by Eric Flint
"My army has marched to Mesopotamia and back again, and across half of India in the bargain, and defeated every foe which came against us. Including even Belisarius himself. And Lord Venandakatra-and you-presume to instruct me on the proper pace of a march?"
The short Malwa lord paused, staring at the hills about him with hands placed on hips. The hips, like the lord's belly, no longer retained the regal fat which had once adorned them. But his little hands were still as plump as ever.
"Venandakatra?" he mused softly. "Who has not marched out of his palace since Rao penned him in Bharakuccha? Whose concept of logistics is to whip his slaves when they fail to feed him appropriate viands for his delicate palate?"
Damodara brought his eyes down to the figure sprawled on the ground. Normally mild-mannered, Malwa's finest military commander was clearly fighting to restrain his temper.
"You?" he demanded. The hands on hips tightened. "Rana Sanga!" he barked. "Do me the favor of instructing this dog again on the subject of military travel."
"My pleasure, Lord." Rajputana's mightiest hand reached down, seized the Vile One's envoy by his finery, and hauled him to his feet as easily as he might pluck a fruit.
"In order to get from one place to another," Sanga said softly, "an army must get from one place to another. Much like"-a large finger poked the envoy's nose-"this face gets to the dirt of the road." And so saying, he illustrated the point with another cuff.
* * *
Sometime later, a less-assured envoy listened in silence as Lord Damodara gave him the reply to Lord Venandakatra.
"Tell the Vile-him-that I will arrive in the Deccan as soon as possible. Of which I will be the judge, not he. And tell him that the next insolent envoy he sends will be instructed with a sword, not a hand."
* * *
After Chandasena had made his precipitous departure, Rana Sanga sighed. "Venandakatra is the emperor's first cousin," he pointed out. And we will be under his authority once we enter the Deccan."
Lord Damodara did not seem notably abashed. "True, and true," he replied. Again, he surveyed the scene around him, with hands on hips. But his stance was relaxed, now, and his eyes were no longer on the hills.
His round face broke into a cheery smile. "Authority, Rana Sanga, is a much more elusive concept than people realize. On the one hand, there is consanguinity to royal blood and official post and status. On the other-"
A stubby forefinger pointed to the mass of soldiers streaming by. "On the other, there is the reality of twenty thousand Rajputs, and ten thousand Ye-tai and kshatriyas who have been welded to them through battles, sieges and victories. And, now, some ten thousand new Bihari and Bengali recruits who are quickly learning their place."
Sanga followed the finger. His experienced eye picked out at once what Damodara was indicating. In every other Malwa army but this one, the component forces formed separate detachments. The Ye-tai served as security battalions; the Malwa kshatriya as privileged artillery troops. Rajputs, of course, were elite cavalry. And the great mass of infantrymen enrolled in the army-peasants from one or another of the many subject nations of the Gangetic plain-formed huge but poorly-equipped and trained levies.
Not here. Damodara's army was a Rajput army, at its core, though the Rajputs no longer formed a majority of the troops. But the Ye-tai-whose courage was admired and respected, if not their semi-barbarous character-were intermingled with the Rajputs. As were the kshatriyas, and, increasingly-and quite to their surprise-the new Bengali and Bihari recruits.
"The veil of illusion," mused Sanga. "Philosophers speak of it."
"So they do," concurred Damodara. His air seemed one of detachment and serenity. "The best philosophers."
* * *
That night, in Lord Damodara's headquarters tent, philosophical detachment and serenity were entirely absent.
For all that he was an old man, and a eunuch, Narses was as courageous as any man alive. But now, reading again the summons from the Grand Palace, he had to fight to keep his hands from trembling.
"It arrived today?" he asked. For the second time, which was enough in itself to indicate how shaken he was.
Damodara nodded somberly. He made a vague gesture with his hand toward the entrance flap of the tent. "You would have passed by the courier on your way in. I told him to wait outside until I had spoken to you."
Narses' eyes flitted around the interior of the large tent. Clearly enough, Damodara had instructed everyone to wait outside. None of his officers were present, not even Rana Sanga. And there were no servants in the tent. That, in its own way, indicated just how uneasily Damodara himself was taking the news.
Narses brought himself under control, with the iron habit of a lifetime spent as an intriguer and spymaster. He gave Lord Damodara a quick, shrewd glance.
First things first. Reassure my employer.
"Of course," he said harshly, "I will report to Great Lady Sati that you have never given me permission to do anything other than my officially specified duties. Which is the plain and simple truth, as it happens."
Lord Damodara's tension seemed to ease a bit. "Of course," he murmured. He studied his spymaster carefully.
"You have met Great Lady Sati, I believe?"
Narses shook his head. "Not exactly. She was present, yes, when I had my one interview with Great Lady Holi. After my defection from Rome, and before Great Lady Holi departed for Mesopotamia. Where she met her death at Belisarius' hands."
He left unspoken the remainder: and was-replaced? — by Great Lady Sati.
"But Lady Sati-she was not Great Lady, then-said nothing in the interview."
Damodara nodded and began pacing slowly back and forth. His hands were pressed together as if in prayer, which was the lord's habit when he was engaged in deep thought.
Abruptly, he stopped his pacing and turned to face Narses squarely.
"How much do you know, Roman?"
Narses understood the meaning. "Malwa is ruled by a hidden-something. A being, let us call it. I do not know its true name. Once, it inhabited the body of Great Lady Holi. Today, it resides in Great Lady Sati. Whatever it is, the being has supernatural powers. It is not of this earth. I believe, judging from what I have learned, that it claims to come from the future."
After a moment's hesitation, he added: "A divine being, Malwa believes it to be."
Damodara smiled thinly. "And you?"
Narses spread his hands. "What is divinity, Lord? For Hindus, the word deva refers to a divine creature. For Zoroastrians, it is the word assigned to demons. What, in the end, is really the difference-to the men who stand under its power?"
"What, indeed?" mused Damodara. He resumed his pacing. Again, his hands were pressed together. "Whatever the being may be, Narses-divine or not, from the future or not-have no doubt of one thing. It is truly superhuman."
He stopped and, again, turned to face the eunuch. "One thing in particular you must understand. A human being cannot lie to Li-the being-and keep the lie from being detected."
Narses' eyes did not widen in the least. The spymaster had already deduced as much, from his own investigations.
"It cannot be done," the Malwa lord reiterated forcefully. "Do not even imagine the possibility."
Narses reached up and stroked his jaw. "The truth only, you say?" Then, seeing Damodara's nod, he asked: "But tell me this, Lord. Can this being truly read a man's thoughts?"
Damodara hesitated. For a moment, he seemed about to resume his pacing, but instead he simply slumped a bit.
"I am not certain, Narses."
"Your estimate, then." The words were spoken in the tone of command. But the lord gave no sign of umbrage at this unwarranted change of relationship. At the moment, his own life hung by as slender a thread as the eunuch's.
Whatever his doubts and uncertainties, Damodara was an experienced as well as a brilliant military commander. Decisiveness came naturally to him, and that nature had been honed by his life.
"No," he said fir
mly. "In the end, I do not believe so. I think it is simply that the being is-is-" He groped for the words.
Narses' little exhalation of breath seemed filled with satisfaction. "A superhuman spymaster. Which can study the same things any spymaster learns to examine-posture, tone of voice, the look in the eyes-to gauge whether a man speaks true or false."
Damodara's head nod was more in the way of a jerk. "Yes. So I believe."
For the first time since he read the message summoning him to the Grand Palace, Narses smiled. It was a very, very thin smile. But a smile nonetheless.
"The truth only, then. That should be no problem."
Damodara studied him for a moment. But he could read nothing whatever in the old eunuch's face. Nothing in his eyes, his tone of voice, his posture. Nothing but-a lifetime of intrigue and subterfuge.
"Go, then," he commanded.
Narses bowed, but did not make to leave.
Damodara cocked his head. "There is something you wish, before you go?"
"Yes," murmured Narses. "The fastest courier in the army. I need to send new instructions to Ajatasutra."
"Certainly. I shall have him report to your tent immediately." He cleared his throat. "Where is Ajatasutra, by the way? I haven't noticed him about lately."
Narses stared at him coldly. Damodara broke into sudden, subdued laughter.
"Never mind! Sometimes, it's best not to know the truth."
Narses met the laughter with a chuckle. "So, I am told, say the very best philosophers."
* * *
Ajatasutra himself might not have agreed with that sentiment. But there was no question at all that he was being philosophical about his own situation.
He had not much choice, after all. His needs required that he stay at one of the worst and poorest hostels in Ajmer, the greatest city of Rajputana. And, so far as Ajatasutra was concerned-he who had lived in Constantinople as well as Kausambi-the best hostel in that hot and dusty city was barely fit for cattle.
He slew another insect on his pallet, with the same sure stroke with which he slew anything.
"I am not a Jain," he growled at the tiny corpse. His cold eyes surveyed the horde of other insects taking formation in his squalid little room. "So don't any of you think you'll get any tenderhearted philosophy from me."
If the insects were abashed by that grisly threat, they gave no sign of it. Another legion, having dressed its lines, advanced fearlessly to the fray.
* * *
"This won't be so bad," said the older sister. "The lady even says she'll give me a crib for the baby."
The younger sister surveyed their room in the great mansion where Lord Damodara's family resided in the capital. The room was small and unadorned, but it was spotlessly clean.
True, the kitchen-master was a foul-mouthed and ill-tempered man, as men who hold such thankless posts generally are. And his wife was even worse. But her own foul mouth and ill temper seemed focused, for the most part, on seeing to it that her husband did not take advantage of his position to molest the kitchen slaves.
In her humble manner, the sister had become quite a philosopher in her own right. "Are you kidding? This is great."
* * *
Below them, in the depths of the mansion's great cellar, others were also being philosophical.
"Start digging," commanded the mercenary leader. "You've got a long way to go."
The small group of Bihari miners did not even think to argue the matter. Indeed, they set to work with a will. An odd attitude, perhaps, in slaves. But they too had seen the way Ajatasutra gave instructions. And, like the two sisters whom they did not know, had reached an identical conclusion. The assassin was deadly, deadly. But, in his own way, a man who could be trusted. Do the work, he had told them, and you will be manumitted-and given gold besides.
There was no logic to it, of course. For whatever purpose they had been brought here, to dig a mysterious tunnel to an unknown destination, the purpose had been kept secret for a reason. The slaves knew, as well as any man, that the best way to keep a secret is to kill those who know it. But, somehow, they did not fear for their lives.
"Oddest damned assassin I've ever seen," muttered one of the mercenaries.
"For what he's paying us," said the leader, "he can sprout feathers like a chicken for all I care." Seeing that the tunnel work was well underway, he turned to face his two subordinates. His finger pointed stiffly at the casks of wine against one of the stone walls of the cellar.
"Do I have to repeat his instructions?"
The other Ye-tai shook their heads vigorously. Their eyes shied away from the wine.
"Good," he grunted. "Just do as we're told, that's it. And we'll walk away from this as rich men."
One of the mercenaries cleared his throat, and pointed his own finger up at the stone ceiling. "Won't anyone wonder? There'll be a bit of noise. And, after a while, we'll have to start hauling the dirt out."
Again, the captain shrugged. "He told me he left instructions up there also. We stay down here, and food and water will be brought to us. By the majordomo and a few others. They'll see to the disposal of the dirt."
"Shouldn't be hard," grunted one of the other mercenaries. His head jerked toward the far wall. "The Ganges is just the other side of the mansion. I saw as we arrived. Who's going to notice if that river gets a bit muddier?"
A little laugh greeted the remark. If the Ye-tai mercenaries retained much of their respect for Malwa's splendor, they had lost their awe for Malwa's power and destiny. All of them were veterans of the Persian campaign, and had seen-fortunately, from a distance-the hand of Belisarius at work.
None of them, in any event, had ever had much use for the fine points of Hindu ritual.
"Fuck the Ganges," muttered another. "Bunch of stupid peasants bathing in elephant piss. Best place I can think of for the dirt that's going to make us rich men."
And so, another philosopher.
Chapter 10
The Persian gulf
Summer, 533 A.D.
"So how many, Dryopus?" asked Antonina. Wearily, she wiped her face with a cloth that was already damp with sweat. "For certain."
Her secretary hesitated. Other than being personally honest, Dryopus was typical of high officials in the Roman Empire's vast and elaborate hierarchy. For all his relative youth-he was still shy of forty-and his apparent physical vigor, he was the sort of man who personified the term: bureaucrat. His natural response to any direct question was: first, cover your ass; second, hedge; third, cover your ass again.
But Antonina didn't even have to glare at him. By now, months after arriving in Persia to take up his new duties, Dryopus had learned that "covering your ass" with Antonina meant giving her straight and direct answers. He was the fourth official who had served her in this post, and the only one who had not been shipped back to Constantinople within a week.
"I can't tell you, for certain. At least ninety ships. Probably be closer to a hundred, when all the dust settles."
Seeing the gathering frown on Antonina's face, Dryopus hurriedly added: "I'm only counting those in the true seagoing class, mind. There'll be plenty of river barges that can be pressed into coastline service."
Antonina rose from her desk and walked over to the window, shaking her head. "The river barges won't be any use, Dryopus. Not once the army's marched past the Persian Gulf ports. No way they could survive the monsoon, once they get out of sheltered waters. Not the heart of it, at least. By the tail end of the season, we could probably use them-but who really knows where Belisarius will be then?"
At the window, she planted her hands on the wide ledge and leaned her face into the breeze. The window in the villa which doubled as Antonina's headquarters faced to the south, overlooking Charax's great harbor. The slight breeze coming in from the sea helped alleviate the blistering summer heat of southern Mesopotamia.
But the respite was brief. Within seconds, she turned back to Dryopus.
"Who's the most obstreperous of
the hold-outs?" she demanded.
"Those two brothers who own the Circe." This time, Dryopus' answer came with no hesitation at all. "Aco and Numenius."
As Antonina moved back to her desk, her frown returned in full force. "Egyptians, aren't they? Normally operate out of Myos Hormos?"
"Yes. That's one of the things they're squealing about. They claim they can't take on military provisions until they've unloaded their cargo in Myos Hormos, or they'll go bankrupt." Dryopus scowled. "They say they're carrying specialty items which are in exclusive demand in Egypt. Can't sell them here in Mesopotamia."
"Oh-that's nonsense!" Antonina plumped down in her chair and almost slapped the desk with her hands. "They're bringing cargo from Bharakuccha, right?" With a snarl: "That means spices and cosmetics. Mostly pepper. Stuff that'll sell just as well in Persia as anywhere."
Dryopus, sitting on his own chair across from her, spread his hands in a little gesture of agreement. "They're just making excuses to try to avoid being pressed into service as part of the supply fleet for the army. By all accounts, those two brothers are among the worst chiselers in the trade-which is saying something, given the standards of merchant seamen. There's even been accusations that they burned one of their own ships a few years ago, to collect the insurance on the cargo."
He shrugged. "I don't really understand why they're being so resistant. It's true that the profit margin they'll make from military shipping is lower. But, on the other hand, they're guaranteed steady work for at least a year-which they're certainly not in the regular India trade! — and the risk is minimal. Lower, really, than the risk in trading with India. In fact, the reason the Circe came into port later than any of the other ships from Bharakuccha-according to Aco and Numenius, at least-is that they were detained in the harbor for a month by Malwa officials trying to shake them down."
Antonina nodded. It was the custom of the day for trade between belligerent realms to continue unchecked during wartime. Roman merchant vessels, of course, were not allowed to sail directly into Bharakuccha's harbor-any more than the Persians allowed Malwa shipping into their own ports. But the ships themselves were usually not molested. They simply had to add the extra expense of unloading their cargo with lighters.
