by Eric Flint
The girl's own soul was like a lodestone for such men. Others had been drawn by that magnet in the months since she set herself up in exile at Muziris. Men like Shahji and Kondev, cavalry commanders—and those who followed them, Maratha horsemen burning to strike a blow at the Malwa.
Most were Maratha, of course, like Holkar himself. But not all. By no means. Men had come from all over the subcontinent, as soon as they heard that India's most ancient dynasty still lived, and roared defiance at the Malwa behemoth. Fighters, in the main—or simply men who wanted to be—from many Malwa subject nations. There were Bengali peasants in her small little army taking shape in the refugee camps at Muziris; not many, but a few. And Biharis, and Orissans, and Gujaratis.
Nor were all of them warriors. Hindu priests had come, too. Sadhus like Bindusara, who would hurl their own defiance at the Mahaveda abomination to their faith. And Buddhist monks, and Jains, seeking refuge in the shelter which the Satavahana dynasty had always given their own creeds.
In the few months since she had arrived in Muziris, Shakuntala's court-in-exile had become something of a small splendor. Modest, measured by formal standards; luminous, measured by its quality.
But of all those men who had come, Holkar treasured one sort above all others.
Malwa power rested on four pillars:
First and foremost, their monopoly of gunpowder and their Ye-tai barbarians.
Holkar intended to steal the first, or get it from the Romans. The other—death to the Ye-tai.
Then, there were the two other pillars—the soldiers who formed the Malwa army's true elite: the Rajputs and the Kushans.
No Rajputs had come. Holkar would have been astonished if they had. The Rajputs had sworn allegiance to the Malwa empire, and they were a people who held their honor sacred.
Still, he had hopes. Perhaps someday—what man can know?
But the Kushans—ah, that was a different matter. A steadfast folk, the Kushans. But they had none of Rajputana's exaggerated concept of honor and loyalty. The Kushans had been a great people themselves, in their day, conquerors and rulers of Central Asia and Northern India. But that day was long gone. Persia had conquered half their empire, and the other half had been overrun by the Ye-tai. For centuries, now, the Kushans had been mere vassals under the thumb of others, valued for their military skills, but otherwise treated with disdain. Their loyalty to Malwa, Dadaji had often thought, was much like Kungas' face. To the outer world, iron; but still a mask, when all was said and done.
Kungas' voice interrupted his little reverie.
"Odd," he repeated. He turned away from the window. "We started with only thirty. The men in my immediate command. I expected I would draw some of my own kinfolk, since I am high-ranked in the clan. But the others—"
Holkar shook his head. "I do not think it strange at all, my friend."
He reached out his hand and tapped his finger on Kungas' chest. It was like tapping a cuirass. "The Buddha's teachings still lurk there, somewhere inside your skeptical soul."
Kungas' lips quirked, just a bit. "I doubt that, Dadaji. What good did the Buddha do us, when the Ye-tai ravaged Peshawar? Where was he, when Malwa fit us with the yoke?"
"Still there," repeated the peshwa. "You disbelieve? Think more about those Kushans who have come, from other clans. What brought them here, Kungas?"
The Kushan looked away. Holkar drove on. "I will tell you, skeptic. Memory brought them here. The memory of Peshawar—and Begram, and Dalverzin and Khalchayan, and all the other great cities of the Kushan realm. The memory of Emperor Vima, and his gigantic irrigation works, which turned the desert green. The memory of Kanishka the Great, who spread Buddhism through half of Asia."
Kungas shook his head. "Ah! Gone, all gone. It is the nature of things. They come, they go."
Dadaji took Kungas by the arm, and began leading him out of the blood-soaked, fly-infested room. "Yes, they do. And then they come back. Or, at least, their children, inspired by ancient memory."
Irritably, Kungas twitched off Holkar's hand. They were in the narrow corridor now, heading for the rickety stairs leading to the street below.
"Enough of this foolishness," he commanded. "I am a man who lives in the present, and as much of the future as I can hope to see—which is not much. Tell me more of Rao's plan for Deogiri. If he takes the city, he cannot hold it alone for more than a year. Not even Deogiri is that great a fortress—not against the siege cannons which Venandakatra will bring to bear. He will need reinforcement. And then, we will need—somehow!—to maintain a supply route. How? And we will need to get cannons of our own. How? From the Romans?"
He stopped, from one step to the next, and gave Holkar a sharp glance. "Ha! They have their own problems to deal with. Belisarius will be marching into Persia, soon. You know that as well as I do. That will help, of course—help greatly. The Malwa will not be able to release forces from their Persian campaign—not with Belisarius at their front—but Venandakatra still has a powerful army of his own, in the Deccan."
He strode on, almost stamping down the stairs. Over his shoulder:
"So—tell me, philosopher! How will we get the cannons?"
Dadaji did not reply until both men were out on the street. He took a deep breath, cleansing the stench of death out of his nostrils. Then said, still smiling:
"Some of them, we will steal from the Malwa. As for the rest—Belisarius will provide."
Kungas' brow lowered, slightly. On another man, that would have been a fierce scowl. "He is thousands of miles away, Dadaji!"
Holkar's smile was positively serene, now. For an instant, Kungas was reminded of a statue of the Buddha. "He will provide, skeptic. Trust me in this. Belisarius set this rebellion of ours in motion in the first place. He has not forgotten us. Be sure of it."
Kungas made his little version of a shrug, and strode off behind the diminishing figure of his Empress. Holkar remained behind, staring after him.
"Trust me in this, my friend," he whispered. "Of five things in this world I am certain. Malwa will fall. My Empress will restore Andhra. Peshawar will rise again. Belisarius will not fail us. And I—"
His eyes teared. He could not speak the words.
I will find my wife and children. Wherever the Malwa beasts have scattered them, I will find them.
Chapter 6
"I will not take Maurice with me to Egypt, Belisarius. Absolutely not. So stop pestering me about it. And stop pestering me about Valentinian and Anastasius. I refuse to take them either."
Belisarius stared at his wife for a moment, before blowing out his cheeks. He leaned back in his chair and glared at Antonina. "You do not understand the danger, woman! You need the best military adviser in the world. And the best bodyguards."
Seeing the set and stubborn expression on his wife's face, and the way she clasped her hands firmly on the table between them, Belisarius cast a furious glare about the salon. His hot eyes scanned the mosaics which decorated the walls of their small palace within the imperial complex, without really seeing them. The gaze did, however, linger for a moment on a small statue perched on a corner stand.
"Damn cherub," he growled. "What's that naked little wretch smirking about?"
Antonina tried to fight down a smile. Her struggle was unsuccessful, however, and the sight of her quirking lips only added to her husband's outrage.
Belisarius grit his teeth and twisted in his chair, swiveling his head to the right. "Sit down, Maurice!" he commanded. "Damn you and your stiff ways! I promoted you, remember? You're a general yourself, now. A chiliarch, no less!" Belisarius made a curt motion with his hand, as if to sweep Maurice forward. "So sit down!"
The commander of Belisarius' personal retinue of bucellarii shrugged, stepped forward, and pulled up a chair. As soon as he took his seat at the table, Belisarius leaned toward him and said:
"Explain it to her, Maurice. She won't listen to me, because she thinks I'm just being a fretful husband. But she'll listen to you."
/> Maurice shook his head. "No."
Belisarius' eyes widened. "No?" His eyes bulged. "No?" His next words were not, entirely, coherent.
Maurice grinned at Antonina.
"Never actually seen him gobble before. Have you?"
Antonina matched his grin. "Oh, any number of times." The grin began a demure smirk. "Intimate circumstances, you understand?"
Maurice nodded sagely. "Of course. Dancing naked on his chest, that sort of thing."
"Not to mention the whip and the iced—"
"Enough!" roared Belisarius. He slammed his fist on the table.
Antonina and Maurice peered at him with identical, quizzical expressions. Much like two owls might study a bellowing mouse.
"He usually does that much better, I seem to recall," mused Antonina.
"Much better," agreed Maurice. "The key is under-statement. The sense of steel under the soft voice."
Belisarius began to roar again; but, seeing the widening grins, managed to bring himself under control.
"Why not?" he demanded, through clenched teeth.
Maurice's grin faded. The grizzled veteran stroked his stiff, curly gray beard. "I won't do it," he replied, "because she's right and you're wrong. You are thinking like a fretful husband—instead of a general."
He waved down Belisarius' protest. "She doesn't need me because she's not going to be fighting pitched battles on the open field against vastly superior forces. You are."
Antonina nodded.
Again, Belisarius began to protest; again, Maurice drove him down.
"Besides, she'll have Ashot. That stubby little Armenian may not have quite as much battlefield experience as I do, but he's not far short of the mark. You know that as well as I do. He's certainly got the experience to handle whatever Antonina will run up against in Alexandria."
"But—"
"Oh—be quiet, young man," snapped Maurice. For just an instant, the chiliarch's stony face reverted to an expression he had not worn in years. Not since the days he had taken under his wing a precocious teenage officer, fresh from his father's little estate in Thrace, and taught him the trade of war.
"Have you already forgotten your own battle plan?"
Belisarius sat back. Maurice snorted.
"Thought so. Since when do you subordinate strategy to tactics, young man? Alexandria's just a step on the road. Your whole strategy against the Malwa pivots on seapower. While you distract them in Persia, Antonina will lead a flanking attack against the enemy's logistics, in alliance—we hope—with the Kingdom of Axum. The Ethiopians, with their naval power, are critical to that plan. For that matter, the Axumite navy will be essential for providing support to the rebellion in Majarashtra which you did everything in your power to foment, while you were in India. They'll need cannons, gunpowder—everything you've talked about supplying them. That's why you've always insisted on building our armaments industry in Alexandria. So we can provide logistical support for the Ethiopians and the Indian rebellion."
The chiliarch took a deep breath. "For all those reasons, Ashot is far better suited to serve as her adviser than I am. The man's a former seaman. What I know about boats—" He snapped his fingers. "Not to mention the Ethiopians," he rolled on. "Ashot's familiar with them—even speaks the language. I know exactly two words in Ge'ez. Beer, and the future subjunctive tense of the verb 'to copulate.' That'll be useful, coordinating an allied naval campaign and a transoceanic logistics route!"
Belisarius slumped into his chair.
"All right," he said sourly. "But I still insist that she take Valentinian and Anastasius! They're the best fighters we've got. She'll need the protection they can—"
"For what?" demanded Maurice. He planted his thick hands on his knees and leaned forward. For a moment, he and Belisarius matched glares. Then Maurice's lips quirked. He cocked an eye at the little Egyptian woman sitting across the table.
"Are you planning to lead any cavalry charges, girl?"
Antonina giggled.
"Furious boarding parties, storming across the decks of ships?"
Giggle, giggle.
"Leading the troops scaling the walls of a town under siege?"
Giggle, giggle, giggle.
"Cut and thrust? Hack and hew?"
The giggles erupted into outright laughter.
"Actually," choked Antonina, "I was thinking more along the lines of guiding from the rear. You know. Ladylike."
She leaned back, arching her neck haughtily, and began pointing with an imperious finger. "You there! That way. And you—over there. Move smartly, d'you hear?"
Belisarius rubbed his face. "It's not that simple, Maurice—and you know it, even if Antonina doesn't."
For a moment, the old crooked smile came back. A feeble travesty of it, rather.
"Aren't you the one who taught me the law of battle? 'Everything gets fucked up as soon as the enemy arrives. That's why—' "
"—he's called the enemy," concluded Maurice. The veteran shook his head. "That's not the point, Belisarius. It may well happen, despite all our plans, that Antonina finds herself swept up in the fray. So be it. She'll still have hundreds of Thracian bucellarii protecting her, each and every one of whom—as you damn well know—will lay down his life for her, if need be. None of them may be quite as murderous as Valentinian or Anastasius, but they're still the best soldiers in the world. In my humble opinion. If they can't protect her, Valentinian and Anastasius won't make the difference.
"Whereas," he snarled, "the two of them might very well make the difference for you. Because unlike Antonina, you will be leading cavalry charges and hacking and hewing way more than any respectable general has any business doing."
Glare.
"As you well know."
Maurice stared at Belisarius in silence. The general slouched further down in his chair. Further. Further.
"Never actually seen him pout before," mused the chiliarch. Again, he cocked his eye at Antonina. "Have you?"
"Oh, certainly!" piped the little woman. "Any number of times. Intimate circumstances, of course. When I have a headache and refuse to smear olive oil all over his—"
"Enough," whined Belisarius.
Antonina and Maurice peered at him with identical, quizzical expressions. Much like two mice might study a whimpering piece of cheese.
Several hours later, Belisarius was in a more philosophical mood.
"I suppose it'll work out all right, in the end," he said, almost complacently.
Antonina levered herself up on her elbow and smiled down at her husband.
"Feeling less anxiety-ridden, are we?"
Belisarius stretched out his legs and clasped his hands behind his head.
"Now that I've had more time to think about it," he allowed graciously, "I've decided that perhaps Maurice was—"
"Liar!" laughed Antonina, slapping his arm. "You haven't been doing any thinking at all since we came to bed! Other than figuring out new and bizarre positions from which to stick your—"
"Don't be coarse, woman," grunted Belisarius. "Besides, I didn't hear you complaining. Rather the opposite, judging from the noises you were making."
"You didn't hear me claim that I was enjoying the metaphysics of the enterprise, either."
She sprawled flat on the bed, aping her husband's pose. Hands clasped behind her head, legs stretched out.
"I say," she pontificated, "now that I've had a bit of time to ponder the question—in between getting fucked silly—I have come to the conclusion that perhaps that uncouth Maurice fellow may have raised the odd valid point, here and there."
Belisarius eyed his wife's naked body, glistening with sweat. Antonina smiled seraphically. She took a deep breath, swelling her heavy breasts, then languidly spread her legs.
"Ontologically speaking, of course," she continued, "the man's daft. But the past several hours of epistemological discourse have led me to the tentative conclusion that perhaps—"
She spread her legs wider. Took anothe
r deep breath.
"—some of the fellow's more Socratic excogitations may have elucidated aspects of the purely phenomenological ramifications of—"
Belisarius discarded all complacency. Antonina stopped talking then, though she was by no means silent.
Some time later, she murmured, "Yes, all anxieties seem to be gone."
"That's because my brains are gone," came her husband's sleepy reply. "Fucked right out of my head."
In the morning, Photius made an entrance into his parents' sleeping chamber and perched himself upon their bed. Despite the many other changes in his life, the boy insisted on maintaining this precious daily ritual. A pox on imperial protocol and decorum.
The gaggle of servants and bodyguards who now followed the young Emperor everywhere remained outside in the corridor. The servants thought the entire situation was grotesque—and quite demeaning to their august status as imperial valets and maids. But they maintained a discreet silence. The bodyguards were members of the general's Thracian bucellarii, led by a young cataphract named Julian. Julian had been assigned the task of serving as Photius' chief bodyguard for two reasons. First, he was married to Hypatia, the young woman who had been Photius' nanny for years. (And still was, though she now bore the resplendent title of "imperial governess.") Second, for all his youth and cheerful temperament, Julian was a very tough soldier. Julian and the men under his command had made quite clear upon assuming their new duties that they were not even remotely interested in listening to the complaints of menials. So, while Photius enjoyed his private moment with his parents, his bodyguards chatted amiably in the corridor outside and his servants nursed their injured pride.
Photius' stay in his parents' bedroom was longer than usual. His stepfather was leaving that day, to begin his new campaign in Mesopotamia. Photius no longer felt the same dread of that prospective absence that he once had. The boy's confidence in Belisarius' ability to overcome all obstacles and perils was now positively sublime. But he would miss him, deeply. More deeply now, perhaps, than ever before.
