by Eric Flint
The cataphract shrugged. He was obviously not appalled by the prospect. Nor had he any reason to be. The conflict between the two armies, even before the battle in the pass, had been civilized. Thereafter, it had been downright chivalrous. The Rajputs would treat the man as well as Belisarius' soldiers had treated their own Rajput captives.
Remembering those captives, Belisarius shrugged himself. "Comes to it," he said, "I'll just leave you behind with the prisoners. Far enough into the qanat that Damodara won't find you until it's too late, and with plenty of food. You won't need water, of course."
The cataphract grimaced, slightly, at the mention of water. The spring runoff was long over, but the qanat was still at least a foot deep. For all their eagerness to quit the mountains, none of the soldiers were looking forward to a long march through a tunnel. Walking along narrow ledges on the sides, lest their feet become soaked by the water pouring through the center passage.
Maurice came up. "Now," he said. "Couldn't ask for a better time."
Belisarius nodded. It was only mid-morning of the day after the cavalry clash. The Rajput horsemen would have returned to their own army, bringing Damodara the news of the Roman whereabouts. They would not return for at least a day, probably two.
Long enough.
"Are the men—?"
"Mounted up, and ready," came Maurice's immediate reply. "They're just waiting for the order."
Belisarius took a deep breath, filling his lungs.
"Now," he said. Quickly, while the clean air of the mountains buoyed him up and stiffened his resolve. Soon enough, he would be gasping and sweating in damp, smoky darkness. One of thousands of men, stumbling through a tunnel eight feet wide, their steps barely illuminated by a few torches.
The Roman camp, within minutes, was a beehive of activity. Long files of mounted soldiers started down the valley, headed for another small valley two days' ride away. That valley was also a beehive of activity. Kurush and his miners had been preparing the deception for weeks, now.
Belisarius waited until the very end, before he mounted up and followed. It was odd, he realized, how much he was going to miss the mountains. Odd, when he thought of the many times he had cursed them. But the Zagros had been good to him, when all was said and done. And he was going to miss the clean air.
He drove out all regrets. Aide helped.
Think of the sea breeze. Think of gulls, soaring through blue skies. Think of—
The hell with all that! came Belisarius' cheerful retort. All I want to think about is Venus rising from the waves.
And that was the thought that held him, through the miserable days ahead. His wife, coming to meet him from across the sea.
Dearest love.
At a place called Charax. A place where Belisarius would lance a dragon's belly; and show the new gods that they too, for all their dreams of perfection, still needed intestines.
Charax. Belisarius would burn that name into eternity.
But the name meant nothing to him. It was just the place where his Venus would rise from the waves. A name which was only important because a man could remember embracing his wife there, like so many men, over so many years, at so many places, had embraced their wives after a long separation. Nothing more.
So is eternity made, said Aide gently. Out of that simple clay, and no other.
Chapter 24
MAJARASHTRA
Summer, 532 a.d.
Irene whispered a few words into her agent's ear. The man nodded, bowed, and left the room. Irene closed the door behind him.
Kungas had ignored the interchange. Bent over the reading table in Irene's outer chamber, carefully writing out the assignment she had given him, Kungas had seemed utterly oblivious to the spy's arrival or his whispered conversation with Irene. But, the moment the spy was gone, Kungas raised his head and cocked an eye toward her.
Seeing the expression on her face, he turned away from the table completely.
"Is something wrong?" he asked.
Irene stared at him, blank-faced. Kungas rose from the chair. A faint frown of worry creased his brow.
"What is wrong?" he demanded.
Irene shook her head. "Nothing," she replied. "Nothing is wrong."
With the air of a woman preoccupied by something, she drifted toward the window. Kungas remained in place, following only with his eyes.
Once at the window, Irene placed her hands on the sill. She leaned into the gentle breeze coming from the ocean, closing her eyes. Her thick, lustrous, chestnut hair billowed gently in the wind.
Behind her, unseen, Kungas' hands moved. Coming up, cupping, as if to stroke and caress. But the movement was short-lived. In seconds, his hands were back at his side.
Irene turned away from the window. "I need your advice," she said softly.
Kungas nodded. The gesture, as always, was economical. But his eyes were alert.
For a moment, as her mind veered aside into the hot place in her heart, Irene reveled in her own words. I need your advice. Simple words. But words which, except for Belisarius and occasionally Justinian, she had never spoken to a man. Men, as a rule, did not give advice to women. They condescended, or they instructed, or they babbled vaingloriously, or they tried to seduce. They rarely simply advised.
She could not remember, any longer, how many times she had said the words to Kungas. And how many times, in the weeks since the battle where they destroyed the guns, he had simply advised.
By sheer force of will, she jerked her mind back from that place in her heart. The fire was there, but it was banked for a time.
She shook her head, smiling.
"What is so amusing?" asked Kungas.
"I was just remembering the first time I met you. I thought you were quite ugly."
His lips made the little movement which stood Kungas for a grin. "No longer, I hope?"
She gave no answer. But Kungas did not miss the little twitch of her hands. As if she, too, wanted to stroke and caress.
Irene cleared her throat. "There is news. News concerning Dadaji's family. The location of his son has been found. The location where he was, I should say. It seems that several months ago Dadaji's son was among a group of slaves who escaped from his master's plantation in eastern India. The ringleader, apparently. Since then, according to the report, he has joined one of the rebel bands in the forest."
Kungas smacked his hands together. For an instant, the mask vanished. His face shone with pure and unalloyed delight.
"How wonderful! Dadaji will be ecstatic!"
Irene raised a cautioning hand. "He is in great danger, Kungas, and there is nothing I can do to help him. The Malwa have been pouring troops into the forests, since they finally realized they can no longer dismiss the rebels as a handful of brigands."
Kungas shrugged. "And so? The boy dies, arms in hand, fighting the asura who ravages his homeland. That is the worst. You think that would break Dadaji's heart? You do not really understand him, Irene. Beneath that gentle scholar is a man of the Great Country. He will do the rites, weeping—while his heart sings with joy."
Irene stared at him. Skeptically, at first. Then, with a nod, she deferred to his judgement. (And reveled, also, in that deferral.)
"There is more," she added. "More than news." She took a deep breath. "My spies found his wife, also. A slave in a nobleman's kitchen, right in Kausambi itself. Following my instructions, they decided it would be possible to steal her away. In Malwa's capital," she snorted, half-chuckling, "noblemen do not guard their mansions too carefully."
Kungas' eyes widened. In another man, they would have been practically bulging.
Irene laughed. "Oh, yes. She is here, Kungas. In Suppara." She nodded toward the door. "In this very house, in fact. My man has her downstairs, in the salon."
Now, even Kungas' legendary self-control was breaking. "Here?" he gasped. He stared at the door. Then, almost lunging, he began to move. "We must take her to him at once! He will be so—"
"Stop!"
Kungas staggered to a halt. For a moment, staring at Irene, he frowned with incomprehension. Then, his expression changed, as understanding came. Or so he thought.
"She has been disfigured," he stated. "Dishonored, perhaps. You are afraid Dadaji will—"
Irene blew out a breath—half-laugh, half-surprise. "No—no." She smiled reassuringly. "She is quite well, Kungas, according to my agent. Very tired, of course. He says she was asleep within seconds of reaching the couch. The journey was long and arduous, and her life as a slave was sheer toil. But she is well. As for the other—"
Irene waved her hand, as if calming an unsettled child. "My spy says she was not abused, not in that manner. Not even by her master. She was not a young woman, you know. Dadaji's age."
She looked away, her jaw tightening. "With so many young slaves to rape, after the conquest of Andhra, men simply beat her until she was an obedient drudge." Her next words were cold, filled with the bitterness of centuries. Greek women had been raped, too, often enough. And listened to Greek men, and Greek poets, boasting of the Trojan women. "Not even Dadaji will count that as pollution."
"That is not fair," said Kungas harshly.
Irene took a deep breath, almost a shudder. "No, it is not," she admitted. "Not with Dadaji, at least. Although—" She sighed, shaking her head. "How can any man as intelligent as he be so stupid?"
It only took Kungas a second, perhaps two, to finally understand her concern.
"Ah." He stared out the window for a moment. "I see."
He looked down at his hands, and spread wide his fingers. "Tonight, the empress has called a council. She will finally decide, she says, which offer of marriage to accept."
The fingers closed into fists. He looked up at Irene. "You will state your opinion, then, for the first time. And you do not want Dadaji to refrain from arguing his, because he feels himself so deeply in your debt."
She nodded. Kungas chuckled. "I never imagined Rome's finest spymaster would hold herself to such a rigid code of honor."
Irene made an inarticulate, sarcastic noise. "I hate to disillusion you, Kungas. I do this not from honor, but from simple—" She paused. When she spoke again, the acid-tinged sarcasm was gone from her voice.
"Some, yes. Some." She sighed. "It is difficult to manipulate Dadaji, even for someone like me. It's a bit too much like maneuvering against a damned saint."
She reached up and wiped her face, restoring the spymaster. "But that is still not my reason. My reason is cold-blooded statecraft. Whatever decision the empress makes will be irrevocable. You know Shakuntala, Kungas. She is as intelligent, I think, as Justinian."
She barked a laugh. "She certainly has the willpower of Theodora." Then, shaking her head: "But she is still a girl, in many ways. If she discovers, in the future, that one of her closest advisers—he is like a father to her, you know that—withheld his advice on such a critical matter—" The headshaking became vigorous. "No, no, no. That would shake her self-confidence to the very roots. And that we cannot afford. She may make the wrong decision. Rulers often do. But her confidence must never waver, or all will be lost."
Kungas eyed her, head aslant. "Have I ever told you that you were a very smart woman?"
"Several times," she replied, smiling. She cocked her own head, returning his look of amusement with questioning eyes.
"You still have not asked," she said softly. "What my opinion is. We have never discussed the matter, oddly enough."
He spread his hands. "Why is that odd? I know your opinion, just as surely as you know mine."
He dropped his hands and lifted his shoulders. "It is obvious. I even have hopes, once we explain, that Dadaji will be convinced."
Irene snorted. Kungas smiled, but shook his head.
"You are too skeptical, I think." The thick, heavy shoulders squared. "But we will know soon."
He began to move toward the door, his head turned away. "I think it would be best, Irene, if you spoke first."
"I agree. It will strike the harder, coming from an unexpected source. You will follow, of course, when the time is right."
He did not bother to reply. There was no need. For a moment, never speaking, the man and woman in the room reveled together in that knowledge.
Kungas had reached the door. But Irene spoke before he could open it.
"Kungas." He turned his head. Irene gestured at the writing table. "You can read, now. Kushan, rather well, and your Greek is becoming passable. Your writing is still very crude, but that is merely a matter of practice."
His eyes went to the table, lingering there for a moment. Then, closed shut.
"Why, Kungas?" she asked. Her voice was calm, but tinged with anxiety. And, yes, some pain and anger. "My bed has always been there for you. But you have never come. Not once, in the weeks since the battle."
Kungas reopened his eyes. When he looked at Irene, his gaze was calm. Calm, and resolute.
"Not yet."
Irene's own gaze was not so calm. "I am not a virgin, Kungas," she said. Angrily, perhaps—or simply pleading.
The Kushan's mask of a face broke in half. Irene almost gasped. She had never seen Kungas actually grin.
"I did not imagine you were!" he choked out. He lowered his head, shaking it back and forth like a bull. "Shocking news. Most distressing. I am chagrined beyond belief. Oh, what shall I do?"
As tense as she was, Irene couldn't restrain her laughter. Kungas raised his head, still grinning.
But the question remained in her eyes. He took a few steps forward, reached out his hand, and drew her head into his shoulder.
"I have this to do first, Irene," he said softly, stroking her hair. "I cannot—" Silence, while he sought the words. "I cannot tend to my own needs, while hers are still gaping. I have guarded her for too long, now. And this struggle, I think, is perhaps her most desperate. I must see her through it safely."
She felt his chest heave slightly, from soft laughter. "Call it my own dharma, if you will."
Irene nodded, her head still nestled in his shoulder. She reached up and caressed the back of his neck. Slender fingers danced on thick muscle.
"I understand," she murmured. "As long as I understand." She laughed once herself, very softly. "I may need reassurance, again, mind you. If this goes on and on."
She knew he was smiling. "Not long, I think," she heard him say. "The girl is decisive, you know."
Irene sighed, and ceased caressing Kungas' neck. A moment later, her hands placed firmly on his chest, she created a space between them.
"So she is," she murmured. "So she most certainly is."
Pushing him away, now. "Go, then. I will see you tonight, at the council meeting."
He bowed ceremoniously. "Prepare to do battle, Irene Macrembolitissa. The dragon of Indian prejudice awaits your Roman lance."
Gaiety returned in full force. "What a ridiculous metaphor! It's back to the books for you—barbarian oaf!"
Chapter 25
It was late in the night before Irene spoke. The council had already gone on for hours.
Irene craned her neck, twisting her head back and forth. To all outward appearance, it was the gesture of someone simply stretching in order to remain alert in a long, long imperial council.
In reality, she was just trying not to smile at the image which had come to her mind.
This isn't a "council." It's a—down, smile, down!—damned auction.
Her eyes, atop a rotating head, fell on the empress. Shakuntala was sitting, stiff and straight-backed, on a cushion placed on her throne. The throne itself was wide and low. In her lotus position, hands at her side, Shakuntala reminded Irene of the statue of a goddess resting on an altar. The girl had maintained that posture, and her stern countenance, throughout the session—with no effort at all, seemingly. That self-discipline, Irene knew, was another of Raghunath Rao's many gifts to the girl.
Irene's head twisting became a little shake.
Stop thinking of her as a "girl." That i
s a woman, now. Not more than twenty, yes, and still a virgin. But a woman nonetheless.
In the long months—almost a year, now—since Irene had come to India, she had grown very fond of Shakuntala. In private, Shakuntala's imperious demeanor was transmuted into something quite different. A will of iron, still, and self-assuredness that would shame an elephant. But there was also humor, and quick intelligence, and banter, and a willingness to listen, and a cheerful acceptance of human foibles. And that, too, was a legacy of Raghunath Rao.
Not one of Shakuntala's many advisers doubted for a moment that the empress, should she feel it necessary, could order the execution of a thousand men without blinking an eye. And not one of those advisers—not for instant—ever hesitated to speak his mind. And that, too, was a legacy of Rao.
Irene's eyes now fell on the large group of men sitting before the empress, on their own plush cushions resting on the carpeted floor.
The bidders at the auction.
The envoys from every kingdom in India still independent of Malwa were there. Tamraparni, the great island south of India which was sometimes called Ceylon, was there. And, in the past two weeks, plenipotentiaries from every realm in the vast Hindu world had arrived also. Most of those envoys had brought soldiers with them, to prove the sincerity of their offers. The Cholan and Tamraparni units were quite sizeable. Suppara was packed like a crate, with soldiers billeted everywhere.
Whether smuggled through the blockade of the coast, or, more often, marching overland from Kerala, they had come. Kerala, ruled by Shakuntala's grandfather, was there too, despite his treacherous connivance the year before with a Malwa assassination plot against her. Shakuntala had practically forced its representative Ganapati to grovel. But, in the end, she had allowed Kerala to join the bidding.
Irene had never fully realized, until the past few weeks, the true extent of the Hindu world. She had always thought of Hinduism, and its Buddhist offspring, as religions of India. But, like Christianity, those religions had spread their message over the centuries. And, more often than not, spread their entire culture along with it.
