by Eric Flint
That wind arrived twelve days later. Emperor Khusrau and his entourage, from the roof of Esagila, watched the survivors of the Malwa expedition drag their mangled army back into the camps at Babylon. That army was much smaller than the one which had set out a few weeks since. Smaller in numbers of men, and horses, and camels, positively miniscule in its remaining gunpowder weapons.
Two days later, the entire Malwa army began its long retreat south. By nightfall, the camps which had besieged Babylon for months were empty.
Khusrau spent all of that day, also, on top of Esagila. Surrounded by his officers, his advisers, his officials, a small horde of sahrdaran and vurzurgan, and a young girl named Tahmina.
Khusrau's more hot-headed officers called for a sally. Again, the Emperor refused.
Malwa was lamed, but still a lion.
And besides, the Persian Monarch had other business to attend to.
"Ormazd," he hissed. "Ormazd, first. I want his head brought to me on a pike, by year's end. Do it."
His officers hastened to obey. Surrounded by the rest of his huge entourage, the Emperor remained on Esagila. For a time, he stared at the retreating Malwa. With satisfaction, hatred, and anticipation.
"Next year," he murmured. "Next year, Malwa."
Then, he turned and began striding to the opposite wall of the great, ancient temple. His entourage began to follow, like a giant millipede, but Khusrau waved them back.
"I want only Tahmina," he commanded.
Disgruntled, but obedient, his officials and nobles and advisers obeyed. Timidly, hesitantly, the girl did likewise.
Once they were standing alone on the north wall of the temple, Khusrau's gaze was fixed on the northwest horizon. There was nothing to see, there, beyond a river and a desert. But the Emperor was looking beyond—in time, even more than in space.
His emotions now, as he stared northwest, were more complex. Satisfaction also, of course. As well as admiration, respect—even, if the truth be told, love. But there was also fear, and dread, and anxiety.
"Next year, Malwa," he murmured again. "But the year after that, and after that, and after that, there will be Rome. Always Rome."
He turned his head, and lowered his eyes to the girl standing at his side. Under her Emperor's gaze, the girl's own eyes shied away.
"Look at me, Tahmina."
When the girl's face rose, Khusrau smiled. "I will not command you in this, child. But I do need you. The Aryans need you."
Tahmina smiled herself, now. Timidly and uncertainly, true, but a smile it was. Quite a genuine one, Khusrau saw, and he was not a man easily fooled.
"I will, Emperor."
Khusrau nodded, and placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. Thereafter, and for the rest of the day, he said nothing.
Nor did he leave his post on the northern wall of Esagila, watching the northwest. The Malwa enemy could limp away behind his contemptuous back. Khusrau of the Immortal Soul was the Emperor of Iran and non-Iran. His duty was to face the future.
Chapter 39
Days later, Belisarius and Maurice surveyed the Nehar Malka from what was left of the rockpile on its north bank. Most of those rocks, so laboriously hauled out by the Kushans, were back where they came from. Once again, the Royal Canal was dry—or almost so, at least. The crude and explosive manner in which Belisarius had rebuilt the dam did not stop all the flow.
The Roman army was already halfway across what was left of the Nehar Malka. On their way back to Peroz-Shapur, now. After destroying the dam, Belisarius had retreated north, in case the Malwa made an attempt to pursue his still-outnumbered army. He had not expected them to make that mistake—not with Link in command—but had been prepared to deal with the possibility.
Once it became clear that the enemy was retreating back to Babylon, Belisarius had followed. They had reached the site of the battleground just two hours before.
"Enough," he said softly. "The Nehar Malka's dry enough. I don't think Khusrau will complain."
"Shouldn't think so," muttered Maurice. The chiliarch was not even looking at the Nehar Malka, however. He was staring at the Euphrates.
Not at the river, actually. The Euphrates, to all appearances, was back to its usual self—a wide, shallow, sluggishly moving mass of muddy water.
No, Maurice was staring at the banks of the river. Where the Malwa had abandoned their dead. It was not hard to spot the corpses—hundreds, thousands of them—even hidden in the reeds. The vultures covered the area like flies.
"Jesus," he whispered. "Forgive us our sins."
Belisarius turned his eyes to follow Maurice's gaze. No expression came to his face. He might have been a simple village blacksmith, studying the precision of his work.
When he spoke, his voice was harsh. "A man told me once that war is murder. Organized, systematic murder—nothing more, and nothing less. It was the first thing that man said to me, on the day I assumed command as an officer. Seventeen years old, I was. Green as the springtime."
"You were never as green as the springtime," murmured Maurice. "Day you were born, you were already thinking crooked thoughts." He sighed. "I remember, lad. It was true, then, and it's true now. But I don't have to like it."
Belisarius nodded. Nothing further was said.
A few minutes later, he and Maurice turned their horses and rode down to the bank of the Nehar Malka, ready to join the army in its crossing.
The job was not finished, not yet. Neither of them knew when it might be. But they knew when a day's work was done.
Done well. They could take satisfaction in that, at least, if not in the doing.
Craftsmen at their trade.
Epilogue
A throng and its thoughts
From her position on the dais against the east wall, Antonina surveyed the scene with satisfaction. The great audience chamber of the Prefectural Palace was literally packed with people. Servants carrying platters of food and drink were forced to wriggle their way through the throng like so many eels. The noise produced by the multitude of conversations was almost deafening.
"Very gratifying," pronounced Patriarch Theodosius, seated on a chair next to her.
"Isn't it?" Antonina beamed upon the mob below them. "I think the entire Greek aristocracy of Alexandria showed up tonight. As well as most of the nobility from all the major Delta towns. Even some from the valley. The Fayum, at least, and Antin-oopolis."
A slight frown came.
"Actually, I'm a bit puzzled. Hadn't really expected such a massive turnout. I thought for sure that a good half of the nobility would boycott the affair."
Theodosius' eyes widened. "Boycott? A public celebration in honor of the Emperor's ninth birthday? God forbid!" The Patriarch smiled slyly. "Actually, Antonina, I am not surprised. Left to their own devices, I'm quite sure that half of Egypt's Greek noblemen would never have come. But their wives and daughters gave them no choice."
He nodded toward the middle of the great room, where the crowd was thickest. At the very center of that incredible population density, a cup of wine in one hand, stood a handsome young Roman officer.
"Egypt's most eligible bachelor," stated the Patriarch. "The merarch of the Army of Egypt. Newly elected to the Senate—and already quite rich on his own account, due to his share of the spoils from Mindouos."
Antonina stared at Hermogenes. A bit of sadness came to her, for a brief moment, thinking about Irene. The host of women who surrounded Hermogenes were all younger than Irene, and—with perhaps one or two exceptions—considerably prettier.
"Put all their brains together," she muttered, "and they could maybe match Irene. When she's passed out drunk. Maybe."
"What was that, Antonina?" asked Theodosius.
Antonina shook her head.
"Never mind, Patriarch. I was just thinking about a dear friend." Sigh. "Who will never, I fear, find a husband."
"Too pious?" asked Theodosius.
Antonina bit off a laugh. "No, no. Just too—much."
She rose from her seat. "I will take my leave, now. The event is clearly a roaring success. I think we can safely conclude that Alexandria and Egypt have been returned to the imperial fold. But I'm tired, and I don't think that crowd will object to my absence."
Theodosius suppressed his own humor, now, until after Antonina had walked out. Then he did laugh, seeing the mob below heave a great collective sigh of relief.
The Patriarch was quite certain he could read their minds, at that moment.
Thank God! She's gone!
No real woman has tits that big.
Satan's spawn, that's what she is.
The Whore From Hell. Ba'alzebub's Bitch.
But they kept those thoughts to themselves. Oh, yes. Discreet, they were. Reserved.
"Very proper folk," said Theodosius approvingly, turning to the man seated to his right. "Very polite. Very noble. Don't you think so, Ashot?"
A charitable interpretation, from a man of God.
Less charitable was an Armenian cataphract's response.
"Scared shitless, that's what they are."
A king and his fears
"You are not thinking of marrying that woman?" demanded the negusa negast of Axum. The sovereign of Ethiopia leaned forward on his royal stool, his thick hands planted firmly on powerful knees, his massive jaw clamped shut. He frowned ferociously upon his youngest son.
Prince Eon bolted erect on his own stool. His jaw sagged. Dropped. Plummeted like a stone.
Standing behind him, Ousanas burst into laughter.
"Excellent idea, King of Kings!" cried the dawazz. "Certain to shrink overconfident fool boy's head into a walnut!"
Eon finally caught his breath. Enough, at least, to choke out, "Marry—Irene?"
He goggled at his father. The father glowered back.
"You seem much taken by this woman," accused the negusa nagast.
Eon's eyes roamed about the royal chamber, as if seeking rhyme or reason lurking somewhere in the stone recesses of heavy Axumite architecture.
"I like her, yes," he said. "Very much. I think she is incredibly capable and intelligent. And very witty. She often makes me laugh. A wonderful ally in our struggle. Even—" His eyes almost crossed, contemplating absurdity. "—yes, even attractive. In her way. But—but—marry her?"
He fell silent. Again, his jaw sagged.
Satisfied, the negusa nagast leaned back in his stool. He fixed Ousanas with a stern gaze.
"Good thing for you, dawazz. Any other answer and I would have you beaten."
Ousanas looked smug. "Can't. Dawazz not subject to royal authority. Only answers to Dakuen sarwe."
The King of Kings snorted. "So? You think the regiment would hesitate? Just last night, the demon woman took half their monthly stipend, answering all their riddles. This morning, she took the rest. When they couldn't answer any of hers, even after she gave them all night to think it over." The negusa nagast glared. "Dawazz be a bloody pulp, Prince give any other answer. Be sure of it."
The negusa nagast smacked his heavy thigh. "I am satisfied. The Prince is foolish as a rooster, true. Headstrong like a bull. Who else would get me in a war with Malwa? But at least you have kept him sane, dawazz. Sane enough. Delusions of grandeur can be tolerated, in a King, so long as they are merely political. Never delusions in a wife!"
His heavy shoulders twitched, as if a sudden shiver had run down his spine.
"God save us from that fate! Never marry a woman smarter than you. Too dangerous, especially for a King. That woman! Smarter than Satan."
He turned his head, looking through the entryway to the room beyond. His library, that was.
"Best collection of books south of Alexandria," he noted proudly. "I have instructed my slaves to make a precise count. They will count them again, before I allow that woman to leave for India."
Eon cleared his throat. "We must leave soon, father."
The negusa nagast nodded his head. The gesture was slow, but certain. As solid as the head which made it.
"Yes. You must. Important to follow up on Garmat's successful mission, and quickly. Give all support to Empress Shakuntala and her cause. Give Malwa no time to think."
Again, the little shiver in the shoulders.
"Essential to get that woman on the other side of an ocean."
An empress and her marriage
"The time has come, Shakuntala," stated Holkar firmly. The peshwa leaned forward and lifted a scroll lying on the carpet before his cushion.
"This was brought by courier ship this morning. From Tamraparni."
Dadaji unrolled the scroll, scanning it in the quick manner with which a man reads over a document he had already committed to memory. An odd little smile came to his face.
"Out of illusion, truth," he murmured.
He rolled the scroll back up and handed it to his Empress. Shakuntala stared at the harmless object as if it were a cobra.
"What is it?" she demanded.
Dadaji's smile faded. "It is a letter from the King of Tamraparni. Offering us an alliance—a partial alliance, I should say—against Malwa." He shrugged. "The offer is couched in caveats and riddled with qualifications. But, at the very least, he makes a firm promise of naval and logistical support. Possibly some troops."
He paused, taking a deep breath. Shakuntala eyed him suspiciously.
"And what else?"
"The offer—this is not said in so many words, but the meaning is obvious—is conditional upon your marriage to one of his sons." A wry smile. "His youngest son, needless to say. The King of Tamraparni is willing to risk something, to keep the Malwa at bay. But only so much. Not the heir."
He stopped, studying the young woman who was Andhra's Empress. Shakuntala was sitting very erect, her back as stiff as a board. Her face, if possible, was even stiffer.
Holkar tapped the scroll with a finger. "The King makes allusion to the false way in which we bandied his name about, in Muziris. But he does not complain, not formally. It is quite clear that your seizure of Suppara has changed the situation drastically. You are no longer an 'Empress-in-exile.' You have reestablished yourself on Andhra soil. With a port, here, and one of Majarashtra's largest cities—Deogiri—under the control of your forces. That gives you something far beyond formal legitimacy, which you already had. It gives you power."
He chuckled dryly. "Not much, not much, but some. Enough, at least, that the ruler of Tamraparni is willing to use you to keep Malwa as distant from his island as possible."
He paused. Shakuntala's face was still expressionless.
Dadaji suppressed a sigh.
"Empress, we must consider this offer very seriously. A dynastic marriage with one of south India's most powerful kingdoms would greatly strengthen your position. It might well make the difference between Andhra's survival and its downfall."
Still expressionless.
Now, Holkar did sigh. "Girl," he said softly, "I know that this matter pains you. But you have a duty, and an obligation, to your people."
The peshwa rose and strode to an open window, overlooking the harbor. From below, the sounds of celebration wafted into the palace. The governor's palace, once. The Malwa official languished in prison, now. Shakuntala had taken the building for her own.
Watching the festive scene below, Holkar smiled. Suppara was still celebrating, two weeks after its liberation from the Malwa heel. Dadaji knew his countrymen well. The Marathas would have celebrated even if the city were in ruins. As it was, they could also celebrate an almost bloodless victory. Once the cannons which Kungas had seized opened fire, the Malwa warships had been turned into wrecks within an hour. By the time Shakuntala and her cavalrymen disembarked on the docks, the Malwa garrison had fled the city.
Celebrate, celebrate, celebrate.
Malwa is gone. Andhra has returned.
The Empress herself is here.
Shakuntala! Shakuntala! Shakuntala!
Holkar pointed down to the city. "If you fall, girl, those people will fall with
you. You brought them to their feet. You cannot betray that trust."
Behind him, Shakuntala's face finally broke. Just a bit. Just a flash of pain, a slight lowering of the head. A slow, shuddering breath.
But it was all very quick. Within seconds, she had raised her head. "You are correct, Dadaji. Draft a letter to the King of Tamraparni, telling him that I accept—"
A new voice cut in.
"I think this is quite premature."
Startled, Holkar turned from the window. "Premature? Why, Kungas?"
The Kushan was seated on his own cushion, to Shakuntala's right. He had said nothing, thus far, in this meeting of Shakuntala's closest advisers.
"Because," he rasped, "I do not think we should jump at the first offer." He spread his hand. "There will be others. The Cholas, for a certainty, now that Shakuntala has shown she is a force to be reckoned with. And I think their offer will have fewer caveats and qualifications."
He flipped his hand dismissively, almost contemptuously. "Tamraparni is an island. The Cholas share the mainland with the Malwa beast. They have less room to quibble. Their offer will be more substantial."
Holkar restrained his temper. "If they offer! I do not share your boundless optimism, Kungas. True, the Malwa press them close. But that is just as likely—more likely, in my opinion—to make them hesitate before offering the Malwa any provocation. Kerala also shares the mainland with Malwa, and we all know how that fact led Shakuntala's own grandfather to betray—"
"I agree with Kungas," interrupted Shakuntala forcefully. "We should wait. Not accept this first offer. We should wait. Longer."
Holkar blew out his cheeks. He knew that tone in Shakuntala's voice. Knew it to perfection.
No point in further argument, not now. So, he desisted; even did so graciously. Although he could not help casting an angry glare at Kungas.
No point in that either, of course. As well glare at an iron mask.
