by Eric Flint
"First, lad, don't worry about getting lost. The Kushan seems to know his way. Don't ask me how—I can't see a damn thing, either—but he does. And as for the other—be serious. When the Malwa get to the guardhouse and find the dead guards, they'll assume we continued on the road south. They'll never spot this little trail to the side. They'll charge right past it and keep going."
"We didn't cover our tracks."
Anastasius laughed scornfully.
"What tracks?" he demanded. "This downpour—this fucking Noah's flood—will wash away any tracks in less than a minute."
Menander was still unconvinced, but he fell silent. And then, half an hour later, when they finally emerged from the forest, admitted that his fears had been foolish.
Admitted, at least, to himself. He said nothing to Anastasius, and ignored with dignity the veteran's dimly-seen smile of vindication.
Once they emerged from the forest, they found themselves on another dirt road. (Mud road, rather.) They reversed directions completely, now, and headed north. After a mile, perhaps less, the road curved and began heading due west. Menander's fears resurfaced—new ones; he seemed to have a Pandora's box of them that night.
"Does Kadphises know where the hell we're going?"
The rain had eased off considerably. Enough that Menander's words carried forward. Kadphises' reply came immediately. The prologue to that reply was quick, curt, and very obscene. Thereafter, relenting, the Kushan deigned to explain.
"This road does not connect to the other until a small town fifty miles to the south. Nor does it go to Kausambi. It circles two sides of a swamp to our left, and from here will go due west for more than twenty miles. Before then, however, we will have turned south, again, on yet another road. By now, the Malwa will have no idea where we are. And, best of all, this road is not guarded. It is a peasants' road, only, not a merchant's route."
"Where will we meet Ousanas, and the other Kushans?" asked Eon.
Kadphises' shrug could barely be seen in the darkness.
"That is up to them, Prince. Kujulo knows what road we are taking. If he can find your hunter—or your hunter finds him—they will track us down. If your hunter is as good as you claim."
Eon's only reply was a grunt of satisfaction.
In the event, Ousanas did not have to track them down. Shortly after daybreak, many miles down the new road heading south, they came upon Ousanas. The hunter, along with Kujulo and the three other Kushans, were waiting for them by the side of road. Fast asleep—even reasonably dry, under the semi-shelter of a long-abandoned hut—except for one Kushan standing guard.
Valentinian was exceedingly disgruntled. Especially after he spotted the basket of food, with very little food left in it.
"You had time to eat, too?" he demanded crossly, climbing down from his horse.
Ousanas sat up, stretched his arms, grinned.
"Great cavalrymen move very slow," he announced. "I be shocked. Shocked. All illusions vanished."
Kujulo smiled. "You should try traveling with this one. Really, you should. He was already waiting for us when we made our break from the army camp. How the hell he got there so fast from the river, I'll never know. Especially with two baskets of food."
"Two baskets?" whined Valentinian.
"We saved one for you," said another of the Kushans, chuckling. "Ousanas insisted. He said if we didn't, Anastasius would never argue philosophy with him again."
"Certainly wouldn't," agreed the giant. "Except for simple precepts from Democritus. All matter can be reduced to atoms. Including Ousanas."
The cataphracts and the Ethiopians tore into the food. After their initial hunger was sated, Menander's youthful curiosity arose.
"What is this stuff?" he asked.
"Some of it is dried fish," replied Kujulo. "The rest is something else."
Menander, thinking it over, decided that he would leave it at that. The stuff didn't actually taste that bad, after all, even if he suspected "the rest" had once had far too many legs to suit a proper Thracian.
By the time the food was gone, the rain had finally stopped. Kujulo and another Kushan went into the woods and brought out their horses.
"Where'd you get the horses?" asked Valentinian.
Kujulo pointed to Ousanas.
"He had 'em. Don't ask me where he got them because I have no idea. I'm afraid to ask."
Valentinian shared no such fear.
"Where'd you get 'em?" he demanded again. Then, watching the ease with which Ousanas swung up into his saddle, complained: "I thought you didn't like horses."
"I detest the creatures," replied Ousanas cheerfully. "Horses, on the other hand, are very fond of me."
The hunter led off, to the south, called over his shoulder:
"This shows excellent judgement by both parties, don't you think?"
Somehow, in the hours that followed, as the band of soldiers cantered their way toward the far distant Deccan, Menander was not surprised to discover that Ousanas was as good a horseman as he'd ever seen.
At daybreak that same day, the captain of the Bengali detachment which guarded—so to speak; "huddled about" would be more accurate—the Lion Gate of Kausambi, waved a casual farewell to the nobleman and his retinue. After the last of the nobleman's escort and their women camp-followers had paraded past, down the eastern road to Pataliputra, he ordered the gate shut.
"Fine man," he said approvingly. "Wish all those Malwa snots were like him."
"How much?" asked his lieutenant.
The commander did not dissemble. His lieutenant was also his younger brother. Most of his detachment, in fact, was related to him. He extended his hand, palm open.
His brother's eyes widened.
"Send for our wives," commanded the captain. "Today, we will feast."
That same moment, Belisarius stalked through the Panther Gate, one of the western gates of Kausambi. The gate was poorly named, in truth. Small and ramshackle as it was, the "Alley Cat Gate" would have been a more suitable cognomen.
But, of course, that was why he had picked it.
On the way through, he terrorized another Malwa soldier. The man scuttled franctically away from the barbarian's threatening fist. He had no desire to end up like his sergeant, sprawled senseless on the ground.
Once he was through the gate, Belisarius turned, planted his fists on his hips, and bellowed:
"Next time, you dogs, when a Ye-tai tells you to open the gate, do so without argument!" He drew his sword. "Or next time I'll use this!"
He thrust the sword back in the scabbard, turned, and marched away. Behind him, he heard the gate screeching loudly. The hinges hadn't been greased properly, and the Malwa troops were in a great hurry to close it. A tearing great hurry.
The road Belisarius was taking was one of the newly refurbished roads which the Malwa had been constructing. This was no muddy peasant path. The road was fifteen feet wide, raised above the plain, properly leveed and paved with stone. It was a road even Romans would have been proud to call their own.
The road ran parallel to the north bank of the Jamuna River, a few miles to the south. The road led west by northwest until it reached the city of Mathura, some three hundred miles away. Belisarius had no intention of traveling as far as Mathura, however. Just north of Gwalior, the Chambal River branched to the southwest. About a hundred miles up the Chambal, in turn, the Banas River branched directly west. There were roads paralleling those rivers which would take him all the way to the ancient city of Ajmer, at the very northern tip of the Aravalli Mountains.
"Ajmer," he mused. "From there, I can either go south or west. But—I wonder . . ."
Again, he summoned Aide to his assistance. Aide had already provided him with all the geographic information he needed. Now—
Tell me about the royal couriers.
The rain had finally stopped. As he strode along, openly, right down the middle of the road, Belisarius continued the discussion with Aide until he reached his conclusion
s. Thereafter, he simply admired the dawn.
Might even get a rainbow, he thought cheerfully.
Chapter 16
DARAS
Summer 530 AD
Theodora arrived at the estate toward the end of summer. Her appearance came as a surprise—not the timing, but the manner of it.
"She's worried," muttered Antonina to Maurice, watching the Empress ride in to the courtyard. "Badly worried. I can think of nothing else that would make Theodora travel like this."
Maurice nodded. "I think you're right. I didn't even know she could ride a horse."
Antonina pressed her lips together. "You call that riding a horse?"
"Don't snicker, girl," whispered Maurice. "You didn't look any better, the first time you climbed into a saddle. At least Theodora doesn't look like she's going to fall off from a hangover. Not the way she's clutching the pommel."
Antonina maintained her dignity by ignoring that last remark altogether. She stepped forward to greet the Empress, extending her arms in a welcoming gesture.
Theodora managed to bring her horse to a halt, in a manner of speaking. The twenty cataphracts escorting her drew up a considerable distance behind. Respect for royalty, partly. Respect for a surly horse at the end of its patience, in the main.
"How do you get off this foul beast?" hissed the Empress.
"Allow me, Your Majesty," said Maurice. The hecatontarch came forward with a stool in his hand. He quieted the horse with a firm hand and a few gentle words. Then, after placing the stool, assisted the Empress in clambering down to safety.
Once on the ground, Theodora brushed herself off angrily.
"Gods—what a stink! Not you, Maurice. The filthy horse." The Empress glowered at her former mount. "They eat these things during sieges, I've heard."
Maurice nodded.
"Well, that's something to look forward to," she muttered.
Antonina took her by the arm and began leading the Empress into the villa. As she limped along, Theodora snarled:
"Not that there'll be many sieges in this coming war, the way things are going."
Antonina hesitated, then asked:
"That bad?"
"Worse," growled the Empress. "I tell you, Antonina, it shakes my faith sometimes, to think that man is created in God's image. Is it possible that the Almighty is actually a cretin? The evidence of his handiwork would suggest as much."
Antonina sighed.
"I take it Justinian is not listening to your warnings?"
Growl. "In His image, no less. A huge Justinian in the sky."
Growl. "Think of a gigantic babbling idiot."
Growl. "Creation was His drool."
Later, after a lavish meal, Theodora's spirits improved.
She lifted her wine cup in salutation.
"I congratulate you, Maurice," she said. "You have succeeded in bringing the provincial tractator to the brink of death. By apoplexy."
Maurice grunted. "Still peeved, is he, about the taxes?"
"He complained to me for hours, from the moment I got off the ship. This large estate represents quite a bit for him in the way of lost income, you know. Mostly, though, he's agitated about the tax collectors."
Maurice said nothing beyond a noncommittal: "Your Majesty."
Smiling, the Empress shook her head.
"You really shouldn't have beaten them quite so badly. They were only doing their job, after all."
"They were not!" snapped Antonina. "This estate is legally exempt from the general indiction, and they know it perfectly well!"
"So it is," agreed Cassian. "Res privata, technically. Part of—"
Theodora waved him down.
"Please, Bishop! Since when has a provincial tractator cared about the picayune details of an estate's legal tax status? Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Let them complain to Constantinople. By the time the bureaucrats get around to ruling on the matter, everyone'll be dead of old age anyhow."
Maurice nodded sagely. "Quite nicely put, Your Majesty. Those are indeed the usual tactics of tractators."
He took a sip of his wine. "Excellent tactics. Provided you pick the right sponge."
Theodora shook her head. "Which does not, I assume, include an estate inhabited by several hundred Thracian cataphracts?"
Maurice cleared his throat. "Actually, Your Majesty—no. I would recommend against it. Especially when those cataphracts have secrets to keep hidden from the prying eyes of tax collectors."
Theodora now beamed upon the Bishop. Again, she raised her cup in salutation.
"And a toast to you as well, Anthony Cassian! I do not believe any Bishop in the history of the Church has ever before actually caused a Patriarch to foam at the mouth while describing him."
Cassian smiled beatifically. "I'm sure you're exaggerating, Your Majesty. Patriarch Ephraim is a most dignified individual." Then, slyly: "Did he really?"
Theodora nodded. Cassian's expression became smug. "Well, that certainly places me in august company. It's not actually true, you know. That I'd be the first. The great John Chrysostom caused any number of Patriarchs to foam at the mouth."
Antonina smiled at the exchange. Until she remembered the fate of John Chrysostom. Around the table, as others remembered also, the smiles faded like candles extinguished at the end of evening.
"Yes," said the Empress of Rome. "Dark night is falling on us. May we live to see the morning."
Theodora set down her cup, still almost full.
"I've had enough," she said. "I suggest you all go lightly on the wine. We've a long night ahead of us."
For all its politeness, the suggestion was an imperial command. All wine cups clinked on the table, almost in unison. Almost—Sittas took the time to hastily drain his cup before setting it down.
"Justinian will not listen to me," began the Empress. "I might as well be talking to a stone wall." Growl. "I'd rather talk to a stone wall. At least a stone wall wouldn't pat me on the head and say it's taking my words under advisement."
She sighed. "The only ones he listens to are John of Cappadocia and Narses. Both of them, needless to say, are encouraging him in his folly. And assuring him that his wife is fretting over nothing."
For a moment, she looked away. Her face was like a mask, from the effort of fighting down the tears.
"It's Narses' words that do the real damage," she whispered. "Justinian's never actually had too many illusions about the Cappadocian. He tolerates John because the man's such an efficient tax collector, but he doesn't trust him. Never has."
"He's too efficient," grumbled Sittas. "His tax policy is going to ruin everyone in Rome except the imperial treasury."
"I don't disagree with you, Sittas." The Empress sighed. "Neither does Justinian, actually. It's one of the many ironies about the man. Rome's never had an Emperor who spends so much time and energy seeing to it that taxes are fairly apportioned among the population, and then ruins all his efforts by imposing a tax burden so high it doesn't matter whether it's evenly spread or not."
Theodora waved her hand.
"But let's not get into that. There's no point in it. My husband's tax policy stems from the same source as his religious policy. Both are bad—and he knows it—but both are required by his fixed obsession to reintegrate the barbarian West into the Roman Empire. That's all he sees. Even Persia barely exists on his horizon. The Malwa are utterly irrelevant."
Bishop Cassian spoke.
"There's no hope, then, of Justinian putting a stop to the persecution of Monophysites?"
Theodora shook her head.
"None. He doesn't encourage it, mind. But he resolutely looks the other way and refuses to answer any complaints sent in by provincial petitioners. All that matters to him is the approval of orthodoxy. Their blessing on his coming invasion of the western Mediterranean."
Antonina spoke, harshly.
"I assume, if he's listening to John and Narses—especially the Cappadocian—that also means Belisarius is still under imperial suspici
on."
Theodora' smile was wintry. "Oh, not at all, Antonina. Quite the contrary. John and Narses have been fulsome in your husband's praise. To the point of gross adulation. It's almost as if they know—"
She stopped, cast a hard eye on Antonina.
The sound of Sittas' meaty hand slapping the table was startling.
"Ha! Yes!" he cried. "He's tricked the bastards!" He seized his cup, poured it full. "That calls for a drink!"
"What are you babbling about, Sittas?" demanded the Empress.
The general smiled at her around the rim of his wine cup. For a moment, his face disappeared as he quaffed half the wine in a single gulp. Then, wiping his lips with approval:
"If they're so resolute in advancing Belisarius at court, Your Majesty—you know how much John of Cappadocia hates him—that can only mean they have information about him which we don't. And that—"
The rest of the wine disappeared.
"—can only be a report from India that Belisarius is planning treason against Rome."
He beamed around the room. Reached for the wine bottle.
"That calls for a—"
"Sittas!" exploded the Empress.
The general looked pained. "Just one little drink, Your Majesty. What's the harm in—"
"Why is this cause for celebration?"
"Oh. That." Cheerfully, Sittas resumed his wine-pouring. "That's obvious, Your Majesty. If they've heard news from India—and I can't see any other interpretation—that tells us two things. First, Belisarius is alive. Second, he's doing his usual thorough job of butt-fu—outwitting the enemy."
Again, he saluted everyone with an upturned cup.
"How are you so sure the report isn't true?" grated the Empress.
By the time Sittas replaced his cup on the table, his cheerfulness had given way to serenity.
"Worry about something else, Your Majesty," he said. "Worry that the sun will start rising in the west. Worry that fish will sing and birds will grow scales." He snorted derisively. "If you really insist on fretting over fantasy, worry that I'll start drinking water and do calisthenics early in the morning. But don't worry about Belisarius committing treason."
