of Rajputana will be welded to us with iron bars. Ties of blood."
Nanda Lal cleared his throat. "There is the matter of Sanga's existing wife. And his three existing children."
The thing inside Lady Sati swiveled her head. "A detail. By all accounts, his wife is plain and plump." Again, the shapely hands made that little gesture. "This form is beautiful, as men count such things. And, as I said, perfectly functional. Rajputana's King will have new children soon enough. He will be reconciled to the loss."
The Malwa spymaster hesitated. This was dangerous ground. "Yes, of course. But my spies report that Sanga dotes on his family. He will still be upset-suspicious, even-if-"
"By Roman hands. See to it, spymaster. Use Narses. He will know how to manage the thing in such a way as to divert suspicion onto the enemy. Sanga will blame Belisarius for the murder of his family."
Very dangerous ground. But, whatever else he was, Nanda Lal was no coward. And, in his own cold way, as devoted to the Malwa purpose as any man alive.
"Narses cannot possibly be trusted," he growled. "He was a traitor to the Romans. He can betray us as well."
For the first time, the creature from the future seemed to hesitate. Watching, Skandagupta and Nanda Lal could only wonder at the exact thought processes which went on behind that cold, beautiful exterior. Lightning calculation, of course-that much was obvious from the years they had spent in Link's service. But not even the icy spymaster could imagine such an emptiness of all emotion. Try as he might.
"True, Nanda Lal. But still not an insuperable problem. Bring Narses before me. In person. I will discover the truth of his loyalties and intentions."
"As you will, Lady Sati," stated Nanda Lal. He bowed his head obediently. An instant later, the Emperor of Malwa followed suit. The thing was settled, beyond any further discussion and dispute. And if neither man-especially Skandagupta-faced the prospect of a future half-Rajput dynasty with any pleasure, neither did they concern themselves over the possibility of Narses' treachery. Not with Link itself to ferret out the eunuch's soul. No man alive-no woman or child-could hide its true nature from that scrutiny. Not even their great enemy Belisarius had been able to accomplish that.
Chapter 6
Mesopotamia
Spring, 533 A.D.
"What's the matter, large one? Are you sick?" asked Belisarius. "You haven't complained once since we left Ctesiphon."
Sittas smiled cheerfully. Planting his feet firmly in the stirrups, he raised himself off the saddle and heaved his huge body around to study the army following in their tracks.
"Complain?" he demanded. "Why should I complain? God in Heaven, would you look at the size of that thing!"
Belisarius copied Sittas' maneuver, albeit with considerably more ease and grace. The army following them seemed to cover the entire flood plain. To inexperienced eyes-such as those of the peasants who stared at it from the relative safety of their huts-it would have seemed like a swarm of locusts. And, for the peasants, just about as welcome. True, Emperor Khusrau had promised to pay for any damage done by the army in its passage. Mesopotamian peasants, from the experience of millennia, viewed imperial promises with a skepticism that would have shamed the most rigorous Greek philosopher.
Belisarius had no difficulty finding the underlying order in the seeming chaos.
Kurush's Persian dehgans, fifteen thousand strong, maintained their position on the prestigious left flank. They had done so since the moment the army's core passed through the gates of Ctesiphon and began collecting the units gathered outside the city. The gesture was a bit pointless, since there was no danger of a flank attack here in Mesopotamia. But the Persian aristocracy treasured its little points of honor.
Sittas' own units, the ten thousand heavy cataphracts from Constantinople and Anatolia, were assuming the equivalent position on the army's right wing. Whatever disgruntlement they might still be feeling at the implied slight was being exercised by their vigilance in keeping raiders from the desert at bay. Not that any Arab freebooter in his right mind would attack such an army, even if Belisarius didn't h
ave his own Arab camel contingents riding on the flank of the cataphracts.
Belisarius smiled at the sight, but his study was soon concentrated on the army's center. The cataphracts and dehgans were familiar things. They had dominated warfare in the eastern Mediterranean for centuries. It was the units marching in the army's center which were new. Very new.
Sittas' own scrutiny had also reached the army's center. But, unlike Belisarius, his gaze was not one of pleasure and satisfaction.
"Silliest damned thing I've ever seen," he grumbled.
"Thank God," sighed Belisarius, apparently with great relief. "A complaint! I was beginning to wonder seriously about your health."
Sittas snorted. "I just hope you're right about this-this-what's his name?"
"Gustavus Adolphus." Belisarius turned back around and faced forward. He'd seen enough, and the position was awkward to maintain even with stirrups.
"Gustavus Adolphus," he repeated. "With an army more or less designed like this one, he defeated almost every opponent he ever faced. Most of whom had armies which, more or less, resembled the Malwa forces."
Sittas snorted again. " 'More or less, more or less,' " he echoed in a sing-song. "That does not precisely fill me with confidence. And didn't he get himself killed in the end?"
Belisarius shrugged. "Leading one of his insanely reckless cavalry charges in his last battle-which his army won, by the way, even with their king dead on the field."
Belisarius smiled crookedly. For a moment, he was tempted to turn around in the saddle and look at his bodyguards. He was quite certain that the faces of Isaac and Priscus, that very moment, were filled with solemn satisfaction at hearing such antics on the part of commanding generals described as "insane."
But he resisted the impulse. For all that he enjoyed teasing Sittas for his inveterate conservatism-
Damned dinosaur, came Aide's sarcastic thought.
— Belisarius also needed to have Sittas' confidence. So:
"You've already agreed, Sittas-or do we have to go through this argument again-that armored cavalry can't face unbroken gun-wielding infantry in the field."
"I know I did. Doesn't mean I have to like it." He raised a thick hand, as a man forestalls an unwanted lecture. "And please don't jabber at me again about Morgarten and Laupen and Morat and all those other heathen-sounding places where your precious Swiss pikemen of the future stood their ground against cavalry. I'm sick of hearing about it."
Sittas' voice slipped into an imitation of Belisarius' baritone. " 'As long as the gunmen are braced with solid infantry to protect them while they reload, they'll butcher any cavalry that comes against them.' Fine, fine, fine. I won't argue the point. Although I will point out"-here Sittas' tone grew considerably more enthusiastic-"that's only true as long as the infantry doesn't break and run. Which damn few infantry don't, when they see cataphracts thundering down on them."
Aide's voice came again. Stubborn as a mule. Best give him a stroke or two. Or he'll sulk for the rest of the day.
Belisarius had reached the same conclusion. His next words were spoken perhaps a bit hastily. "I'm certainly not arguing that cavalry isn't irreplaceable. Nothing like it for routing the enemy and completing their destruction-after their formations have been broken."
So did Belisarius pass the next hour or so, with Aide grousing in his mind and Sittas grumbling in his ear, extolling the virtues of cavalry under the right circumstances. By the time Maurice and Agathius arrived with a supply problem which needed Belisarius' immediate attention, Sittas seemed to be reasonably content.
Have to do it all over again tomorrow, concluded Aide sourly.
* * *
Sittas rode off less than a minute after Agathius began explaining the problem. The big Greek nobleman's enthusiasm for logistics paralleled his enthusiasm for infantry tactics.
How did he ever win any campaigns, anyway? demanded Aide.
Belisarius was about to reply. But Maurice, as if he'd somehow been privy to the private mental exchange, did it for him.
The Thracian cataphract, born a peasant, gazed after the departing aristocratic general. Perhaps oddly, his face was filled with nothing more than approval. "Still trying to make him happy? Waste of time, lad, until Sittas has had a battle or two under his belt. But at least we won't have to worry about him breaking under the lesson. Not Sittas. If there's a more belligerent and ferocious general in the world, I don't know who it is. Besides, who really knows the future anyway? Maybe Sittas will lead one of his beloved cavalry charges yet."
* * *
By midafternoon, Agathius' problem was well on the way to solution. Agathius had only brought the problem to Belisarius because the difficulty was purely social, rather than technical, and he felt the commanding general needed to take charge. Some of the Persian dehgans were becoming vociferously indignant. Their mules, laden with burdens which were far too heavy for them, were becoming indignant themselves. Mules, unlike horses, cannot be driven beyond a certain point. The Persian mules reached that point as soon as the sun reached the zenith, and had promptly gone on what a future world would have called a general strike. And done so, moreover, with a solidarity which would have won the unadulterated approval of the most doctrinaire anarcho-syndicalist.
Even Persian dehgans knew that beating mules was pointless. So, turning upon less redoubtable opponents, they were demanding that room be made for their necessities in the supply barges which were streaming down the Tigris. The Mesopotamian and Greek sailors who manned those craft-no fools, they-steadfastly ignored the shouted demands of the dehgans on the banks and kept their barges a safe distance from the shore. So-
"They've been hollering at me for two hours, now," grumbled Agathius. "I'm getting tired of it."
Dehgans! grumbled Aide. Only thing in the world that can make Greek noble cataphracts seem like sentient creatures.
Belisarius turned to one of his couriers. For a moment, he hesitated. In campaigns past, Belisarius had always used veteran professionals for his dispatch riders. But on this campaign, he had felt it necessary to use young Greek nobles. Partly, to mollify the sentiments of the Roman empire's aristocracy, which was slowly becoming reconciled to the Justinian dynasty. But, mostly, to mollify the Persian aristocracy, which would take umbrage at orders transmitted to them by a commoner.
This particular dispatch rider was named Calopodius. He was no older than seventeen, and came from one of the Roman empire's most notable families. Belisarius had, tentatively, formed a good opinion of the boy's wits and tact. Both of which would be needed here.
Calopodius immediately confirmed the assessment. The boy's face showed no expression at all beyond calm alertness. But his words carried a certain dry humor, under the aristocratic drawl.
"I received excellent marks from both my rhetorician and grammarian, sir."
Belisarius grinned. "Splendid! In that case, you should have no difficulty whatsoever telling Kurush to get down to the river immediately and put a stop to this nonsense."
Calopodius nodded solemnly. "I don't see any difficulty, sir. Be much like the time my mother sent me to instruct my father's sister to quit pestering the stable boys." A moment later, he was gone, spurring his horse into a canter.
"I wonder if Alexander the Great had to put up with this kind of crap," mused Maurice.
"Of course not!" derided Belisarius. "The man was Achilles reborn. Who's going to give Achilles an argument?"
But the retort failed of its purpose. Lowborn or not, Maurice and Agathius were every bit as familiar with the Greek epics as any senator.
"Agamemnon," they chorused in unison.
Chapter 7
Antonina viewed the gadget with some disfavor. Ousanas, with considerably more.
"Romans are madmen," he growled. "Lunatics, pure and simple." He swiveled his head, bringing Ezana under his gaze.
"You are the admiral, Ezana. A seaman, where I am a simple hunter. Explain to this supposedly nautical-minded Roman"-here a fi
erce glare at John of Rhodes-"the simple truths which even a simpleminded hunter can understand." He flipped his hand toward the gadget, peremptorily, the way a man dismisses an annoying servant. "Like trying to use a lioness for a hunting dog. More likely to bite the master than the prey."
Ezana, like Ousanas, was scowling. But the Ethiopian naval commander's scowl was simply one of thoughtfulness.
"Stick to hunting and statesmanship, aqabe tsentsen," he grumbled. "You're supreme at the first and not an outright embarrassment at the second." He studied the gadget for another few seconds. "Hunting lioness. " he murmured. "Not a bad comparison, actually."
Ezana's scowl was suddenly replaced by a cheerful grin. "Not bad! But tell me, Ousanas-what if the lioness were genuinely tame? Or, at least, not quite feral?"
Presented with this outrageous possibility-a tame lioness? — Ousanas practically gurgled with outrage. His usual insouciant wit seemed to have completely deserted him.
"Never seen the man in such a state," commented Antonina slyly. She cocked her head at her companion. "You, Menander?"
But Menander was not about to enter this fray. The expression on his face was that of a man invited to enter a den of lions and argue the fine points of dining etiquette with its denizens. Clearly enough, the young Roman naval officer intended to champion the only safe and logical course. Silence.
Antonina smiled. Sweetly, at Menander; jeeringly, at Ousanas.
"Tame lioness! Not bad!" she exclaimed.
John of Rhodes, the designer of the gadget in question, finally entered the fray himself. His preceding silence, while one of his beloved contraptions was subjected to ridicule, was quite unlike the man. John of Rhodes had once been Rome's most acclaimed naval officer. Forced out of the navy because of his inveterate womanizing-which, alas, included seducing wives of several of his superior officers and visiting senatorial delegates-John had been plucked out of premature retirement by Belisarius and Antonina and put to work designing the new weapons which Aide had brought from the future. Then, as he showed as much energy and ability in that work as he had in his former career, John had found himself once again elevated to high naval rank. Higher, in substance if not in form, than any rank he had previously held. Officially, he was still a captain; in reality, he was the admiral of the Roman Empire's new fleet of gunpowder-armed warships. Its smallest fleet, true, but the only one which was growing by leaps and bounds.
