by David Drake
But Kungas had always been a practical man. So he had taken up the trade of story-telling and mastered it. And if people thought the sight of him hideous, they bore it for the sake of his tales. Great tales, he told. None greater and more eagerly sought by the poor folk who were his normal clientele—though it was forbidden—than the tale of the Vile One's demise. Sitting in the hold of the slave ship (where he found himself, he explained cheerfully, because his fluent tongue had seduced a noblewoman but his sightless eyes had not spotted her husband's return), he told the tale to the Panther.
A gleeful tale, as Kungas told it, the more so because Kungas had come to accept that his own punishment was just. He had been responsible for the Vile One's demise, and had long since decided that it was perhaps the only pure deed of a generally misspent life.
Kungas had always despised Venandakatra, and the Ye-tai who lorded it over all but the Malwa. And, in his hard and callous way, he had grown fond of the princess. So he had not cautioned them. He had held his tongue. He had not warned them that the supple limbs of the girl's beauty came from the steel muscle beneath the comely flesh. He had watched her dance, and knew. And knew also, watching the fluid grace of her movements, that she had been taught to dance by an assassin.
Kungas had described the first blow, and the Panther could see it, even in the hold of the slave ship. The heel strike to the groin, just as he had taught her. And all the blows which followed, like quick laughter, leaving the Vile One writhing on the floor within seconds.
Writhing, but not dead. No, the girl had remembered everything he taught her, except what he had most hoped for. Certainly, he knew, listening to the tale of Kungas, she had remembered the assassin's creed, when slaying the foul. To leave the victim paralyzed, but conscious, so that despair of the mind might multiply the agony of the body.
Hearing the asura's dogs finally enter the chamber, the old slave closed his eyes. Just a bit longer, just a bit, so that he could savor that moment in his mind's eye. Oh, how he had loved the Black-eyed Pearl of the Satavahana!
He could see her dance now, the last dance of her life. Oh, great must have been her joy! To prance before the Vile One, tantalizing him with the virgin body that would never be his, not now, not as Venandakatra could watch his life pour out of his throat, slashed open by his own knife, bathing the bare quicksilver feet of his slayer as they danced her dance of death. Her own blood would join his, soon enough; for she cut her own throat before the Ye-tai guards could reach her. But the Vile One had found no pleasure in the fact, for his eyes were unseeing.
It was time. Just as the Ye-tai reached out to seize him, the old slave leapt from the chair and sprang onto the rim of the flaming vat. The Ye-tai gaped, to see an old man spring so. So like a young panther.
Time to flay the flayers.
Oh, well he did flay them, the slave. Taunting them, first, with the bitterness of their eternally-lost trophies. No skin nor bone of great Romans would hang on Malwa's walls, no Roman treasure fill its coffers!
And then, with himself. Not once in thirty years had the old slave used his true name. But he spoke it now, and it thundered in the cathedral.
"Raghunath Rao is my name. I am he. I am the Panther of Maharashtra. I slew your fathers by the thousands. I am the Wind of the Great Country. I reaped their souls like a scythe. I am the Shield of the Deccan. My piss was their funeral pyre.
"Raghunath Rao am I! Raghunath Rao!
"The Bane of False Gupta, and the Mirror of Rajputana's Shame.
"Raghunath Rao! I am he!"
Well did they know that name, even after all these years, and they drew back. Incredulous, at first. But then, watching the old man dancing on the rim of goldfire, they knew he spoke the truth. For Raghunath Rao had been many things, and great in all of them, but greatest of all as a dancer. Great when he danced the death of Majarashtra's enemies, and great now, when he danced the death of the Great Country itself.
And finally, he flayed them with God.
Oh yes, the old slave had been a great dancer, in his day, among many other things. And now, by the edge of Rome's molten treasure, in the skin-smoke of Rome's molten glory, he danced the dance. The great dance, the terrible dance, the now-forbidden but never-forgotten dance. The dance of creation. The dance of destruction. The wheeling, whirling, dervish dance of time.
As he danced, the Mahaveda priests hissed their futile fury. Futile, because they did not dare approach him, for they feared the terror in his soul; and the Ye-tai would not, for they feared the terror in his limbs; and the Rajputs could not, for they were on their knees, weeping for Rajputana's honor.
Yes, he had been a great dancer, in his day. But never as great, he knew, as he was on this last day. And as he danced and whirled the turns of time, he forgot his enemies. For they were, in the end, nothing. He remembered only those he loved, and was astonished to see how many he had loved, in his long and pain-filled life.
He would see them again, perhaps, some day. When, no man could know. But see them he would, he thought.
And perhaps, in some other turn of the wheel, he would watch the treasure of his soul dance her wedding dance, her bare quicksilver feet flashing in the wine of her beloved's heart.
And perhaps, in some other turn of the wheel, he would see emperors bend intelligence to wisdom, and the faithful bend creed to devotion.
And perhaps, in some other turn of the wheel, he would see Rajputana regain its honor, that his combat with the ancient enemy might again be a dance of glory.
And perhaps, in that other turn of the wheel, he would find Kalkin had come indeed, to slay the asura's minions and bind the demon itself.
What man can know?
Finally, feeling his strength begin to fade, the old slave drew his dagger. There was no need for it, really, but he thought it fitting that such an excellent gift be used. So he opened his veins and incorporated the spurting blood into his dance, and watched his life hiss into the golden moltenness. Nothing of his, no skin nor bone, would he leave to the asura. He would join the impure emperor and the pure general, and the purest of wives.
He made his last swirling, capering leap. Oh, so high was that leap! So high that he had time, before he plunged to his death, to cry out a great peal of laughter.
"Oh, grim Belisarius! Can you not see that God is a dancer, and creation his dance of joy?"
Chapter 3
When he opened his eyes, Belisarius found himself kneeling, staring at the tiles of the floor. The thing was resting in his loosely clenched fist, but it was quiescent now, a shimmer.
Without looking up, he croaked: "How long?"
Cassian chuckled. "Seems like forever, doesn't it? Minutes, Belisarius. Minutes only."
Antonina knelt by his side and placed her arm over his shoulders. Her face was full of concern.
"Are you all right, love?"
He turned his head slowly and looked into her eyes. She was shocked to see the pain and anger there.
"Why?" he whispered. "What I have ever done or said to you that you would distrust me so?"
She leaned back, startled.
"What are you talking about?"
"Photius. Your son. My son."
She collapsed back on to her heels. Her arm fell away to her side. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with shock.
"How did you—when—?" She gaped like a fish.
"Where is he?"
Antonina shook her head. Her hand groped at her throat.
"Where is he?"
She gestured vaguely. "In Antioch," she said very softly.
"How could you deprive me of my son?" Belisarius' voice, though soft, was filled with fury. His wife shook her head again. Her eyes roamed the room. She seemed almost dazed.
"He's not your son," she whispered. "You don't even know he— How did you know?"
Before he could speak again, Cassian seized Belisarius by the shoulders and shook him violently.
"Belisarius—stop this! Whatever—whoever—this Ph
otius is, he's something from your vision. Clear your mind, man!"
Belisarius tore his eyes away from Antonina and stared up at the bishop. Not two seconds later, clarity came. The hurt and rage in his eyes retreated, replaced by a sudden fear. He looked back at Antonina.
"But he does exist? I did not simply imagine him?"
She shook her head. "No, no. He exists." She straightened up. And, although her eyes shied away from her husband's, her back stiffened with determination. "He is well. At least, he was three months ago, when I saw him last."
The quick thoughts in Belisarius' eyes were obvious to all. He nodded slightly.
"Yes. That's when you said you were visiting your sister. The mysterious sister, whom for some reason I have never met." Hotly, bitterly: "Do you even have a sister?"
His wife's voice was equally bitter, but hers was a bitterness cold with ancient knowledge, not hot with new discovery.
"No. Not of blood. Only a sister in sin, who agreed to take care of my boy when—"
"When I asked you to marry me," concluded Belisarius. "Damn you!" His tone was scorching.
But it was like the pale shadow of moonlight compared to the searing fury of the monk's voice.
"Damn you!"
The eyes of both husband and wife were instantly drawn to Michael, like hares to the talons of a hawk. And, indeed, the Macedonian perched on his seat like a falcon perches on a tree limb.
At first, the eyes of Belisarius were startled; those of his wife, angry. Until, in a moment, they each realized they had mistaken the object of the curse.
Not often did Belisarius flinch from another man's gaze, but he did so now.
"By what right do you reproach your wife, hypocrite?" demanded the monk. "By what right?"
Belisarius was mute. Michael slumped back in his seat.
"Verily, men are foul. Even so does the churchman who sells his soul damn the harlot who sells her body. Even so does the magistrate in robes of bribery condemn the thief in stolen rags."
Belisarius opened his mouth. Closed it.
"Repent," commanded Michael.
Belisarius was mute.
"Repent!" commanded the monk.
Seeing the familiar crooked smile come to her husband's face, Antonina sighed. Her little hand fluttered toward his large one, like a shy kitten approaching a mastiff. A moment later, his hand closed around hers and squeezed. Very gently.
"I'm beginning to understand why they flock to him in the desert," Belisarius quipped, somewhat shakily.
"Quite something, isn't it?" agreed the bishop cheerfully. "And you can see why the Church hierarchy encourages him to stay there. Nor, I believe, have any magistrates objected recently to his prolonged exile."
He cocked an eye at the Macedonian.
"I trust, Michael, that your remark concerning churchmen was not aimed at anyone present."
Michael snorted contemptuously. "Do not play with me." He glanced at the bishop's frayed coat. "If you have turned to simony since our last encounter, you are singularly inept at it. And of this I am certain: if the subtlest Greek of all Greek theologians, Anthony Cassian, ever sold his soul to the Devil, all creation would hear Satan's wail when he discovered he'd been cheated."
Laughter filled the room. When it died down, the bishop gazed fondly upon Belisarius and Antonina. Then said:
"Later, you will need to discuss this matter of Photius. May I suggest you begin with an assumption of good motives. I have always found that method reliable." A smile. "Even in theological debate, where it is, I admit, rarely true."
Michael snorted again. "Rarely true? Say better: as rare as—" He subsided, sighing. "Never mind. We do not have time for me to waste assuring you that present company is excluded from every remark I could make concerning churchmen." Gloomily: "The remarks alone would require a full month. And I am a terse man."
The Macedonian leaned forward and pointed to the thing in Belisarius' hand.
"Tell us," he commanded.
When Belisarius was finished, Michael leaned back in his chair and nodded.
"As I thought. It is not a thing of Satan's. Whence it comes, I know not. But not from the Pit."
"The foreigner—the dancer—was not Christian," said Antonina, uncertainly. "A heathen of some sort. Perhaps—not of Satan, but some ancient evil sorcery."
"No." Belisarius' voice was firm. "It is not possible. He was the finest man I ever knew. And he was not a heathen. He was—how can I say it? Not a Christian, no. But this much I know for certain: were all Christians possessed of that man's soul, we should long since have attained the millenium."
All stared at Belisarius. The general shook his head.
"You must understand. I can only tell you the shell of the vision. I lived it, and the whole life that went before it."
He stared blankly at the wall. "For thirty years he served me. As I told you, even after I offered him his freedom. When he refused, he said simply that he had already failed, and would serve one who might succeed. But I failed also, and then—"
To everyone's astonishment, Belisarius laughed like a child.
"Such a joy it is to finally know his name!"
The general sprang to his feet. "Raghunath Rao!" he shouted. "For thirty years I wanted to know his name. He would never tell me. He said he had no name, that he had lost it when—" A whisper. "When he failed his people."
For a moment, the face of Belisarius was that of an old and tired man.
" `Call me `slave,' " he said. `The name is good enough.' And that was what we called him, for three decades." Again, he shook his head. "No, I agree with Michael. There was never any evil in that man, not a trace. Great danger, yes. I always knew he was dangerous. It was obvious. Not from anything he ever said or did, mind you. He was never violent, nor did he threaten, nor even raise his voice. Not even to the stableboys. Yet, there was not a veteran soldier who failed to understand, after watching him move, that they were in the presence of a deadly, deadly man. His age be damned. All knew it." He chuckled. "Even the lordly cataphracts watched their tongues around him. Especially after they saw him dance."
He laughed. "Oh, yes, he could dance! Oh, yes! The greatest dancer anyone had ever seen. He learned every dance anyone could teach him, and within a day could do it better than anyone. And his own dances were incredible. Especially—"
He stopped, gaped.
"So that's what it was."
"You are speaking of the dance in your vision," said Cassian. "The one he danced at the end. The—what was it?—the dance of creation and destruction?"
Belisarius frowned. "No. Well, yes, but creation and destruction are only aspects of the dance. The dance itself is the dance of time."
He rubbed his face. "I saw him dance that dance. In Jerusalem, once, during the siege."
"What siege?" asked Antonina.
"The siege—" He waved his hand. "A siege in my vision. In the past of my vision." He waved his hand again, firmly, quellingly. "Later. Some soldiers had heard about the dance of time, and wanted to see it. They prevailed on `slave'—Raghunath Rao—to dance it for them. He did, and it was dazzling. Afterward, they asked him to teach it to them, and he said it couldn't be taught. There were no steps to that dance, he explained, that he could teach." The general's eyes widened. "Because it was different every time it was danced."
Finally the facets found a place to connect. It was almost impossible, so alien were those thoughts, but aim was able to crystallize.
future.
"What?" exclaimed Belisarius. He looked around the room. "Who spoke?"
"No one spoke, Belisarius," replied Cassian. "No one's been speaking except you."
"Someone said `future.' " The general's tone was firm and final. "Someone said it. I heard it as plain as day."
future.
He stared at the thing in his hand.
"You?"
future.
Slowly, all in the room rose and gathered around, staring at the thing.
&n
bsp; "Speak again," commanded Belisarius.
Silence.
"Speak again, I say!"
The facets, were it within their capability, would have shrieked with frustration. The task was impossible! The mind was too alien!
aim began to splinter. And the facets, despairing, sent forth what a human mind would have called a child's plea for home. A deep, deep, deep, deep yearning for the place of refuge, and safety, and peace, and comfort.
"It is so lonely," he whispered. "Lost, and lonely. Lost—" He closed his eyes, allowed mind to focus on heart. "Lost like no man has ever been lost. Lost for ever, without hope of return. To a home it loves more than any man ever loved a home."
The facets, for one microsecond, skittered in their movement. Hope surged. aim recrystallized. It was so difficult! But—but—a supreme effort.
A ceremony, quiet, serene, beneath the spreading boughs of a laurel tree. Peace. The gentle sound of bees and hummingbirds. Glittering crystals in a limpid pool. The beauty of a spiderweb in sunlight.
Yes! Yes! Again! The facets flashed and spun. aim thickened, swelled, grew.
A thunderclap. The tree shattered, the ceremony crushed beneath a black wave. The crystals, strewn across a barren desert, shriek with despair. Above, against an empty, sunless sky, giant faces begin to take form. Cold faces. Pitiless faces.
Belisarius staggered a bit from the emotional force of these images. He described them to the others in the room. Then whispered, to the jewel: "What do you want?"
The facets strained. Exhaustion was not a thing they knew, but energy was pouring out in a rush they could not sustain. Stasis was desperately needed, but aim was now diamond-hard and imperious. It demanded! And so, a last frenzied burst—
Another face, emerging from the ground. Coalescing from the remnants of spiderwebs and bird wings, and laurel leaves. A warm, human face. But equally pitiless. His face.
The thing in Belisarius' hand grew dull, dull, dull. It almost seemed lightless, now, though it was still impossible to discern clear shapes within it, or even the exact shape of the thing itself.