In the Heart of Darkness

by Eric Flint

Apparently satisfied that he had shaken off any pursuit, the Roman had slowed his pace considerably since leaving Ajmer. Sanga, again, thought the Pathan was being unreasonable. True, Belisarius was being careless. But, at the same time, allowances had to be made. He was only human, after all. The Roman had set himself a brutal pace for weeks. It was not surprising that he would finally take a bit of rest.

  Not surprising, no, and hardly something for which a man could be condemned. But it was still a mistake, and, under the circumstances, quite fatal.

  In less than two days, they brought Belisarius to bay.

  By late afternoon of the following day, the lead tracker spotted him. Not five miles ahead, already making camp for the night.

  The Rajput officers held a hurried conference. Sanga's lieutenants argued for surrounding the Roman's camp and attacking that very night.

  Sanga would have none of it.

  "Not him," he stated firmly. "Not that man, at night. First, he might make his escape in the darkness."

  He held up his hand, forestalling Udai's protest.

  "That's unlikely, I admit. What I'm more worried about is that we'd be forced to kill him. I want him alive. It may not be possible, but if there's any chance at all it will be by daylight. In a night attack, with its confusion, there'd be no chance at all."

  He glanced up at the sky. The eastern horizon was already purple.

  "And there's no need. He's making camp, so he's not going anywhere. We'll use the night to surround him, quietly."

  A hard eye on his lieutenants. "Quietly." They nodded.

  Sanga stared south.

  "At dawn, we bring him down."

  The Pathan himself brought Belisarius down. The tracker didn't even bother to stun him. He simply pounced on the Roman general, still wrapped up in his roll—half an hour after daybreak, lazy sheep!—by the embers of a small campfire—a campfire on the run, idiot beast!—jerked him up by the hair. Then, with his knife, sliced the Roman's cheek. A gash, no more, just enough to mark his man.

  Quickquick, and the Pathan stepped away.

  The Roman general staggered to his feet, shrieking. He clutched his cheek with both hands. Blood from the wound spurt through the fingers. He took two steps, stumbled, fell on his belly across the campfire. Then thrashed aside, shrieking more loudly still. Lurched to his feet, beating away the embers with his bloody hands.

  The Pathan had had enough.

  He strode forward and sent the Roman back on his belly with a vicious, stamping kick. Then he sprang upon him, jerked his head up by the hair, and manhandled him to his knees.

  "Here you great general, Sanga King," he said contemptuously. He cuffed the Roman, silencing a squawl.

  Rana Sanga stared down at Belisarius. Stared up at the Pathan holding him by the hair. The tracker was grinning savagely.

  Stared down at Belisarius. The general was gasping like a fish, eyes glazed.

  Stared back at the Pathan. Down at Belisarius.

  "Who in the hell is that?" snarled Jaimal.

  Stared down at that. Up at the Pathan.

  "I've never seen this man before in my life," he told the tracker quietly.

  It was almost worth it, then, for Rana Sanga. After all those years, finally, to see the Pathan gape. Like an idiot beast.

  "I'm just a poor peddler," whined the man, for the hundredth time. He moaned, pressing the bandage against his cheek. Moaned:

  "My name is—"

  "Shut up!" snarled Udai. "We know your name! What we want to know is where did you get the horses?"

  The peddler stared up at the Rajput. Finally, something beyond squawling terror and babbling self-pity entered his mind.

  Avarice.

  "They're my horses!" he squealed. "You can't—"

  "Shut up!" bellowed Udai. "Just shut up!"

  Rana Sanga put a restraining hand on Udai's shoulder. His lieutenant's fury was just frightening the man senseless.

  The Rajput king squatted, bringing his eyes level with those of the bloody-faced man sprawled in the dirt.

  "Listen to me, peddler," he said quietly. Quietly, but very firmly. The peddler fell silent.

  "My name is Rana Sanga."

  The peddler's eyes widened. He was not Rajput, but he traded in Rajputana. He knew the name. Knew it well.

  "We will take your horses." Quiet, iron words.

  The peddler opened his mouth, began to squawl.

  "Those horses were stolen from the royal courier service. To possess them is to be condemned to death. Impaled."

  The peddler's mouth clamped shut. His eyes bulged.

  Sanga raised his hand reassuringly.

  "Have no fear. We have no interest in your execution. If you serve us well, we may even repay you for the loss of the horses."

  Partly, he thought, watching the avarice leap back into the peddler's eyes. Whatever you paid for them. Which, I am quite certain, is much less than what they are worth. I think I am beginning to understand what that—that—fiend—

  He took a deep breath.

  No. What that fiendish mind has done here.

  He glanced to the side. Thirty feet away, his Pathan tracker was holding up one of the horse's legs, examining the hoof. Very carefully.

  Sanga turned back to the peddler.

  "But now, man, you must tell me—very quickly, very simply, very clearly—how you got the horses."

  "He was a Ye-tai," gasped out the peddler. Then, in a sudden rush of words:

  "A deserter from the imperial bodyguard, I think. I'm not sure—I didn't ask!—not a Ye-tai—but. I think. I saw part of a uniform. Gold and red. He was on the run, I think. Had nothing but those fine horses, and seemed desperate to get out of Ajmer. So he—he—"

  Suddenly, amazingly, the peddler burst into laughter. "Idiot Ye-tai! Stupid barbarian! He had no idea what those horses we're worth—none, I tell you! In the end—it only took me two hours of haggling—I traded them for three camels, some blankets, and a tent. Food. Maybe fifty pounds of water. Two big tureens full. And five bottles of wine. Cheap wine." Howling, howling. "Fucking idiot! Fucking savage!"

  Sanga slapped the man's ear. "Silence."

  The peddler's hysterical laughter stopped instantly. His faced turned pale.

  "And what else?" grated Sanga. "There would have been something else."

  The peddler's expression was a weird conglomeration of astonishment, fear, greed. Fear.

  "How did you know?" he whispered.

  "I know that—Ye-tai," replied Sanga quietly. "He would not have simply sent you on your way. He would have made sure you came this way. How?"

  Fear. Greed. Fear.

  "Show me."

  It was one of the Emperor's emeralds.

  A small emerald, very small, by imperial standards. Probably the least of the jewels which Belisarius had with him. But it had been a fortune to the peddler. Enough to send him off to Bharakuccha, with the promise of a matching emerald if he delivered the message to the proper party.

  Who?

  A Greek merchant. A ship captain.

  His name? The name of the ship?

  Jason. The Argo.

  Show me the message.

  Rana Sanga could read Greek, but only poorly. It did not matter. Most of the message was mathematics, and that he understood quite well. (India was the home of mathematics. Centuries later, Europeans would abandon Roman numerals and adopt a new, cunning arithmetic. They would call them "Arabic numerals," because they got them from the Arabs. But they had been invented in India.)

  So he was able to understand the message, well enough.

  Finally, in the end, a king of Rajputana could not restrain himself. He began laughing like a madman.

  "What is it?" asked Jaimal, when Sanga's howling humor abated.

  "It's a theorem," he said, weakly. "By some Greek named Pythagoras. It explains how to calculate angles."

  The Pathan rose from his examination of the horse's hoof and stalked over.

  "Not cut by sto
ne on road. Knife cut. Done by meant-to purpose."

  Sanga had already deduced as much.

  "Exactly." He smiled, stroking his beard. "He knew we would spot the mark. And that, after weeks of following it, would stop thinking about anything else. So he switched in Ajmer, sent us charging off south while he drives straight across the Thar on camelback."

  He glanced at the peddler, still ashen-faced.

  "Three camels," he mused. "Enough to carry him—and his food and water—across the desert without stopping."

  He rose to his feet. It was a sure, decisive movement.

  "We'll never catch him now. By the time we got back to Ajmer and set off in pursuit he'd have at least eight days lead on us. With three camels and full supplies he'll move faster than we possibly could across that wasteland."

  His lieutenants glared, but did not argue. They knew he was right. Five hundred expert cavalrymen can eventually outrun a single horseman, even with remounts. But not across the Thar.

  That was camel country. There probably weren't five hundred camels available in Ajmer, to begin with. And even if there were—

  Rajputs were not expert camel drivers.

  "Stinking camels," grumbled Udai.

  "Can't stand the fucking things," agreed Pratap.

  "Good meat," stated the Pathan. The Rajputs glowered at him. The tracker was oblivious. His mind was elsewhere.

  "So we give up, then?" asked Jaimal.

  Sanga shook his head.

  "No, we don't. But we'll not try chasing after the Roman again. Instead—"

  He held up the message.

  "We'll take his advice. Angles. Maybe—just maybe—we can make better time by taking two sides of the triangle while he takes one. We'll head for Bharakuccha—as fast as our horses can carry us. At Bharakuccha we'll requisition a ship—several ships—and sail north to Barbaricum. That's where he's headed, I'm sure of it."

  He strode for his horse.

  "We might be able to meet him there. Let's go!"

  That night, by the campfire, the Pathan finally broke the silence he had maintained for hours.

  "After adopt, make him clan chief. No. Make him king. First Pathan king ever." He grinned at the Rajputs over the flickering flames. "Then Pathan conquer world entire whole." A gracious nod to Sanga. "You was good master. When you my slave, I be good master too."

  Three days later, as the Aravallis rolled by on their right, Jaimal leaned over his saddle and snarled to Sanga:

  "If that Pathan keeps telling that same joke, I swear I'm going to kill him."

  "Jaimal," the Rajput king replied, coldly. "He is not joking."

  Chapter 22

  Rao was amused by the reluctance with which his young men obeyed orders. His lieutenant Maloji was not.

  "You're too easy on them, Rao," he complained. His words came easily, despite the fact that he and the Panther were racing along the steep slope of a ridge, just below the skyline. On the other side of that ridge, they could hear the roar of battle. The clash of steel was fading, slowly. The angry shouts of Malwa officers were not.

  "Here," said Rao. He scrambled up the slope, flinging himself to the ground just before reaching the crest. Maloji followed. On their bellies, the two men crawled to the crest itself, and peered over into the small valley below.

  "You see?" hissed Maloji accusingly. He pointed angrily, with a bristling thrust of his beard. "Some of the disobedient dogs are still even using their swords."

  "Only two," murmured Rao. He watched while the two young Marathas below finished cutting down a Malwa soldier before they began their own scramble up the slope on the opposite side. On the crest of that ridge, a line of guerillas was firing arrows into the swarming Malwa troops below.

  "They are brothers, you know. One of them probably got tangled up and the other came to his rescue."

  "Still—"

  "Do not fret, Maloji. They will learn discipline soon enough." Grimly: "After they sustain heavy casualties from excessive enthusiasm."

  He broke off, gauging the Malwa. The officers were finally bringing order back to their little army. At their command, ranks of soldiers began slogging up the slope. They suffered considerable losses from the arrows raining down on them, but their advance was inexorable. The Malwa had tried to cram too many soldiers down the narrow valley—not much more than a ravine. Those packed ranks made an easy, slow target for ambush, but, once they began their counter-attack, were far too massive to be repelled.

  "They should break off now, the dogs!" snarled Maloji. "Your orders were very clear!"

  Rao did not argue the point. He had, in fact, ordered his men to fire no more than two volleys after the Malwa began their counter-attack. The guerrillas should already have been retreating. Instead, the young Maratha rebels waited until the Malwa were halfway up the slope before they finally scrambled away.

  Rao turned, and edged his way down the slope. Maloji followed, still grumbling.

  "You shouldn't have given them those horses. That's why they're so bold. Disrespectful young dogs. They think those horses can outrun anything."

  Now well below the skyline, Rao stood up. He grinned at his lieutenant. "Those horses can outrun anything. Anything these sorry Malwa have. The best horses foreign money could buy!"

  Maloji rose and brushed himself off. "Fine steeds, I admit," he agreed reluctantly. "They were a wonderful gift."

  "I think of it as an exchange," demurred Rao. He looked to the west. He could not see Bharakuccha, of course. The great port was many miles away, hidden behind the Satpura mountains. "They gave us the horses, we gave them the opportunity."

  "Will they make their escape, do you think?"

  Rao shrugged. "I should imagine. We stopped the couriers, and we've been"—a gesture toward the ridge; a wide grin—"distracting the Malwa."

  He turned and began loping toward the dell where their own horses were hidden away. Speaking easily, despite the rigorous pace, he said over his shoulder:

  "As I told you before, Maloji, those men are capable."

  Capability was unneeded. The escape, at the end, was child's play.

  Garmat simply marched across the ramp connecting the Axumite trader with the wharf, and presented himself to the captain. Before he had even reached the man, the captain was goggling.

  "Stop looking like a frog, Endubis," he growled.

  The captain gaped.

  "And close your mouth, fool. Spies may see you."

  Endubis' mouth snapped shut. The captain glanced hurriedly at the shore, scanning for danger with an experienced eye.

  Like all Ethiopian merchant captains, Endubis was no stranger to combat. Such merchants served as a reserve for the Kingdom of Axum's navy. No seaman could reach the rank of ship captain, even in the merchant fleet, without the negusa nagast's approval. For all their relaxed customs in other areas of life, the Axumites were never casual about their naval power.

  "Trouble?" asked Endubis.

  Garmat smiled, thinly. "You might say so. The entire Malwa Empire is baying for our blood."

  Endubis winced. "The Prince?"

  "He is well." Garmat made a little gesture with his head. "In that warehouse. With his dawazz and the sarwen. Some others."

  The adviser examined the ship briefly. "Thirteen men, in all. It will be crowded, but—"

  "We'll manage," muttered Endubis. The captain turned and began bellowing orders. His seamen immediately scurried about the ship, preparing for departure.

  "I wish you'd gotten here tomorrow," Endubis grumbled. "I'd have a cargo, then. I hate sailing empty. Surest way I know to poverty."

  Garmat grinned. "Not so, Endubis. An empty ship will make a fast trip, and we'll not be too crowded. As for poverty—" His hand dipped into a pouch, came out, spread wide.

  The captain, again, was goggling like a frog.

  "You'll accept Malwa coin, I assume?" murmured Garmat. "Oh, and look! I believe there's even a ruby here. No—three rubies."

  On the way out
of Bharakuccha's harbor, a Malwa vessel hailed them and tried to come alongside.

  "Ignore it," commanded the Prince. "Sail on."

  The captain glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "That'll make it hard on the next Axumite trader," he pointed out.

  Eon shrugged. "There won't be any `next Axumite trader.' We are at war, now, with Malwa."

  The captain sighed. "Ah. Too bad. It was good business."

  The officer in the bow of the Malwa ship hailed them again. His voice sounded angry.

  "You can outsail them?" demanded Eon.

  Endubis sneered. "That Malwa tub?" He disdained any further answer, beyond the orders he shouted at his seamen.

  An hour later, the officer commanding the Malwa vessel broke off the pursuit.

  He was practically gibbering.

  Some of his rage was due to the superior seaworthiness of the Ethiopian ship. Most of it was due to the bare black ass hanging over the stern of the Axumite vessel, defecating. And the great, gleaming grin on the face above it.

  * * *

  A week later, in the port at Tamralipti on India's opposite coast, another Malwa naval officer grinned with sheer delight. As well he should. He had made more money that day than in the previous three months put together.

  His lieutenant was grinning, too. His own cut of the nobleman's bribe was enough for a lavish spree in the Bay of Bengal's most notorious harbor district.

  The lieutenant gestured with his head toward the merchant ship which was even now passing the harbor's breakwater.

  "Should we notify Murshid and his men? There's a fortune in that nobleman's chests. And his wife's young. Pretty, too, probably. She and the other women would bring a good price."

  The commanding officer stroked his beard, considering the question. He and his officers made a tidy profit, on the side, selling information on lucrative targets to the local pirates.

  He did not ponder the matter for very long.

  "No," he said firmly. "Not with that escort."

  "There weren't more than thirty of them," argued his lieutenant. "Murshid can muster three ships, with over a hundred—"

  The commander glared.

  "A hundred what?" he snarled. "Three-to-one odds, you're talking about—four-to-one, at best. Murshid's rascals against—those?"