by Eric Flint
The two Greek officers nodded again. They turned their horses and trotted off, shouting commands. Within a few seconds, two thousand Constantinople cataphracts were thundering toward the river, preparing to throw their weight into the butchery on the Euphrates.
Belisarius turned to Maurice and Gregory.
"You do the same, Maurice, with the Thracians and the Illyrians. Gregory, I want you to find Coutzes—and Abbu," he added, chuckling—"if he managed to find a new horse. Get the Arab skirmishers and half the light cavalry across the river. Leave me the other half, to keep the Kushans cornered."
"They'll have to use the ford we found a few miles upstream," remarked Gregory. "That'll lose us several hours."
"Yes, I know. It doesn't matter. They'll still be in time to harry whatever Malwa make their way across the Euphrates."
His face and voice were cold, grim, ruthless.
"Harry them, Gregory. I want them pursued without mercy. For days, if that's what it takes. I want this Malwa army destroyed. Not more than a handful of survivors, trickling back to their lines in Babylon. Let the enemy know he can't hope to go around Emperor Khusrau."
Gregory's face twisted into his own crooked smile. "Might not even be a handful, general. Those few that get away from us will still have two hundred miles to go. With the desert on one side, and on the other—every peasant in the flood plain ready to hack them down. Whole villages will turn out, to join the pursuit. They've heard about Charax, too, you can bet on it."
Belisarius nodded. Gregory spurred his horse, heading south. A moment later, going in the opposite direction, Maurice did the same.
Only Valentinian and Anastasius were left, in the immediate vicinity.
"What now, general?" asked Anastasius.
Belisarius clucked his horse into motion, trotting back toward the villa. "We'll make sure the Kushans are completely boxed in. After that—" He looked up, gauging the sun. "That'll probably take the rest of the day. Till late afternoon, for sure. The Kushans may try to break out. We've probably still got some fighting ahead of us."
"Not much," rumbled Anastasius. "The Kushans are no fools. They won't waste much effort trying to find an escape route. Not on foot, knowing we've got cavalry." The giant sighed. "Not Kushans. They'll be working like beavers, instead, doing what they can to turn the barns and corrals into a fortress. Ready to bleed us when we come in after them tomorrow."
"I hope to avoid that problem," said Belisarius.
"You think you can talk them into surrendering?" asked Valentinian skeptically. "After they'll have spent half a day listening to the rest of their army being massacred?"
"That's my plan." Oddly, the general's voice lost none of its confident good cheer.
Neither did Valentinian's its skepticism. "Be like walking into a lion's den, trying to talk them out of their meat."
"Not so hard, that," replied Belisarius. "Not, at least, if you can speak lion."
He eyed Valentinian. Smiled crookedly. "I speak Kushan fluently, you know."
The smile grew very crooked. Anastasius scowled. Valentinian hissed.
"Now that I think about it, both of you speak Kushan too. Not as well as I do, perhaps. But—well enough. Well enough."
He cocked his ear toward Valentinian.
"What? No muttering?"
The cataphract eyed Belisarius with a weasel's glare.
"Words fail me," he muttered.
That evening, just as the sun was setting on the horizon, Belisarius approached the forted Kushans for a parley. He was unarmed, accompanied only by Valentinian and Anastasius.
Anastasius, also, was unarmed.
Valentinian—well, he swore the same. Swore it on all the saints and his mother's grave. Belisarius didn't believe him, not for a minute, but he didn't push the matter. Whatever weapons Valentinian carried would be well-hidden. And besides—
He'd rather try to talk lions into surrendering than talk a weasel out of its teeth. An entirely safer proposition.
In the end, talking the Kushan lions out of their determination to fight to the last man proved to be one of the easiest things the general had ever done. And the doing of it brought him great satisfaction.
Once again, a reputation proved worth its weight in gold.
Not a reputation for mercy, this time. Kushans had seen precious little of mercy, in their harsh lives, and would have disbelieved any such tales of a foreign general.
But, as it turned out, they were quite familiar with the name of Belisarius. It was a name of honor, their commander had been told, by one of the few men not of Kushan blood that he trusted.
"Rana Sanga told me himself," the man stated. He drew himself up proudly. "I visited Rajputana's greatest king in his palace, at his own invitation, before he left with Lord Damodara for the Hindu Kush."
The man leaned over, pouring a small libation into Belisarius' drinking cup before doing the same in the one before him. The vessels were plain, utilitarian pieces of pottery, like the bottle from which the wine was poured. After Belisarius had taken his seat, sitting cross-legged like his Kushan counterpart on a thin layer of straw spread in a corner of the stable, the Kushan soldiers gathered around had produced the jug and two cups out of a field kit.
Belisarius took advantage of the momentary pause to study the Kushan commander more closely. The man's name, he had already learned, was Vasudeva.
In appearance, Vasudeva was much like any other Kushan soldier. Short, stocky, thick-chested. Sturdy legs and shoulders. His complexion had a yellowish Asiatic cast, as did his flat nose and narrow eyes. Like most Kushans, the man's hair was drawn up into a topknot. His beard was more in the way of a goatee than the thicker cut favored by Romans or Persians.
And, like most Kushans, his face seemed carved from stone. His expression, almost impossible to read. The Kushan Belisarius knew best—the former Malwa vassal named Kungas, who was now commander of Empress Shakuntala's personal bodyguard—had had a face so hard it had been like a mask.
An iron mask—but a mask, nonetheless, disguising a very different soul.
Remembering Kungas, Belisarius felt his confidence growing.
"And how was Rana Sanga, when you saw him?" he asked politely.
The Kushan shrugged. "Who is to know what that man feels? His wife, perhaps his children. No others."
"Do you know why he asked you to visit him?"
Vasudeva gave Belisarius a long, lingering look. A cold look, at first. Then—
The look did not warm, so much as it grew merry. In a wintry sort of way.
"Yes. We had met before, during the war against Andhra. Worked well together. When he heard that I had been selected one of the Kushan commanders for the Mesopotamian campaign, he called me to visit before his own departure." The Kushan barked a laugh. "He wanted to warn me about a Roman general named Belisarius!"
Vasudeva's eyes lost their focus for a moment, as he remembered the conversation.
" 'Persians you know, of course,' Lord Sanga told me. 'But you have never encountered Romans. Certainly not such a Roman as Belisarius.' "
The Kushan commander's eyes refocussed, fixed on Belisarius.
"He told me you were as tricky and quick as a mongoose." Another barking laugh. " 'Expect only the unexpected, from that man,' he said. 'He adores feints and traps. If he makes an obvious threat, look for the blow to come from elsewhere. If he seems weak, be sure he is strong. Most of all—remember the fate of the arrogant cobra, faced with a mongoose.' "
He laughed again. All the Kushan soldiers standing around shared in that bitter laugh.
"I tried to tell Lord Kumara, when I realized we were facing Roman troops. I was almost sure you would be in command. Lord Kumara is—was—the commander of this expedition."
"Lord Fishbait, now," snarled one of the other Kushans. "And good riddance."
Vasudeva scowled. "Of course, he refused to listen. Fell right into the trap."
Belisarius took a sip from his cup. "And what else did R
ana Sanga say about me?"
Again, Vasudeva gave Belisarius that long, lingering look. Still cold. Gauging, assessing. "He said that one thing only is predictable about the man Belisarius. He will be a man of honor. He, too, knows the meaning of vows."
Belisarius waited. Vasudeva tugged the point of his goatee with his fingers. Looked away.
"It's difficult, difficult," he murmured.
Belisarius waited.
Vasudeva sighed. "We will not be broken up, sold as slaves to whichever bidder. We must be kept together."
Belisarius nodded. "Agreed."
"Any labor will be acceptable, except the work of menials. Kushan soldiers are not domestic dogs."
Belisarius nodded. "Agreed."
"No whippings. No beatings of any kind. Execution will be acceptable, in cases of disobedience. But it must be by the sword, or the ax. We are not criminals, to be hung or impaled."
Belisarius nodded. "Agreed."
"Decent food. A bit of wine, now and again."
Belisarius shook his head. "That I cannot promise. I am on campaign, myself, and will be using you for a labor force. My own men may eat poorly, at times, and go without wine. I can only promise that you will eat no worse than they do. And enjoy some wine, if there is any to spare."
From the little murmur which came from the surrounding soldiers, the general knew that his forthright answer had pleased them. He suspected, although he was not sure, that the last question had been Vasudeva's own little trap. The Kushan commander was obviously a seasoned veteran. He would have known, full well, that any other answer would be either a lie or the words of a cocksure and foolhardy man.
"Agreed," said Vasudeva.
Belisarius waited.
Finally, the word came: "Swear."
Belisarius gave his oath. Gave it twice, in fact. Once in the name of his own Christian god. And then, to the Kushans' great surprise, on the name of the Buddha to whom they swore in private, when there were no Mahaveda priests to hear the heresy.
That evening, late at night, Belisarius began his negotiations with the Persians—seated, now, amidst the splendid wreckage of what had once been an emperor's favorite hunting villa.
Here, too, he found the task much easier than anticipated.
Kurush, in the event, was not baying for Kushan blood. After the young sahrdaran heard what Belisarius had to say, he simply poured himself some wine. A noble vintage, this, poured from a sahrdaran's jug into a sahrdaran's gorgeous goblet.
He drank half the goblet in one gulp. Then said, "All right."
Belisarius eyed him. Kurush scowled.
"I'm not saying I like it," he grumbled, "but you gave your word. We Aryans, you know, understand the meaning of vows."
He emptied the goblet in another single gulp. Then, he gestured toward his blood-soaked garments and armor. "Charax has been well enough avenged, for one day."
Growl: "I suppose."
Belisarius let it be. He saw no reason to press Kurush for anything beyond his grudging acceptance.
He did cast a questioning glance at Baresmanas. The older sahrdaran had said nothing, thus far, and it was obvious that he intended to maintain his silence. He simply returned Belisarius' gaze with his own fair imitation of a mask.
No, Baresmanas would say nothing. But Belisarius suspected that the Persian nobleman had already had his say—earlier, to his young and vigorous nephew. Reminding him of a Roman general's mercy at a place called Mindouos. And teaching him—or trying, at least—that mercy can have its own sharp point. Keener than any lance or blade, and even deadlier to the foe.
Chapter 21
THE MALABAR COAST
Summer, 531 a.d.
The refugee camps in Muziris swarmed like anthills. Families gathered up their few belongings and awaited the voyage to the island of Tamraparni. Maratha cavalrymen and Kushan soldiers readied their gear. The great fleet of ships assembling in the harbor cleared their holds. Keralan officials presented chests full of gold and silver, to fund the migration. An empress and her advisers schemed.
And old friends arrived.
In midafternoon of a sunny day—a rarity, that, in southwest India during the monsoon season—five Axumite warships entered the harbor at Muziris.
They were not hailed by Keralan guard vessels. There was no pretense, any longer, that the port of Muziris was under anyone's control but Shakuntala's. The Ethiopian vessels were met by a warship "requi-sitioned" from Kerala but manned by Maratha sailors.
Once their identity was established, the Ethiopians were immediately escorted into the presence of the Empress. There were four hundred of the Axumite soldiers, along with four other men. Shakuntala, forewarned, greeted them with a full imperial ceremony before the great mansion she had taken for her palace.
The three Ethiopians who led that march were deeply impressed by what they saw—as were the four men walking with them who were not African. The seven men at the front were familiar with India, and with Shakuntala's situation. They had been expecting something patchwork and ragged. A rebel empress—a hunted young girl—hiding in a precarious refuge, with nothing but the handful of Kushan soldiers who had spirited her out of the Malwa empire.
Instead—
The street down which they were escorted, by hundreds of Maratha cavalrymen, was lined with thousands of cheering people. Most were refugees, from Andhra and other Malwa-conquered lands of India. But there were many dark-skinned Keralans among that crowd, as well. Her own grandfather might have disowned her, and Malwa provocateurs might have stirred up much animosity toward the refugees who had poured into the kingdom, but many of her mother's people had not forgotten that Shakuntala was a daughter of Kerala herself. So they too cheered, and loudly, at this further evidence that the Empress-in-exile of Andhra was a force to be reckoned with. Allies—from far off Africa! And such splendid-looking soldiers!
Which, indeed, they were. The sarwen rose to the occasion, abandoning their usual Axumite informality. In stiff lines they marched, their great spears held high, ostrich-plume headdresses bobbing proudly.
As they approached the Empress' palace, kettledrums began beating. At the steps leading up to the palace doors, the march halted. The doors swung wide, and dozens—then hundreds—of Kushan soldiers trotted out and took positions on the palace steps. The last Kushans to emerge were Shakuntala's personal bodyguard, the small band of men who had been with her since she inherited her throne. Since the very day, in fact. For these were the men who had taken her out of her father's palace in Amaravati, on the day her family was slaughtered, as a Malwa captive. And then, months later, had spit in Malwa's face and taken her to freedom.
Finally, Shakuntala herself emerged, with Dadaji Holkar at her side. Four imperial ladies-in-waiting came behind them.
She stepped—say better, pranced—down the stairs to greet her visitors.
For all the pomp and splendor, the dignity of the occasion was threadbare. Genuine joy has a way of undermining formality.
Among the Ethiopians who stood before the palace were four Kushans—the squad, led by Kujulo, who had assisted Prince Eon in his escape from India the year before. As soon as Shakuntala's bodyguard spotted their long-lost brethren, their discipline frayed considerably. They did not break formation, of course. But the grins on their faces went poorly with the solemnity of the occasion.
It hardly mattered, since their own Empress was grinning just as widely. Partly, at the sight of Kujulo and his men. Mostly, at the familiar faces of the three Ethiopians at the front.
Garmat, Ezana and Wahsi. Three of that small band of men who had rescued her from Malwa captivity.
Seeing an absent face, her grin faded.
Garmat shook his head.
"No, Shakuntala, he did not come with us. The negusa nagast sent Eon on a different mission. But the Prince asked me to convey his greetings and his best wishes."
Shakuntala nodded. "We will speak of it later. For the moment, let me thank you for returning my Kus
han bodyguards."
Smiling, she turned and beckoned one of her ladies-in-waiting forward.
"And I have no doubt you will want to take Tarabai back with you. As I promised Eon."
The Maratha woman stepped forward. Although she was trying to maintain her composure, Tarabai's expression was a jumbled combination of happiness and anxiety. Happiness, at the prospect of being reunited with her Prince. Anxiety, that he might have lost interest in her after their long separation. During the course of Prince Eon's adventures in India the year before, he and Tarabai had become almost inseparable. Before they went their separate ways in escaping the Malwa, Eon had asked her to become his concubine, and she had accepted. But—that was then, and princes are notoriously fickle and short of memory.
Garmat immediately allayed her anxiety.
"Eon may not be in Axum upon your arrival, Tarabai. He is occupied elsewhere, at the moment. But he hopes you have not changed your mind."
The old half-Arab smiled.
"Actually, he does more than hope. He is already adding a wing to his palace. Your quarters, when you arrive—as well as those of your children, when they arrive. As I'm sure they will, soon enough."
Tarabai blushed. Beamed.
That business done, Garmat's gaze returned to the Empress. His smile faded. "So much is pleasure, Your Majesty. Now, for the rest—"
He straightened. Then, in a loud voice:
"I bring you an official offer of alliance from the negusa nagast of Axum. A full alliance against the Malwa."
A buzz of whispered conversation filled the air at this announcement.
"We heard, upon our arrival, that you plan to transport your people to the island of Ceylon. Let me make clear that, if you desire, you and your people may seek refuge in Ethiopia instead."
Shakuntala would have sworn that her expression never changed. But she had forgotten Garmat's uncanny shrewdness.
"Ah," he murmured. His voice was soft, and pitched low. So low that only she and Dadaji could now hear him. "I had wondered. Exile to a distant land did not really seem in your nature. So. I have five ships, Your Majesty. On board those ships came half of the Dakuen sarwe—four hundred soldiers, under the command of Ezana and Wahsi. One of those ships must convey Tarabai and myself back to Ethiopia. The rest—including all of the sarwen—are at your disposal."
