The Dance of Time b-6

by Eric Flint

  Rao could live with that. More importantly, his son-and his son, and his son-could live with it too. The Deccan could live with it. There would always be a great empire in northern India, that southern India would have to deal with. That being so, better to deal with an empire founded by such as Damodara.

  "Done. It would take me two months anyway-at least-to march on Amaravati. But I warn you that I will, if you fail."

  "If I fail, what do I care? And if I don't, it won't be necessary." Damodara smiled. "Or do you think that the garrison at Amaravati will suddenly get ambitious? With me above them, and you at the gates?"

  Rao returned the smile. It would be pleasant, in the years to come, to deal with this man. Not easy, of course. But. .

  Yes, pleasant.

  He nodded, and started to walk away.

  Damodara called him back. "Rao-one thing more."

  "Yes?"

  "If I succeed, I would like your sadhu to visit Kausambi."

  "Bindusara? Why?"

  The new emperor seemed to shiver a little. "It is not enough to cut the throats of the mahaveda. For generations, now, they have been a poison in India. I think we need to consider an antidote."

  It was the only thing that happened that day that surprised Rao. He had never-not once-considered the possibility that the new emperor of Malwa might actually be wise.

  "I have no objection. But I can't speak for Bindusara. He's a sadhu, you know. Stubborn, as the real ones always are."

  "Yes. Why I want him."

  Rao nodded, again, and walked away.

  Much more than simply pleasant, then.

  Of course, that would also make it less easy. But Rao had never expected the universe to be easy. In truth, he didn't want it to be. With too much ease, came softness; and with softness, came rot.

  * * *

  It took him a while, to return. First, because he had to settle down some eager and jittery units of his own army. It was always hard for soldiers to restrain themselves, seeing what appeared to be an enemy in confusion.

  That was accomplished easily enough. A few shouts and gestures did the trick. Rao's position was unquestioned, after all.

  It took longer to collect the weapons and armor he'd discarded. Nor was he tempted to ignore the business. In truth, he didn't even think of doing so. Legend or not, consort of an empress or not, Raghunath Rao was Maratha born and bred. Like hill people the world over, they were a thrifty lot.

  * * *

  Eventually, though, he made his way back to the howdah and looked up at his beloved wife.

  "See?" he demanded.

  "I never doubted you once, husband," she lied.

  Chapter 19

  The Iron Triangle

  There was no reception for Anna at the docks, when she arrived at the Iron Triangle. Just a small gang of men hurrying out from the bunker to catch the lines thrown from the Victrix and the barge.

  She was a bit surprised. Not disgruntled, simply. .

  Surprised.

  Menander seemed to understand. "We do this as quickly as possible these days," he explained apologetically. "The Malwa have spotters hidden in the reeds, and they often fire rocket volleys at us whenever a convoy arrives."

  As if his words were the cue, Anna heard a faint sound to the north. Vaguely, like a snake hissing. Looking up, she saw several rockets soaring up into the sky.

  After a moment, startled, she realized how far away they were. "I didn't know they were so big."

  "They have to be. Those are fired from the Malwa lines, miles to the north. At first, the spotters would fire small ones from the reeds. But that's just pure suicide for them. Even the Malwa, after a while, gave it up."

  Too uncertain to know whether she should be worried or not, Anna watched the rockets climb higher into the sky.

  "They're headed our way, girl," Illus said gruffly. He pointed toward the low bunker toward which they were being towed. The roof of the bunker was just tall enough for the Victrix to pass underneath. "I'd feel better if you moved into the bow. That'll reach the shelter first."

  "Yes. I suppose." Anna gathered up the heavy skirts and began moving forward. Illus followed her, with Abdul helping Cottomenes limp along. Behind them came the four boys.

  Glancing back, she saw that Menander had remained in his place. He was still watching the rockets. From his apparent lack of concern, she realized they must be veering off.

  "Keep moving, girl," Illus growled. "Yes, the damn things are completely inaccurate. But they don't always miss-and any rocket that big is going to have a monster of a warhead."

  She didn't argue the point. Illus was usually cooperative with her, after all, and this was his business.

  Still, most of her mind was concentrated on the sound of the coming rockets. Between that, the deep gloom of the approaching bunker, and the need to watch her feet moving across the cluttered deck, she was caught completely by surprise when the fanfare erupted.

  That happened as soon as the bow passed under the overhang of the ship bunker.

  Cornicens, a lot of them, and some big drums. She wasn't very familiar with cornicens. They were almost entirely a military instrument.

  "Oh," she said. "Oh."

  Illus was grinning from ear to ear. "I was starting to wonder. Stupid, that. When you're dealing with the general."

  * * *

  By the time the fanfare ended and the bow of the ship bumped gently against the wharf inside the bunker, Anna thought she might be growing deaf. Cornicens were loud. Especially when the sound was reflected from such a low ceiling.

  The cheers of the soldiers even seemed dim, in her ears. They couldn't be, of course. Not with that many soldiers. Especially when they started banging the hilts of their swords on their shields as well.

  She was startled by that martial salute almost as much as she'd been by the cornicens.

  She glanced at Illus. He had a peculiar look on his face. A sort of fierce satisfaction.

  "Do they always do that?" she asked, almost shouting the words.

  He shook his head. That gesture, too, had the air of satisfaction. "No, girl. They almost never do that."

  * * *

  When she saw the first man who came up the gangplank, after it was laid, Anna was startled again. She'd learned enough of Roman uniforms and insignia to realize that this had to be Belisarius. But she'd never pictured him so. The fact that he was tall and broad-shouldered fit her image well enough. But the rest. .

  She'd read all of Macrembolitissa's work, so she knew a great deal about the general. Despite that knowledge-or perhaps because of it-she'd imagined some sort of modern Nestor. Wise, in a grim sort of way; not old, certainly-abstractly, she knew he was a young man-but still somehow middle-aged. Perhaps a bit of gray in his hair.

  She'd certainly never thought he would be so handsome. And so very young, to have done all that he had.

  Finally, as he neared, she found an anchor. Something that matched the writings.

  The general's smile was crooked. She'd always thought that was just Macrembolitissa, indulging herself in poetic license.

  She said as much.

  Belisarius smiled more crookedly still. "So I'm told. Welcome to the Iron Triangle, Lady Saronites."

  * * *

  The general escorted her off the Victrix. Anna was relieved that he didn't offer her a hand, though. She'd be in far more danger of tripping over the long and ragged skirts without both hands to hold them.

  She had to concentrate so much on that task that she wasn't really looking at anything else.

  They reached the relatively safe footing of the wharf.

  "Lady Saronites," said the general, "your husband."

  She looked up, startled again.

  "Oh," she said. "Oh."

  There came, then, the most startling thing of all that day. For the first time in years, Anna was too shy to say a word.

  * * *

  "It's not much," said Calopodius apologetically.

  Anna
's eyes moved over the interior of the little bunker where Calopodius lived. Where she would now live also. She did not fail to notice all the little touches here and there-the bright, cheery little cloths; the crucifix; even a few native handcrafts-as well as the relative cleanliness of the place. But. .

  No, it was not much. Just a big pit in the ground, when all was said and done, covered over with logs and soil.

  "It's fine," she said. "Not a problem."

  She turned and stared at him. Her husband, once a handsome boy, was now a hideously ugly man. She had expected the empty eye sockets, true enough. But even after all the carnage she had witnessed since she left Constantinople, she had not once considered what a mortar shell would do to the rest of his face.

  Stupid, really. As if shrapnel would obey the rules of poetry, and pierce eyes as neatly as a goddess at a loom. The upper half of his face was a complete ruin. The lower half was relatively unmarked, except for one scar along his right jaw and another puckerlike mark on his left cheek.

  His mouth and lips, on the other hand, were still as she vaguely remembered them. A nice mouth, she decided, noticing for the first time.

  "It's fine," she repeated. "Not a problem."

  A moment later, Illus and Abdul came into the bunker hauling her luggage. What was left of it. Until they were gone, Anna and Calopodius were silent. Then he said, very softly:

  "I don't understand why you came."

  Anna tried to remember the answer. It was difficult. And probably impossible to explain, in any event. I wanted a divorce, maybe. . seemed. . strange. Even stranger, though closer to the truth, would be: or at least to drag you back so you could share the ruins of my own life.

  "It doesn't matter now. I'm here. I'm staying."

  For the first time since she'd rejoined her husband, he smiled. Anna realized she'd never really seen him smile before. Not, at least, with an expression that was anything more than politeness.

  He reached out his hand, tentatively, and she moved toward him. The hand, fumbling, stroked her ribs.

  "God in Heaven, Anna!" he choked. "How can you stand something like that-in this climate? You'll drown in sweat."

  Anna tried to keep from laughing; and then, realizing finally where she was, stopped trying. Even in the haughtiest aristocratic circles of Constantinople, a woman was allowed to laugh in the presence of her husband.

  When she was done-the laughter was perhaps a bit hysterical-Calopodius shook his head. "We've got to get you a sari, first thing. I can't have my wife dying on me from heat prostration."

  * * *

  Calopodius matched deed to word immediately. A few words to his aide-to-camp Luke, and, much sooner than Anna would have expected, a veritable horde of Punjabis from the adjacent town were packed into the bunker.

  Some of them were actually there on business, bringing piles of clothing for her to try on. Most of them, she finally understood, just wanted to get a look at her.

  Of course, they were all expelled from the bunker while she changed her clothing-except for two native women whose expert assistance she required until she mastered the secrets of the foreign garments. But once the women announced that she was suitably attired, the mob of admirers was allowed back in.

  In fact, after a while Anna found it necessary to leave the bunker altogether and model her new clothing on the ground outside, where everyone could get a good look at her new appearance. Her husband insisted, to her surprise.

  "You're beautiful," he said to her, "and I want everyone to know it."

  She almost asked how a blind man could tell, but he forestalled the question with a little smile. "Did you think I'd forget?"

  * * *

  But later, that night, he admitted the truth. They were lying side by side, stiffly, still fully clothed, on the pallet in a corner of the bunker where Calopodius slept. "To be honest, I can't remember very well what you look like."

  Anna thought about it, for a moment. Then:

  "I can't really remember myself."

  "I wish I could see you," he murmured.

  "It doesn't matter." She took his hand and laid it on her bare belly. The flesh reveled in its new coolness. She herself, on the other hand, reveled in the touch. And did not find it strange that she should do so.

  "Feel."

  * * *

  His hand was gentle, at first. And never really stopped being so, for all the passion that followed. When it was all over, Anna was covered in sweat again. But she didn't mind at all. Without heavy and proper fabric to cover her-with nothing covering her now except Calopodius' hand-the sweat dried soon enough. That, too, was a great pleasure.

  "I warn you," she murmured into his ear. "We're not in Constantinople any more. Won't be for a long time, if ever. So if I catch you with a courtesan, I'll boil you alive."

  "The thought never crossed my mind!" he insisted. And even believed it was true.

  Chapter 20

  Barbaricum

  As they walked down the gangplank from their ship to the dock at Barbaricum, where a crowd waited to greet them, Ousanas gave Antonina a sly little smile. "Brace yourself. I realize it's a shock for you, not being the most famous woman in the area."

  Antonina sniffed. "It's a relief, frankly. Give them someone else to gossip about."

  Ousanas shook his head. "The other woman in question being a saint and the model of virtue, your own notoriety will simply stand out in contrast. The gossip will be fiercer than ever. Especially-"

  He swelled out his chest. A chest which needed no swelling to begin with, as muscular as it so obviously was under the flashy but sparse Axumite regalia. "-arriving, as you do, in the company of such a magnificent male."

  Throughout, he'd kept a solemn expression on his face. As they neared the pack of notables on the dock, the expression became positively lugubrious. He tilted his head toward her, murmuring: "Within a day, tales will be sweeping the city of the orgy you held on the ship, from the moment it left Adulis."

  "Ridiculous." She lifted her head slightly, to augment her dignified bearing. "That same reputation will shield me. Everyone knows that if I'd been holding an orgy, you wouldn't be able to walk off this ship in the first place. 'Magnificent male.' Ha. Weaklings, all of you."

  They were almost at the docks. The front line of the crowd consisted of Roman officials, Persian noblemen and Axumite troop leaders. Quite an august body, really. So Antonina's next words were spoken almost in a whisper.

  "I grant you, if we had any stallions or bulls on the ship, I'd be in trouble. But we didn't bring any."

  It was all she could do not to stick out her tongue at him. Getting the best of Ousanas in that sort of repartee was something of an accomplishment.

  * * *

  The ceremonies that followed were the usual tedious business. Fortunately, Antonina was spared the worst of it, thanks to Photius and Tahmina. Their own transfer from the ship to the dock had been no simple matter of walking down a gangplank. The Roman officials and Persian grandees had vied with each other to see who could produce the most absurdly elaborate palanquins for the purpose.

  * * *

  "I was scared the gangplank would collapse under the weight," Photius confided to her later. "Tahmina-did you see the idiotic thing they carried her off in? — was downright petrified."

  * * *

  The most interesting part of the day, perhaps ironically, was the tour of the new hospital. The one the Wife had established.

  It wasn't hers, really. Anna Saronites might have been wealthy enough-her husband Calopodius, at any rate-to commission the building of a brand-new hospital. But she simply hadn't been in Barbaricum long enough, before she began her voyage up the Indus.

  But, from what Antonina could determine, that didn't seem to matter. The young Roman noblewoman had struck the existing hospital like the monsoon. Leaving plenty of wreckage in her wake, as the monsoon does. But-also like the monsoon-leaving a greener land behind. One with life, where there had been death.

 
"I'm impressed," Ousanas admitted. For once, not joking at all. "I wouldn't have thought even the Emperor of Iran and all his executioners could have swept aside this much stupidity and carelessness. In that short a time, anyway."

  Antonina eyed a nearby member of the Wife's Service, standing solemnly in the doorway to the next ward. Despite the purple uniform, he bore approximately the same resemblance to a "nurse" as a tavern bouncer bears to an "usher."

  "She knew the trick," Antonina murmured. "I'm a little flattered, actually."

  Ousanas cocked his head.

  "Don't you see? She patterned the Service after the Hospitalers. That's what it takes, for something like this. People will simply evade the rulings of officials. Much harder to evade the strictures of a militant mass order."

  "You're quite right," came a voice from behind. Turning her head, Antonina saw the chief of the Service in Barbaricum. Psoes, his name was. She hadn't realized he was following them closely enough to have overheard.

  "You're quite right," he repeated. "She told me she got the idea from reading Irene Macrembolitissa's account of your exploits in Alexandria."

  Antonina chuckled. "Irene's fables, you mean. She was long gone from Alexandria and on her way to India before all that happened. That account she wrote was entirely after the fact, and based on hearsay."

  "Your hearsay, to make it worse," Ousanas grunted. "Told to her in one of your scandalous drinking bouts."

  He surveyed the ward again, before they passed on to the next. This one was devoted to men recovering from amputations of the lower extremities, where the one they'd passed through earlier was given over to men who'd suffered more severe trauma. The harshly practical mind of the Wife was evident even in the hospital's new design. Triage, everywhere. Partly to keep diseased men from infecting men who were simply injured. Mostly, because the Wife accepted that some men would die, but saw no reason that other men should die unnecessarily.

  In times past, hospitals simply heaped men wherever they happened to have a space, with no more forethought than a wind driving leaves against a fence. In such haphazard piles, a man suffering a simple amputation might die from neglect, simply because he was in a ward most of whose occupants were dying anyway.