An Oblique Approach

by David Drake

  He shook a sage, cautioning finger in Venandakatra's direction. A solemn look fell on his face—one experienced pedophile advising another.

  "Make sure you watch her well, mind! A prize like that? Ha! Surround her with eunuchs, I would, or priests sworn to celibacy. Better yet—eunuch priests." Guffaw, guffaw. "And then I'd check under their robes!"

  He half-choked on another swallow of wine, then added: "We have an old saying in Rome, you know: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"

  Venandakatra frowned. "I'm afraid I don't speak Latin."

  "Ah. I assumed—my apologies—your Greek is excellent." Belch. "Well, it basically translates as: Who will guard the guardians? What it means is, how shall I—"

  "I understand perfectly well what it means!" snapped Venandakatra.

  Oh, my. Isn't he testy? Time to extract the blade.

  And nick him elsewhere, so he doesn't notice that he's bleeding to death.

  "But that's enough talk of women!" roared Belisarius. "Worthless cunts, all of 'em. Beneath our notice, except when we're in the mood for humping. We're men of affairs, you and I. Important men."

  He reached over the table for the wine, lost his balance, fell to the floor. "Bitches, all of them," he muttered, staggering to his feet. "Treacherous sluts." He groped his way back into his chair.

  "Good for fucking, and that's it," grumbled the general, glaring at the table. Venandakatra poured him another cup. From the corner of his eye, again, Belisarius caught Venandakatra's expression. Contempt, overlaying worry.

  Now I have but to lay opportunity over contempt, and the worry will work its way to the heart, free of suspicion.

  "Men of affairs, I say," he repeated, slurring the words. "Important men." He grit his teeth. "Important men."

  Venandakatra slid in his own blade.

  "So we are, my friend. Although"—slight hesitation, discreet pause—"not always appreciated, perhaps."

  Belisarius' jaws tightened. "Isn't that the fucking truth? Isn't it just? My own—"

  Careful. He's not stupid.

  Belisarius waved his hand. "Never mind," he mumbled.

  The Vile One struck again.

  First, he took a sip from his own cup. The first sip in an hour, by Belisarius' estimation. (Never underestimate the foe, of course. Who knows? The Roman might not be quite as drunk as he looks.)

  "I am fortunate in that regard," remarked Venandakatra idly. "The Emperor Skandagupta is always appreciative of my efforts on his behalf. Always fair, in his criticisms. Mild criticisms, never more than that. And he gives me his full trust, unstintingly."

  Belisarius peered at him suspiciously. But it was obvious the suspicion was directed toward the statement, not the speaker of it.

  "Oh, no—it's quite true, I assure you."

  "Hard to believe," muttered Belisarius resentfully. "In my experience—"

  He fell silent, again. "Ah, what's the use?" he mumbled. "Emperors are emperors, and that's that." He seemed lost in his own thoughts. Bleak, bitter thoughts. Black thoughts, drunken thoughts.

  Time. As Valentinian says, be economical with the blade.

  He lurched to his feet; planted his hands on the table to steady himself.

  "I must be off," he announced. Belch. " 'Scuse me. Afraid I've had too much to drink. You'll forgive me, I trust?"

  Venandakatra nodded graciously. "I've been known to do it myself, friend." A happy thought: "Men of affairs, you know. Much on our minds. Much to deal with. Bound to drink a bit, now and then."

  "The truth, that!" Belisarius smiled at the Vile One. Never, in the history of the world, did a drunk bestow such a cheerful smile of camaraderie on a fellow sot.

  "You are most pleasant company, Venandakatra," he said, carefully enunciating the words. A man deep in his cups, determined to project sincerity.

  "Most pleasant. Sorry we got off to a bit of a bad start, back there—" The general waved his hand vaguely, more or less in the direction of the sea. Belch. "Back there, in the beginning. On the ship."

  "Think nothing of it! Long forgotten, I assure you." Venandakatra rose to his feet. "May I call one of my servants? To assist you back—"

  Belisarius waved off the offer.

  "Not necessary!" he barked. "Can make it mack, byself—back, myself. Not a problem."

  He bowed at Venandakatra, with exaggerated, careful stiffness, and reeled to the entrance. He pulled back the heavily embroidered drapery which served the Malwa lord's pavilion for a tent flap. By the studied care of his movements, he was obviously trying not to inflict damage on the precious fabric. As he was about to pass through into the darkness beyond, he paused, steadying himself with one hand on a tent pole. Then, he looked back at the Malwa lord.

  For a few seconds, Venandakatra and Belisarius exchanged a stare. The expression on the Malwa's face registered a subtle invitation. The face of the Roman general was that of a man consumed by old grievances, brought to the surface by hours of heavy carousing.

  Bleak, bitter thoughts. Black thoughts. Drunken thoughts.

  Belisarius turned away, shook his head, and stumbled into the night.

  He did not need to look back again. He knew what he would see on the Vile One's face. Calculation, overlaying contempt. Contempt, overlaying worry. Worry, buried, freed of suspicion, worming its way into a maggotty soul.

  He managed to keep from smiling all the way back to his own tent. Spies, everywhere. He even managed to keep from glancing into the forest which surrounded the caravan. Spies, everywhere. And it would be pointless, anyway, for he would see nothing. In that darkness, there would be nothing to see except a grin. And the hunter never grins, when he is stalking the prey.

  When he reached his own tent, he staggered within, and then straightened up. Good Roman leather, that tent. Impossible to see through.

  "Well?" asked Garmat.

  His next words, the general regretted for years, for he was a man who despised boasting. But he didn't regret them much. They were, after all, irresistible:

  "Deadly with a blade, is Belisarius."

  Early the next morning—even before daybreak—a party of Mahaveda priests and mahamimamsa "purifiers" left the caravan on horseback, escorted by a Rajput cavalry troop. They were being sent to the palace ahead of the caravan, on a special mission ordered by Lord Venandakatra.

  In the heart of mighty Malwa, it did not occur to them to look back on the trail, to see if anyone followed. It would have made no difference if they had. The one who tracked them had been taught his skills by lionesses and pygmies, the greatest hunters in the world.

  Chapter 22

  Insofar as that term could ever be applied to that man, he was frantic.

  An observer watching him would not have realized his state of mind, however. For the man seemed utterly calm and still, crouching in the thick foliage of the brush and trees which came within a few feet of the walls of Venandakatra's palace.

  True, an observer might have wondered what he was doing there. A man of average height; black-haired; black-bearded, with a few grey hairs to indicate approaching middle age; barefoot; wearing nothing but a dirty loincloth. But, even there, the conclusion was obvious: a menial, from one of the lower sudra castes, relieving himself in the woods.

  No thought of danger would have crossed such an observer's mind. The man was obviously poor, stoop-shouldered from years of drudgery, and quite unarmed. There was no room in that soiled, torn, scanty loincloth to conceal any weapon.

  Had such an observer approached, however, he might have begun to question his assumption. For, up close, there were certain things about the man crouching in the woods which did not quite jibe with his appearance.

  He was too still, for one thing. Motionless, in fact. No dim-witted menial can prevent himself from idle twitching and scratching.

  His musculature, on closer examination, was puzzling. True, the shoulders were stooped—but that can result from deliberate posture. And, while the man was not heavily muscled, the muscles themsel
ves were extraordinarily well-defined. Iron-hard, to all appearance. Not the sort of physique which results from menial toil.

  Then, there were the arms and the hands. Very long arms, for a man of his size. Long and powerful. And the hands, in proportion to his build, were huge. Sinewy hands. Scarred, callused hands also—but those scars and calluses were not, quite, the scars produced by years of simple toil.

  Finally, the eyes. Hazel eyes, they were—almost yellow-orange. An unusual color for a man of obvious Maratha descent. And then, had the observer come close enough to look into them, another strange feature of the eyes would be noted. There was nothing in those eyes of the dull gaze of a menial. No, the gaze of those eyes was like—

  Recognition would come, finally. For the man in the woods was called many things. In one case, because the color of his eyes, and the gaze of his eyes, so closely matched those of the predator for which he was named.

  The observer would have no time to shout a warning, then. He would be dead within two seconds. A panther does not need weapons, beyond those provided by nature.

  There was an observer, in fact. But the panther did not slay him, because he did not spot him. The one observing him was no stranger to woods himself, nor to predators. And he was certainly not fool enough to come near that man. Not at that moment. Not when the man, had he been a panther in truth, would have been lashing his tail in fury.

  No, best to wait. The observer had already found the panther's lair. He would wait for him there, and catch him when he was not quite so prepared for slaughter. The observer knew how to trap predators in their lairs. He had done it before, times beyond counting, and would do it again.

  The observer faded away, vanished into the forest without a sound. Had the panther turned at that very moment, he might have caught a sign of his stalker. Not of the stalker himself, for that one was a master of hidden movement. Just an odd, quick, flash of white, gleaming in the darkness of the foliage like a beacon. Just for an instant.

  But the panther did not turn. He twitched, slightly. Some buried part of his brain tried to transmit a signal. But it was a dim, confused, uncertain signal, and the conscious part of the panther's mind suppressed it.

  For two days, now, he had been getting those subconscious signals. Something is watching. The first day, he had taken them very seriously. But he had been able to detect nothing. Nothing—and he was a man who rarely failed to detect danger. By the second day, he shrugged off the signals. Nervous tension, no more. It was not logical, after all, that an enemy would stalk him for so long in those woods without making his presence known.

  Why would Malwa waste time apprehending a foe? Here? In the very heart of their power? With a small army of soldiers at hand?

  The panther shrugged off the signal, again.

  Two hours later, his already still form became absolutely rigid. Something was happening.

  A party of Rajput horsemen rode into the open courtyard before the main door to the Vile One's palace. Escorts for half a dozen Mahaveda priests and over twenty of the mahamimamsa carrion-eaters.

  The door of the palace opened, the majordomo emerging. The man was small and corpulent. His rotund form was draped in fine clothing and a positively splendiferous turban—as befitted one who, though ultimately a servant, was the most august member of that lowly class. August enough, at least, that the squad of Ye-tai who accompanied him did not evince a trace of the rowdy disrespect which they typically dealt out to servants.

  And to others, for that matter. As soon as the Ye-tai spotted the Rajput horsemen they began bristling, like a pack of mongrels in an alley, faced with alien dogs. The Rajputs, purebreds, ignored the curs.

  The majordomo barked them to order. There was an exchange of words. Moments later, the priests and the mahamimamsa dismounted and were ushered within the palace. Just before entering, one of the priests turned and spoke some words to the officer in charge of the Rajput cavalry troop. The Rajputs turned their horses and trotted out of the courtyard. Ye-tai jeers and taunts followed them. But the Rajputs neither looked back, nor responded, nor gave any indication that they even heard the deprecations.

  Once the Rajputs were gone, the Ye-tai swaggered back into the mansion. They did not fail, naturally, to cuff aside the servant who held the door for them.

  For a half hour or so thereafter, all was still. Silence, except for the normal faint sounds issuing from the palace—the noises one expects to hear emanating from a palace populated by an army of servants.

  Very busy servants. The lord of the palace was expected to arrive soon. It was well known—not only to the servants, but to all the villagers nearby. The news had thrown the servants into a frenzy of activity. The villagers, into a fearful withdrawal to their huts, for all save the most necessary chores.

  Frantic, now, the man in the woods. But there was no sign, except, perhaps, for the slightest tremor in his long, powerful fingers. He had hoped, he had prayed, he had spied, he had schemed—and now, he had run out of time.

  The man in the woods closed his eyes, briefly, controlling the frustration that seemed to burn him from inside like a raging fire. Frustration such as he had never experienced in his life. Frustration caused by one thing only.

  By one man only, actually. One man, and the others of his ilk whom he led.

  The panther opened his eyes. For the hundredth time—the thousandth time—his quick mind raced and raced, coursing over the same ground he had covered before, over and over again. And with the same result.

  It cannot be done. It just cannot be done. It would be pure futility to even try. They are simply too good. Especially—him.

  Him.

  The panther knew the man's name, of course. He had known it for weeks, almost since the day he had arrived at the palace. He had winkled it out of the villagers, and the servants who lived in the village, just as he had winkled out so many other things.

  It had not been difficult. Neither the villagers nor the servants had suspected anything. A friendly, cheerful man; addled in his brains, a bit—by horrible experiences, no doubt. Another hopeless refugee in a world of refugees, willing to do the occasional chore in exchange for what little food the villagers could spare; and conversation. Much conversation. A lonely man, obviously. Dim-witted, but harmless and pleasant. A bit of a blessing, actually, for village women who often found people unwilling to listen to their chatter.

  True, he was Maratha, not of their people. But the villagers held no allegiance to the Malwa. No, none at all. Nothing but fear, and a deeply hidden hatred. An escaped slave, most likely, although he bore no brand. Perhaps he escaped before branding. Instinctively, the villagers shielded him from prying eyes. Said nothing to the authorities.

  (And to whom would they have reported, anyway? The majordomo, like most of his ilk, was a petty tyrant. Best avoided at all costs. It was unthinkable for polluted castes such as comprised the villagers to approach the Mahaveda priests—and none but lunatics even looked at the mahamimamsa. The Rajputs ignored villagers as they would have ignored any other vermin. The Ye-tai would do likewise, unless, as often happened, they were in the mood for amusement—and woe to the man, much less the woman, who served as the object of their entertainment. Who, then? The Kushans, possibly. But the Kushans were preoccupied with their special duty, had neither the time nor the inclination to busy themselves with any other concerns. No, best to say nothing. He was just a harmless half-wit, after all, with grief enough to bear as it was.)

  Him. Yes, the panther knew his name, but never used it, not even in his own mind. Why bother? He was the central fact in the panther's life. Had been for weeks now. Who needed to give a name to the center of the universe?

  Him. That cursed, hated him.

  Oh, yes. Cursed, often—by a man who rarely cursed. Hated, deeply—by a man who did not come to hatred easily.

  But not despised, never. For the hatred was a peculiar kind of hatred, despite the raging depth of the emotion. The panther had never in his life hated
a man the way he hated him. Had never hated a man so terribly, wished for his destruction with such an aching, yearning passion; and, at the same time, found no fault in the man at all.

  Not even service to the Malwa, in the end. For the man had little choice in the matter. That the panther knew, with the knowledge of a great student of human affairs. History had condemned the man he hated, and his people, to vassalage. Their strength and skill in battle had recommended them to others. But they had not been strong enough, nor skilled enough, to decline the recommendation. And so, like many others before them—and others who would come after—they had bowed their stiff necks.

  No, it was for no fault of the man himself that the panther hated him. He was not personally responsible, nor had he done anything himself. Rather the contrary, suspected the panther. The treasure of his soul was unharmed, either in body or in spirit, despite her long captivity. He knew, for he had seen her, from a distance. Seen her many times. Always in the company of him. Him, and his men.

  She was not happy, of course. She was filled with her own hatred and despair, he knew. But he had also seen the way she looked at him. Not with friendship, no. But not with hatred, either, or with anger, or disgust, or contempt.

  And the panther had also seen, from a distance, the way he looked at her. It was not easy to read his emotions. He had a face as hard as iron, as cold as a stone. But the panther understood the man.

  In the end, perhaps, it was that understanding which filled the panther's heart with such a pure fury, like the very flame of God's heart. The panther hated him as he had never hated a man in his life. And knew, as well, that in another time, another place, another turn of the wheel, he would have treasured the man's soul.

  And then, suddenly, he was there. Emerging from the door of the palace, into the courtyard. After him filed the men under his command. The commander's subordinates were all members of his own people. Of the same clan of that people, in fact, the panther had learned. A tightly-knit band of veteran soldiers, sworn to their leader by oath, by blood, and by blooded experience.