The Dance of Time b-6

by Eric Flint

  Cheap at the price, in fact. Dirt cheap.

  The Iron Triangle

  The battle on the river was observed from the north bank by a patrol of light Arab cavalry in Roman service. Being Beni Ghassan, the cavalrymen were far more sophisticated in the uses of new technology than most Arabs. Their commander immediately dispatched three riders to bring news of the Malwa ambush to the nearest telegraph station, which was but a few miles distant.

  By the time Belisarius got the news, of course, the outcome of the battle had already been decided, one way or the other. So he could do nothing more than curse himself for a fool, and try not to let the ashen face of a blind young man sway his cold-blooded reasoning.

  "I'm a damned fool not to have foreseen the possibility. It just didn't occur to me that the Malwa might carry boats across the desert. But it should have."

  "Not your fault, sir," said Calopodius quietly.

  Belisarius tightened his jaws. "Like hell it isn't."

  Maurice, standing nearby, ran fingers through his bristly iron-gray hair. "We all screwed up. I should have thought of it, too. We've been so busy just being entertained by the episode that we didn't think about it. Not seriously."

  Belisarius sighed and nodded. "There's still no point in me sending the Justinian. By the time it got there, it will all have been long settled-and there's always the chance Link might be trying for a diversion."

  "You can't send the Justinian," said Calopodius, half-whispering. "With the Victrix gone-and the Photius down at Sukkur-the Malwa might try an amphibious attack on the Triangle. They could get past the mine fields with a lot of little boats, where they couldn't with just their few ironclads."

  He spoke the cold truth, and every officer in the command center knew it. So nothing further was said. They simply waited for another telegraph report to inform them whether Calopodius was a husband or a widower.

  The Indus

  Before the battle was over, Anna had reason to be thankful for her heavy gown.

  As cheerfully profligate as he was, the gunner soon used up the preloaded cylinders for the Puckle gun. Thereafter, Anna had to reload the cylinders manually with the cartridges she found in a metal case against the shell of the turret. Placing the new shells into a cylinder was easy enough, with a little experience. The trick was taking out the spent ones. The brass cartridges were hot enough to hurt her fingers, the first time she tried prying them out.

  Thereafter, following the gunner's hastily shouted instructions, she started using the little ramrod provided in the ammunition case. Kneeling in the shelter of the turret, she just upended the cylinders-carefully holding them with the hem of her dress, because they were hot also-and smacked the cartridges loose.

  The cartridges came out easily enough, that way-right onto her lap and knees. In a lighter gown, a less severe and formal garment, her thighs would soon enough have been scorched by the little pile of hot metal.

  As it was, the heat was endurable, and Anna didn't care in the least that the expensive fabric was being ruined in the process. She just went about her business, brushing the cartridges onto the floor of the turret, loading and reloading with the thunderous racket of the Puckle gun in her ears, ignoring everything else around her.

  Throughout, her mind only strayed once. After the work became something of a routine, she found herself wondering if her husband's mind had been so detached in battles. Not whether he had ignored pain-of course he had; Anna had learned that much since leaving Constantinople-but whether he had been able to ignore his continued existence as well.

  She suspected he had, and found herself quite warmed by the thought. She even handed up the next loaded cylinder with a smile.

  The gunner noticed the smile, and that too would become part of the legend. He would survive the war, as it happened; and, in later years, in taverns in his native Anatolia, whenever he heard the tale of how the Wife smote down Malwa boarders with a sword and a laugh, he saw no reason to set the matter straight. By then, he had come to half-believe it himself.

  Anna sensed a shadow passing, but she paid it very little attention. By now, her hands and fingers were throbbing enough to block out most sensation beyond what was necessary to keep reloading the cylinders. She barely even noticed the sudden burst of fiery light and the screams that announced that the Victrix had arrived and was wreaking its delayed vengeance on what was left of the Malwa ambush.

  Which was not much, in truth. The gunner was a very capable man, and Anna had kept him well supplied. Most of the skiffs now drifting near the barge had bodies draped over their sides and sprawled lifelessly within. At that close range, the Puckle gun had been murderous.

  "Enough, ma'am," said the gunner. "It's over."

  Anna finished reloading the cylinder in her hands. Then, when the meaning of the words finally registered, she set the thing down on the floor of the turret. Perhaps oddly, the relief of finally not having to handle hot metal only made the pain in her hands-and legs, too, she noticed finally-all the worse.

  She stared down at the fabric of her gown. There were little stains all over it, where cartridges had rested before she brushed them onto the floor. There was a time, she could vaguely remember, when the destruction of an expensive garment would have been a cause of great concern. But it seemed a very long time ago.

  "How is Illus?" she asked softly. "And the others? The boys?"

  The gunner sighed. "One of the boys got killed, ma'am. Just bad luck-Illus kept the youngsters back, but that one grenade. ."

  Vaguely, Anna remembered hearing an explosion. She began to ask which boy it was, whose death she had caused, of the five urchins she had found on the docks of Barbaricum and conscripted into her Service. But she could not bear that pain yet.

  "Illus?"

  "He's fine. So's Abdul. Cottomenes got cut pretty bad."

  Something to do again. The thought came as a relief. Within seconds, she was clambering awkwardly over the side of the turret again-and, again, silently cursing the impractical garment she wore.

  * * *

  Cottomenes was badly gashed, true enough. But the leg wound was not even close to the great femoral artery, and by now Anna had learned to sew other things than cloth. Besides, the Victrix's boiler was an excellent mechanism for boiling water.

  The ship's engineer was a bit outraged, of course. But, wisely, he kept his mouth shut.

  The Iron Triangle

  The telegraph started chattering. Everyone in the command bunker froze for a moment. Then, understanding the meaning of the dot-dashes faster than anyone-even the operator jotting down the message-Calopodius slumped in his chair with relief. The message was unusually long, with two short pauses in the middle, and by the time it was completed Calopodius was even smiling.

  Belisarius, unlike Calopodius, could not quite follow the message until it was translated. When he took the message from the hand of the operator and scanned it quickly, he understood the smile on the face of the blind young officer. He grinned himself.

  "Well, I'd say she's in good form," he announced to the small crowd in the bunker. Then, quoting:

  "ALL FINE EXCEPT COTTOMENES INJURED AND RAFFI DEAD. RAFFI ONLY TWELVE YEARS OLD. FEEL HORRIBLE ABOUT IT. MENTION HIM IN DISPATCHES. PLEASE. ALSO MENTION PUCKLE GUNNER LEO CONSTANTES. SPLENDID MAN. ALSO INSTRUCT GENERAL BELISARIUS MAKE MORE PUCKLE GUNS. SPLENDID THINGS. ALSO-"

  "Here's where the pause was," explained the general. His grin widened. "It goes on:

  "OPERATOR SAYS MESSAGE TOO LONG. OPERATOR REFUSES GIVE HIS NAME. MENTION NAMELESS OPERATOR IN DISPATCHES. STUPID OFFICIOUS ASININE OBNOXIOUS WORTHLESS FELLOW."

  "Why do I think someone in that telegraph station has a sword at his throat?" mused Maurice idly. "Her bodyguards are Isaurians, right? Stupid idiot." He was grinning also.

  "MENANDER SAYS WILL ARRIVE SOON. WILL NEED NEW CLOTHES."

  Belisarius' grin didn't fade, exactly, but it became less purely jovial. His last words were spoken softly, and addressed to Calopodius
rather than to the room at large.

  "Here was the second pause. The last part of the message reads:

  "AM EAGER TO SEE YOU AGAIN. MY HUSBAND."

  Chapter 18

  The Narmada river

  The Malwa army drawn up on the open plain just south of the Narmada was terrifying. Looking over them from a distance, perched in her howdah with the baby, Shakuntala finally understood-really understood-why her husband had been so cautious in his tactics from the very beginning.

  It might be better to say, cautious in his strategy. When the Panther did strike, he struck hard and fast. But he'd carefully avoided getting anywhere near the Malwa lion's jaws and talons.

  "Impressive, aren't they?" Rao called up to her. He was riding a horse alongside the elephant that bore her and Namadev.

  Until that morning, two maidservants had been in the howdah with them. But Shakuntala had insisted they remain behind, when the Maratha army moved out at dawn to meet Damodara and his forces. The empress still suspected treachery. For that reason, she had one of the best horses in India following behind, in case she and Namadev had to flee precipitously into the badlands of the Great Country. On that horse, she was confident she could elude even Rajput cavalry. On an elephant, hopeless to do so.

  She stared down at her husband. Amazingly, to all appearances, he was in as sunny a mood as she'd ever seen him.

  Rao raised himself a little in his stirrups-by now, the Roman innovations were ubiquitous-to get a better view of the enemy. "The best army the Malwa have, for a certainty." He pointed with his finger, and then slowly swept it across the front lines of the enemy. They were still a thousand yards away.

  "See how Damodara has his artillery units scattered among the infantry? You won't see that in any other Malwa army. No lolling about in the comfort of the rear for his kshatriya."

  The finger jabbed; here, there, there.

  "Notice, also, the way he has the Ye-tai units positioned with respect to the main force of Rajput cavalry. In the center, most of them, forming his spearhead while the Rajputs are concentrated on the flanks. His Ye-tai will lead the charge, here, not stay behind to drive forward badly trained and ill-motivated peasant foot soldiers."

  The finger lowered. "Of which," he concluded cheerily, "Damodara doesn't have that many in any event. They're back guarding the supply wagons, I imagine. Along with the mahaveda priests, of course, who control the munitions supply. That last feature is about the only way in which Damodara's army still resembles a Malwa force."

  "Rao. ." Shakuntala said hesitantly.

  "Oh, yes, my dearest. You're quite right." Still standing in the stirrups, Rao swiveled his upper body back and forth, studying his own army.

  The Maratha army was barely half the size of the enemy force across the field. And didn't bear so much as a fourth the weight of fine armor, fine swords and lances-and not a tenth the weight of firearms and gunpowder.

  "Oh, yes," he repeated, his voice still as sunny-toned as ever, "if I were idiotic enough to meet them on this field, they'd hammer us flat. Be lucky if a third of my army survived at all."

  "Rao. ."

  "Be still, dearest. This is not a field where two armies will meet. Simply two souls. Three, actually, counting Damodara. Perhaps four, if we count Narses as well. Which I think we must."

  She took a deep, slow breath. "Your soul is as great as any I have ever known. But it is not great enough to do this."

  He laughed. "Of course not! It's not my soul I'm counting on, however."

  He reached up and extended his hand. "Touch me, dearest. Not for the last time! Simply-a gift."

  She did so, briefly clutching the strong fingers. Strong and large. Rao had the hands of a man half again his size.

  Then, he was gone, trotting his horse onto the open field between the armies.

  * * *

  Sitting on his own mount at the very front and center of the Malwa army, Rana Sanga watched him come.

  At first, he simply assumed it was Raghunath Rao, from the logic of the matter. Even the keen eyes of the man who was probably India's greatest archer could not distinguish features at the distance of a thousand yards. The more so, when he had not seen the features themselves in over two decades. The famous duel between him and Rao had happened when they were both young men.

  Long ago, that was. A thousand years ago, it seemed to the greatest king of Rajputana. Between then and now lay a gulf that could not be measured in simple years. The young Sanga who had faced a young Rao so long ago had been sure and certain in his beliefs, his creed, his duty, his loyalties, and his place in the universe. The middle-aged man who was about to meet him again was no longer sure of anything.

  Except in his prowess as a warrior, of course. But Rana Sanga knew full well that was the least of the things that were meeting today on a new field of battle. Something much greater was at stake now. He only wished he knew exactly what it was. But the only thought that came to his mind was. .

  Onions.

  It was bizarre, really. All he could think of was onions, peeling away. With every horse's pace the distant figure shortened between them, Sanga could sense another peel, falling.

  Soon enough-still long before he could recognize the features-he knew it was Rao.

  "I'd half-forgotten," he murmured.

  * * *

  Next to him, Damodara raised a questioning eyebrow.

  "How frightening an opponent he is," Sanga explained.

  Damodara squinted at the coming figure, trying to discern what Sanga seemed to see in it. Damodara himself was. .

  Unimpressed, really. Given the reputation of the Panther-or the Wind of the Great Country, as he was also known-he'd been expecting some sort of giant of a man. But the Maratha warrior approaching across the field seemed no more than average size.

  Very wide in the shoulders, true. So much was obvious even at a distance, and Damodara didn't think it was due to the armor Rao was wearing. It was not elaborate armor, in any event. Just the utilitarian gear than any hill-fighter might bring into battle.

  But as Rao neared, he began to understand. It was a subtle thing, given that the man was on horseback. Still, after a time, it became apparent enough.

  "The way he moves, even riding a horse. ."

  Sanga barked a harsh laugh. "Hope you never see him move up close, with a blade or his iron-clawed gauntlet! Not even the Mongoose is so fast, so sure. Always so balanced. I remember thinking I was facing an asura under the human-seeming flesh."

  The Rajput king eased his sword out of the scabbard. Just an inch or so, making sure it was loose. Then, did the same with the lance in its scabbard by his knee.

  Then, drew his bow. He'd start with that, of course. With a bow, Sanga out-matched Rao. With a lance also, probably, especially now with the added advantage of stirrups.

  Still, given Rao, it would probably end with them on foot. The last time they'd met, they'd fought for an entire day with every weapon they'd possessed. And then, too exhausted to move, had finished by exchanging philosophical barbs and quips.

  "Wish me well, Lord," he said. Then, spurred his own horse into a trot.

  * * *

  A great roar went up from the Malwa army. Matched, a moment later, by one from the Marathas across the field.

  * * *

  "Oh, splendid," murmured Ajatasutra. He and the assassin he'd kept with him exchanged a little smile.

  "Let's hope they keep it up." The assassin glanced at one of the nearby munitions wagons. The mahaveda head priest and the two mahamimamsa who guarded it were standing, their eyes riveted on the two combatants approaching each other. They were paying no attention at all to the men who, in the nondescript and patchy armor of common infantrymen, were quietly spreading through the munitions wagons.

  "You will give the signal?"

  Ajatasutra pinched his hawk nose, smiling more widely under the fingers. "If need be, yes. But unless I'm much mistaken, that won't be necessary. The thing will be, ah, quite obvious
."

  The assassin cocked his head slightly, in a subtle question.

  "Look at it this way. The two most flamboyant men in India are about to meet. True, one is the sternest of Rajputs and the other is reputed to be a great philosopher. Still, I don't think subtlety will be the end result."

  * * *

  Narses just watched, perched on his mule. Whatever he could do, he had done. The rest was in the hands of whatever God existed.

  So, although he watched intently, he was quite calm. What would happen, would happen. There remained only the anticipation of the outcome. The greatest game of all, the game of thrones.

  For the rest-whatever God might be-Narses was quite sure he was damned anyway. But he thought he'd have the satisfaction, whatever happened, of being able to thumb his nose at all the gods and devils of the universe, as he plunged into the Pit.

  Which, he reminded himself, might still be some decades off anyway.

  * * *

  Damodara was far less relaxed. He was as tense and as keyed up as he'd ever been, on the edge of a battle.

  It could not be otherwise, of course. It was he who would, as commanders must, gauge the right moment.

  * * *

  Once Sanga and Rao were within seventy yards of each other, Rao drew up his horse.

  Sanga did likewise. He already had the bow in his left hand. Now, relinquishing the reins, he drew and notched an arrow with the right.

  Then, waited. Gallant as ever, the Rajput king would allow the Maratha chieftain and imperial consort to ready his own bow.

  Titles had vanished, on this field. Everything had vanished, except the glory of India's two greatest warriors meeting again in single combat.

  Rao grinned. He hadn't intended to, but the sight of Sanga's frown-quite obvious, even at the distance, given the open-faced nature of Rajput helmets-made it impossible to do otherwise.