In the Heart of Darkness b-2

by Eric Flint

  Very evil grins, those cataphracts possessed.

  "Oh, yes," murmured Maurice. "Now your training begins in earnest. Forget all that silly showpiece stuff for the Empress."

  He resumed his pacing. "I will begin by introducing you to the First Law of Battle. This law can be stated simply. Every battle plan gets fucked up as soon as the enemy arrives. That's why he's called the enemy."

  He stopped, turned, smiled cheerfully.

  "Your own plans just got fucked up."

  Grinned ear to ear.

  "I have arrived."

  Yes, the grins disappeared from their faces. But the smile in the hearts of those young peasants did not. Not ever, in the weeks which followed, for all the many curses which they bestowed upon Maurice. (Behind his back, needless to say.)

  No, not once. The young Syrians were not foolish. Not even the men, and certainly not their wives. Uneducated and illiterate, yes. Stupid, no. For all their pleasure in their new-found status, they had never really thought it was anything but a serious business.

  They were a practical folk. Serious business, they understood. And they had their own peasant estimate of serious folk.

  Antonina was a joy; the Empress had been a pleasure. Sittas was a fine magnanimous lord; Cassian the very archetype of a true bishop.

  And Michael, of course, a prophet on earth.

  But it was time for serious business, now. Peasant work. And so, though they never grinned, Syrian peasants took no offense-and lost no heart-from the abuse of Thracians.

  Farm boys, themselves, at bottom, those Thracian cataphracts. Peasants, nothing better.

  Just very, very tough peasants.

  And so, as summer became autumn, and as autumn turned to winter-

  — a general and his allies fought to escape Malwa's talons,

  — an Empress watched an empire unravel in Constantinople,

  — conspirators plotted everywhere-

  And a few hundred peasants and their wives toiled under the Syrian sun. Doing what peasants do best, from the experience of millenia.

  Toughening.

  Chapter 17

  North India

  Summer 530 AD

  When they came upon the third massacre, Rana Sanga had had enough.

  "This is madness," he snarled. "The Roman is doing it to us again."

  His chief lieutenant, Jaimal, tore his eyes away from the bloody corpses strewn on both sides of the road. There were seven bodies there, in addition to the three soldiers they had found lying in the guardhouse itself. All of them were common soldiers, and all of them had been slaughtered like so many sheep. Judging from the lack of blood on any of the weapons lying nearby, Jaimal did not think the soldiers had inflicted a single wound on their assailants. Most of them, he suspected, had not even tried. At least half had been slain while trying to flee.

  "What are you talking about?" he asked.

  "This-idiocy." Sanga glared. "No, I take that back. This is not idiocy. Not at all. This is pure deception."

  His lieutenant frowned. "I don't understand-"

  "It's obvious, Jaimal! The whole point of this massacre-like the first two, and the attack on the army camp-is simply to lead us in pursuit."

  Seeing the lack of comprehension on Jaimal's face, Sanga reined in his temper. He did not, however, manage to refrain from sighing with exasperation.

  "Jaimal, ask yourself some simple questions. Why did the Romans kill these men? Why are they going out of their way to take roads which lead past guardhouses? Why, having done so, do they take the time to attack the guardhouses instead of sneaking around them? You know as well as I do that these"-he jabbed a finger at the corpses-"sorry sons-of-bitches wouldn't move out of their guardhouses unless they were forced to. Finally, why did they attack the army camp in Kausambi on the night they fled?"

  Silence. Frown of incomprehension. Sanga finally exploded.

  "You idiot! The Romans are doing everything possible to lead us in this direction? Why, damn you-why?"

  Jaimal's gape would have been comical, if Sanga had been in a humorous mood.

  "Belisarius-isn't-isn't with them," he stammered. "He fled a different way."

  "Congratulations," growled Sanga. He reined his horse around.

  "Gather up the men. We're going back."

  Jaimal frowned. "But it's a three-day ride back to Kausambi. And we were ordered-"

  "Damn the orders! I'll deal with Tathagata. And what if it is a three day ride? We've already lost four days on this fool's errand. By the time we get back-assuming I can talk sense into the Malwa-Belisarius will have at least a week's lead on us. Would you rather extend it further?"

  He jabbed an angry finger to the south. "How many more days do you want to chase after the Roman general's underlings? I doubt if we can catch them anyway. The Pathans say they've already gained a day on us. They're covering as much distance in three days as we can in four. And even have time for this"-another angry finger jabbed at the corpses-"along the way."

  Jaimal nodded. Large Rajput cavalry units such as their own always kept a handful of Pathan irregulars with them. The barbarians were an indisciplined nuisance, most of the time, but they were unexcelled trackers.

  "How are they traveling so fast?" wondered Jaimal.

  Sanga shrugged. "They've got remounts, for one thing, which we don't. And they must have the best horses in creation. We may never know, but I'd be willing to wager a year's income that Belisarius managed to buy the best horses he could find, in the months he's been in India. And hide them away somewhere."

  Then, with a tone like steel:

  "And now, Jaimal, do as I command. Gather up the men. We're heading back."

  Beyond a point, none of Sanga's subordinates would argue with him. That point had been reached, Jaimal knew, and he immediately obeyed his instructions.

  His chief subordinates, Udai and Pratap, privately expressed their reservations to him. Those reservations, in the main, centered around their fear of the Malwa reaction when they returned to Kausambi. But, now that their course was set, Jaimal would no more tolerate dissent than would Sanga himself.

  "And besides," he growled, "no one will miss us here anyway. There must be forty thousand troops beating these plains. A third of them Rajput cavalry, and another third Ye-tai horsemen. Five hundred of us will make no difference."

  "True enough," grunted Udai. "As good as the Roman horses are-and with remounts-only royal couriers could move faster."

  "They've been sent, haven't they?" asked Pratap.

  Jaimal shrugged irritably. "Do I know? Since when does Emperor Skandagupta take me into his confidence? But I assume so. By now, I imagine, couriers have been dispatched to every port on the Erythrean Sea, alerting the garrisons."

  His own tone of voice, now, was a duplicate of Sanga's:

  "And that's enough. Do as you've been told."

  Couriers had been sent, in point of fact. Just as Jaimal expected-to every port on the Erythrean Sea. The couriers were expert horsemen, riding the very finest steeds. They did not bring remounts with them, however. Instead, they changed horses at the relay stations which the Malwa maintained at regular intervals along all of the principal roads in the Empire. These relay stations were small affairs, in the Gangetic plain, not much more than a barn or corral attached to a small barracks housing a squad of four soldiers.

  The courier to Barbaricum was one of three who had been sent down the road to Mathura. Mathura was not itself the destination of any of them. All three, long before they reached Mathura, would take the various branching routes which led to Barbaricum, the small ports in the Kathiawar, and the northern end of the Gulf of Khambat.

  The courier to the Gulf of Khambat had left first, the day after Belisarius' escape. The Malwa were certain that the general and his underlings were fleeing back to Bharakuccha. They placed their top priority on sending off couriers to cover the entire Gulf. The couriers headed for the Kathiawar and Barbaricum had departed a few hours later, almo
st as an afterthought.

  At first, the two men had traveled together. But, after a time, the courier destined for the Kathiawar had pulled ahead. He was new to the royal courier service, and full of his own self-importance. His companion was glad to see him go, with the relief felt by seasoned veterans the world over at being rid of the company of irritating apprentice twits. The veteran courier saw no reason to match the youth's extravagant haste. Why bother? Everyone knew the Romans had gone south, not west.

  By the time he reached the relay station at the end of his first day's ride, the courier was in a thoroughly foul mood. Disgust, leavened by a heavy dose of self-pity. Barbaricum, his ultimate destination, was the very westernmost port of any significance in the Malwa Empire. It lay even beyond the Indus River-almost a thousand miles from Kausambi, as the crow flies.

  The courier, of course, was not a crow. He would be forced to travel at least half again that distance before he reached his destination. Along poor roads, most of the way, and through the blistering heat of Rajputana. He would even have to pass through a portion of the Thar, India's worst desert. A long, miserable, hot journey-and with nothing to look forward to at the end except India's worst port. The courier detested Barbaricum. It was a mongrel city, half of whose population were foreign barbarians. And the Indians who lived there were not much better, having long since adapted to the customs of heathen outlanders.

  So, as he dismounted from his horse in front of the relay station, the courier was feeling very sorry for himself. His sorrow turned to outrage when no soldier emerged from the barracks to assist him in removing his saddle.

  The courier stalked over to the barracks door and shouldered his way through without so much as knocking.

  "Just what the fuck do you-"

  The sword went a quarter-inch into his chest. Not a mortal wound, painful as it was, not even a particularly bloody one. But the courier could feel the steel tip grating against his chestbone. And the hand which held that sword was as steady as a rock.

  The courier's eyes began with that hand, and followed the length of the sword to the place where it disappeared into his chest. Everything else was a blur.

  In a frozen daze, the courier heard a voice. He did not make out the words. The sword-tip jabbed against his sternum, pressing him back against the doorframe. He stared down at it, transfixed by the sight.

  The words were repeated. Hindi words. Their meaning finally penetrated.

  "Are there any more couriers coming after you?"

  He understood, but couldn't speak. Another jab.

  "What?" he gasped. Another jab.

  "N-no," he stammered.

  The sword went straight through his chest, as if driven by a sledgehammer. The courier slumped to his knees. In the few seconds remaining in his life, his eyes finally focussed on the barracks as a whole.

  His first reaction was confusion. Why were his two courier companions still here? And why were they lying on top of a pile of soldiers?

  His vision began to fade.

  They're all dead, he realized.

  His last sight was the face of the young courier who had accompanied him on the first part of his journey. The sight amused him, vaguely. The vainglorious little snot looked like a frog, what with that open mouth and those bulging eyes.

  His vision failed. His last thought, very vague, was the realization that he had never actually seen the man who had killed him. Just his hand. A large, powerful, sinewy hand.

  A hundred miles east of Kausambi, near Sarnath, an innkeeper was almost beside himself with joy. He drove his wife, his children, and his servants mercilessly.

  "The best food!" he exclaimed again, and, again, cuffed his wife. "The very best! I warn you-if the noble folk complain, I will beat you. They are very rich, and will be generous if they are pleased."

  His wife scurried to obey, head bent. His children and servants did likewise. All of them were terrified of the innkeeper. When times were bad-as they usually were-the innkeeper was a sullen, foul-tempered, brutal tyrant. When times were good, he was even worse. Avarice simply added an edge to his cruelty.

  So, for all the members of that household except the innkeeper himself, the next twelve hours passed like a slow-moving nightmare.

  At first, they were terrified that the nobleman and his wife would find the food displeasing. But that fear did not materialize. The noblewoman said nothing-quite properly, especially for a wife so much younger than her husband-but the nobleman was most effusive in his praise.

  Unfortunately, the nobleman added a bonus for the excellence of the meal. The innkeeper's greed soared higher. In the kitchen, he buffeted his family and his servants, urging them to make haste. The nobleman and his wife had gone to bed, along with the wife's ladies, but their large escort of soldiers had to be fed also. Not the best food, of course, but not so bad that they would complain to their master. And plenty of it!

  The terror of the household mounted. The soldiers were a vicious looking crew. Some sort of barbarians. There were a great number of them, with only three women camp followers. The innkeeper's oldest daughter and the two servant girls were petrified at the thought of entering the common rooms where the soldiers were staying the night. Their mother and one of the elderly servants, whose haggard appearance would shield them, tried to bring the food to the soldiers. But the innkeeper slapped his wife, and commanded the young women to do the chore. Anything to please the soldiers, lest they complain of inhospitality to their master.

  That terror, too, proved baseless. For all their fearsome appearance, the soldiers did not behave improperly. Indeed, they were rather polite.

  So, after the soldiers finished their meal and lay down on their pallets, the innkeeper beat his daughter and the two servant girls. They had obviously been rude to the soldiers, or they would have been importuned.

  The final terror, which kept the entire household awake through the night, was for the next morning. When the nobleman and his party left, he might not give the innkeeper as large a bonus as the innkeeper was expecting. The terror grew as the long hours passed. The innkeeper's expectations waxed by the hour, as he stayed awake himself through the night, in avid consideration of his pending fortune. By the break of dawn, the innkeeper had convinced himself that he was on the verge of receiving a preposterous bonus. When the actual bonus which materialized was far beneath that absurd expectation, his family and his servants knew that he would be savage.

  Yet, that terror also vanished. The bonus which the innkeeper received-to everyone's astonishment, even his own-was, by their standards, enormous.

  And so, in the end, the sojourn of the unknown nobleman proved to be a blessing for that household. The innkeeper's greed, of course, would soon enough add to their misery. Neither his wife, nor his children, nor his servants doubted that in the least. The innkeeper would expect a similar bonus from the occasional noble customer in the future. And, when that bonus did not appear, would brutalize his household.

  But that was a problem for the future. Neither his wife, nor his children, nor his servants were given to worrying about the future. The present was more than dark enough. And, thankfully, they would enjoy a rare respite from the ever-present fear in their lives. The innkeeper, awash in his sudden wealth, indulged himself in a drunken stupor for the next three days.

  Every night, as she watched him soddenly sleeping, his wife thought of poisoning him. It was her principal entertainment in life. Over the years, she had determined eighteen different toxins she could use. At least five of those would leave no trace of suspicion.

  But, as always, the amusement paled after a time. There was no point in poisoning him. She would be required-by law, now-to immolate herself on his funeral pyre. Her children and her servants would fare little better. The innkeeper had long ago sunk into hopeless debt to the local potentates. Upon his death, that debt would come due, immediately and in its entirety. By law, now, all lower-caste households were responsible for the debts of the family head, u
pon his death. They would not be able to pay those debts. The inn would be seized. The servants would be sold into slavery. The children, being twice-born rather than untouchable, could not be made slaves due to debt. They would simply starve, or be forced to turn themselves to unthinkable occupations.

  By the end of the innkeeper's binge, three days later, his wife hardly remembered the nobleman who had given her that brief respite from fear. Her mind had wandered much farther back in time, to the days of her youth. Better days, she remembered-or, at least, thought she did. Though not as good as the days of her mother, and her grandmother, judging from the tales she half-remembered from her childhood. The days when suttee was only expected from rich widows-noblewomen desirous to prove their piety, and with no need to be concerned over the material welfare of their children.

  The old days, the Gupta days. The days when customs, harsh as they might be, were only customs. The days when even those harsh customs, in practice, were often meliorated by kinder-or, at least, laxer-potentates. The days when even a stern potentate might shrink from the condemnation of a Buddhist monk, or a sadhu.

  The days before the Malwa came. With Malwa law, and Malwa rigor. And the Mahaveda priests to sanctify the pure, and the mahamimamsa to punish the polluted.

  Fourteen royal couriers raced south across northern India. Unlike the three couriers headed west, all of these couriers were filled with the urgency of their mission. Royal couriers, in their own way, were one of the pampered elite of Malwa India. All of them were of kshatriya birth-low-caste kshatriya, true, but kshatriya nonetheless. And while their rank was modest, in the official aristocratic scale, they enjoyed an unusual degree of intimacy with the very highest men of India. Many of those couriers, more than once, had taken their messages from the very hand of the God-on-Earth himself.

  An arrogant lot, thus, in their own way. Royal Malwa couriers believed themselves to be the fastest men in the world. As they pounded their way south, every one of those fourteen men was certain that the vast hordes of the Malwa army had no chance of catching the foreign devils. The couriers-and they alone-were all that stood between the wicked outlanders and their successful escape.