by Eric Flint
Irene put down her book, a copy of the Periplus Maris Erythraei, and rose to greet her visitor. She had been expecting Dadaji Holkar, and she was quite certain why he had come.
The peshwa was ushered into her chamber. The middle-aged scholar seemed awkward, and ill at ease. He began to fumble for words, staring at the floor.
"Yes, Dadaji," said Irene. "I will instruct my spies to search for your family."
Holkar's head jerked up with surprise. Then, lowered.
"I should not ask," he muttered. "It is a private matter. Not something which-"
"You did not ask," pointed out Irene. "I volunteered."
The demands of her profession had trained Irene to maintain an aloof, calculating stance toward human suffering. But, for a moment, she felt a deep empathy for the man in front of her.
Dadaji Holkar, for all the prestige of his current status as the peshwa of India's most ancient and noble dynasty, was a low-caste scribe in his origins. After the Malwa had conquered Andhra, Dadaji-and his whole family-had been sold into slavery. Belisarius had purchased Holkar while he was in India, in order to use the man's literary skills to advance his plot against Venandakatra. In the end, Holkar had been instrumental in effecting Shakuntala's escape and had become her closest adviser.
But his family-his wife, son, and two daughters-were still in captivity. Somewhere in the vastness of Malwa India.
It was typical of Holkar, she thought, that he would even hesitate to ask for a personal favor. Most Indian officials-most officials of any country, in her experience-took personal favors as a matter of due course.
She smiled, brushing back her hair. "It's not a problem, Dadaji. It will be an opportunity, actually. To begin with, it'll give my spies a challenge. The Malwa run an excellent espionage service, but they have grown too confident and sure of themselves. Quite easy to penetrate, actually. Whereas finding a few Maratha slaves, scattered across India, will test their skills."
She pursed her lips, thinking for a moment, before adding: "And there's more. I've been thinking, anyway, that we should start probing the sentiments of the lower classes in Malwa India. A very good way to do that is to have my spies scouring India looking for some Maratha slaves."
"Can you find them?" he asked, in a whisper.
"I can promise you nothing, Dadaji. But I will try."
He nodded, and left. Irene returned to her chair. But she had not read more than a page of the Periplus when the servant announced another visitor.
The Bhatasvapati was here.
Irene rose again. She was interested-and a bit annoyed-to find that her emotions were unsettled. She was even more interested-and not annoyed at all-to realize that she had no idea why Kungas had come.
I like surprises. I get so few of them.
When Kungas came into her chamber, Irene got her first surprise. As soon as he entered, he glanced over his shoulder and said: "I saw Dadaji leaving, just a minute ago. I don't think he even noticed me, he seemed so preoccupied."
Kungas swiveled his head back to face her. "He came to speak to you about his family," he stated. "To ask you for your help in finding them."
Irene's eyes narrowed. "How did you know?"
Kungas made the little shoulder-twitch which served him for a shrug. "There are only two reasons he would come here, right after the session in the imperial audience chamber. That is one of them. Like everyone else, he was impressed by your spy network."
"And the other reason?"
Kungas seemed to be examining her carefully. "The other reason would be to discuss with you the question of Empress Shakuntala's marriage prospects. He is much concerned with that subject, and would want to enlist the support of the Roman envoy."
Kungas' looked away for a moment, in a quick scrutiny of the chamber. The furniture he gave no more than a glance, but his gaze lingered on a chest in the corner. The lid was open, and he could see that it was full of books.
When his eyes returned to Irene, she thought there was some impish humor lurking within them.
She got her second surprise.
"But I knew that couldn't be it. He would not have left so soon. You do not agree with him, I think, and so he would have stayed to argue."
"How do you know my opinion?" she demanded.
Again, the little shoulder-twitch. "It is-not obvious, no. Nothing about you is obvious. But I do not think you agree that the empress should make a dynastic marriage with one of the independent south Indian monarchies."
Irene studied Kungas for a moment, in silence.
"No, I don't," she said slowly. "I am not certain of my opinion yet, mind you. But I think. . " She hesitated.
Kungas held up his hand. "Please! I am not prying, envoy from Rome. We can discuss this matter at a later time, when you think it more suitable. For the moment-"
A very faint smile came to his lips. "Let me just say that I suspect you look at the thing as I do. A monarch should marry the power which can uphold the throne. And so the thing is obvious-to any but these idiot Indians, with their absurd fetishes."
Irene suppressed her little start of surprise. But Kungas' eyes were knowing.
"So I thought," he murmured. "Very smart woman."
He turned away, heading for the door. "But that is not why I came," he said. "A moment, please. My servant is carrying something for me."
Irene watched while Kungas took something from the servant who appeared in the doorway. When he turned back, she got her third surprise. Kungas was carrying a stack of books.
He held them out to her. "Can you read these?"
Hesitantly, Irene took the top book and opened it. She began to scan the first page. Then stopped, frowning.
"This isn't Greek," she muttered. "I thought it was, but-"
"The lettering is Greek," explained Kungas. "When we Kushans conquered Bactria, long ago, we adopted the Greek alphabet. But the language is my own."
He fumbled with the stack of books, drawing out a slim volume buried in the middle.
"This might help," he said. "It is a bilingual translation of some of the Buddha's teachings. Half-Greek; half-Kushan." His lips twitched. "Or so my friend Dadaji tells me. He can read the Greek part. I can't read any of it. I am not literate."
Irene set the first book down on a nearby table and took the one in Kungas' outstretched hand. She began studying the volume. After a few seconds, without being conscious of the act, she moved over to her chair and sat down. As ever, with true bibliophiles, the act of reading had drawn her completely out of her immediate surroundings.
Two minutes later, she remembered Kungas. Looking up, she saw that the Kushan was still standing in the middle of the room, watching her.
"I'm sorry," she said. She waved her hand at a nearby chair.
Kungas shook his head. "I am quite comfortable, thank you." He pointed to the book. "What do you think?"
Irene looked down at the volume in her lap. "I could, yes." She looked up. "But why should I? It will be a considerable effort."
Kungas nodded. Then, slowly, he moved over to the one window in her room and stared out at the ocean. The window was open, letting in the cooling breeze.
"It is difficult to explain," he said, speaking as slowly as he had moved. He fell silent for a few seconds, before turning back to her rather abruptly.
"Do you believe there is such a thing as a soul?" he asked.
Somehow, the question did not surprise her. "Yes," she replied instantly. "I do."
Kungas fingered his wispy beard. "I am not so sure, myself." He stared back through the window. "But I have been listening to my friend Dadaji, this past year, and he has half convinced me that it exists."
Again, Kungas fell silent. Irene waited. She was not impatient. Not at all.
When Kungas spoke again, his voice was very low. "So I have decided to search for my soul, to see if I have one. But a man with a soul must look to the future, and not simply live in the present."
He turned his eyes back to her. He h
ad attractive eyes, Irene thought. Almond colored, as they were almond shaped. Such a contrast, when you actually studied them, to the dull armor of his features. The eyes were very clear, and very bright. There was life dancing in those eyes, gaily, far in the background.
"I have never done that before," he explained. "Always, I lived simply in the present. But now-for some months, now-I have found myself thinking about the future."
His gaze drifted around the room, settling on a chair not far from Irene's own. He moved over and sat in it.
"I have been thinking about Peshawar," he mused. "That was the capital of our Kushan kingdom, long ago. It is nothing but ruins, today. But I have decided that I would like to see it restored, after Malwa is broken."
"You are so confident of breaking Malwa?" asked Irene. As soon as she spoke the words, she realized they were more of a question about Kungas than they were about the prospects of war.
Kungas nodded. "Oh, yes. Quite certain." His masklike face made that little cracking movement which did for a smile. "I am not so certain, of course, that I myself will live to see it. But there is no point in planning for one's own death. So I keep my thoughts on Peshawar."
He studied her carefully. "But to restore Peshawar, I would have to be a king myself. So I have decided to become one. After the fall of Malwa, Shakuntala will no longer need me. I will be free to attend to the needs of my own Kushan people."
Irene swallowed. Her throat seemed dry. "I think you would make a good king," she said, a bit huskily.
Kungas nodded. "I have come to the same conclusion." He leaned forward, pointing to the volume in her lap. "But a king should know how to read-certainly his own language! — and I am illiterate."
He leaned back, still-faced. "So now you understand."
Again, Irene swallowed. "You want me to learn Kushan, so that I can teach you how to read it."
Kungas smiled. "And some other languages. I should also, I think, know how to read Greek. And Hindi."
Abruptly, Irene stood up and went to a table against the wall. She poured some wine from an amphora into a cup, and took a swallow.
Without words, she offered a cup to Kungas. He shook his head. Irene poured herself another drink.
After finishing that second cup, she stared at the wall in front of her.
"Most men," she said harshly, "do not like to learn from a woman. And learning to read is not easy, Kungas, not for a grown man. You will make many mistakes. You will be frustrated. You will resent my instructions, and my corrections. You will resent-me."
She listened for the answer, not turning her head.
"Most men," said Kungas softly, "have a small soul. That, at least, is what my friend Dadaji tells me, and he is a scholar. So I have decided, since I want to be a king, that I must have a large soul. Perhaps even a great one."
Silence. Irene's eyes were fixed on the wall. It was a blank wall, with not so much as a tapestry on it.
"I will teach you to read," she said. "I will need a week, to begin learning your language. After that, we can begin."
She heard the faint sounds of a chair scraping. Kungas was getting up.
"We will have some time, then," came his voice from behind her. "Before I have to leave on the expedition to destroy the guns."
Silence. Irene did not move her eyes from the wall, not even after she heard Kungas going toward the door. He did not make much sound, as quietly as he moved. Odd, really, for such a thick-looking man.
From the doorway, she heard his voice.
"I thank you, envoy from Rome."
"My name is Irene," she said. Harshly. Coldly.
She did not miss the softness in Kungas' voice. Or the warmth. "Yes, I know. But I have decided it is a beautiful name, and so I did not wish to use it without your permission."
"You have my permission." Her voice was still harsh, and cold. The arrogant voice of a Greek noblewoman, bestowing a minor favor on an inferior. Silently, she cursed that voice.
"Thank you. . Irene."
A few faint sounds of footsteps came. He was gone.
Irene finally managed to tear her eyes away from the wall. She started to pour herself another cup of wine, but stopped the motion midway. With a firm hand, she placed the cup back on the table and strode to the window.
Leaning on the ledge, she stared out at the ocean, breathing deeply. She remained there for some time, motionless, until the sunset.
Then, moving back to her chair, she took up the slim volume and began studying her new-found task. She spent the entire evening there, and got her final surprise of the day. For the first time in years, she was not able to concentrate on a book.
Chapter 7
Persia
Spring, 532 A.D.
"You're right, Maurice," said Belisarius, lowering his telescope. "They're not going to make a frontal assault."
Maurice grunted. The sound combined satisfaction with regret. Satisfaction, that his assessment had proven correct. Regret, because he wished it were otherwise.
The chiliarch examined the fieldworks below them. From the rise where he and Belisarius were standing, the Roman entrenchments were completely bare to the eye. But from the slope below, where the Rajput cavalry was massed, they would have been almost invisible.
Almost, but not quite. Again, he grunted. This time, the noise conveyed nothing but regret. "Beautiful defenses," he growled. "Damn near perfect. Pure killing ground, once they got into it." His gaze scanned the mountainous terrain around them. "Doesn't look like too bad a slope, not from below. And this is the only decent pass within miles."
Belisarius' eyes followed those of Maurice. This stretch of the Zagros range was not high, measured in sheer altitude, but it was exceptionally rugged. There was little vegetation on the slopes, and those slopes themselves, for all their rocky nature, were slick and muddy from the spring runoff. Little rills and streams could be seen everywhere.
Impossible terrain, for cavalry-except for the one pass in which Belisarius had positioned his army. He had designed his defenses carefully, making sure that their real strength was not visible from the plateau below.
The temptation, for an enemy commander, would be almost overwhelming. A powerful, surging charge-clear the pass-the road to Mesopotamia and its riches would lie wide open. The only alternative would be to continue the grueling series of marches and countermarches which had occupied both the Roman and the Malwa armies for the past several weeks.
Almost overwhelming-for any but the best commanders. Like the ones who, unfortunately, commanded the Malwa forces ranged against them.
"You were right," Belisarius pronounced again. He cocked an eye at his chief subordinate, and smiled his crooked smile. "Think I've gotten sloppy, do you, from dealing with those Malwa thickheads in Mesopotamia?"
Maurice scowled. "I wasn't criticizing, General. It was a good plan. Worth a try. But I didn't think Sanga would fall for it. Lord Damodara might have, on his own. Maybe. But it's been obvious enough, the past month, that he listens to Sanga."
Belisarius nodded. For a moment, his eyes were drawn to a pavilion on the plateau below. The structure was visible to the naked eye. But, even through a telescope, it wasn't much to see.
For two days now, while the Malwa army gathered its forces below the pass, Belisarius had scrutinized that pavilion through his telescope. The distance was too great to discern individual features, but Belisarius had spotted Sanga almost immediately. The Rajput king was one of the tallest men Belisarius had ever met, and he had no doubt of the identity of the towering figure that regularly came and went from the pavilion. Nor of the identity of the short, pudgy man who often emerged from it in Sanga's company.
That would be Lord Damodara, the top commander of the Malwa army in the plateau. One of the anvaya-prapta sachivya, as the Malwa called the hereditary caste that dominated their empire. Blood kin to Emperor Skandagupta himself.
From the moment Belisarius had first seen that pavilion, he had been struck by it. It was
nothing fancy, nothing elaborate, and, by Malwa standards, positively austere. The structure was completely unlike the grotesque cotton-and-silk palace which Emperor Skandagupta had erected at the siege of Ranapur. And Belisarius was quite certain that Lord Venandakatra, the anvaya-prapta sachivya whom the Roman general knew best, would have disdained to use it for anything other than a latrine.
Beyond the nature of the pavilion itself, Belisarius had been just as struck-more so, perhaps-by the use to which it was put. In his past experience, Malwa headquarters were the scenes of great pomp and ceremony. Such pavilions-or palaces, or luxury barges-were invariably surrounded by a host of elite bodyguards. Visitors who arrived were accompanied by their own resplendent entourages, and with great fanfare.
Great fanfare. Kettledrums, heralds, banners-even trained animals, prancing their way before the mighty Lords and Ladies of Malwa.
Not Damodara's pavilion. There had been a steady stream of visitors to that utilitarian structure, true enough. But they were obviously officers-Rajputs, in the main, with the occasional Ye-tai or kshatriya-and they invariably arrived either alone or in small groups. Not a bodyguard to be seen, except for the handful posted before the pavilion itself. And those-for a moment, Belisarius was tempted to use his telescope again, to study the soldiers standing guard before Damodara's pavilion. But there would be no point. He would simply see the same thing he had seen for the past two days. The thing which had impressed him most about that pavilion.
Rajput guards-always. Never Ye-tai. That single, simple fact had told him more than anything else.
The Ye-tai were barbarians. Half a century earlier, they had erupted into the plains of north India and begun conquering the region, as they had already done with the Kushan territories to the northwest. But when they came up against the newly rising Malwa realm, an offshoot of the collapsing Gupta Empire, their advance was brought to a halt. Already, Belisarius now knew, the being from the future called Link had armed the Malwa with gunpowder technology. With their rockets, cannons, and grenades, the Malwa had defeated the Ye-tai. But then, instead of simply subjugating the barbarians, the Malwa had incorporated them into their own power structure. Had, in fact, given them a prized and prestigious place-just below that of the anvaya-prapta sachivya themselves. Ye-tai clan chiefs had even been allowed to marry into the elite castes.