Fortune's stroke b-4

by Eric Flint

  The Roman army watched also, from a much greater distance. By the time the battle was well underway, every surviving Roman soldier had forded the river. On the relative safety of the far bank, Belisarius' officers drew the army into formation while the general himself had his broken arm tended to.

  At first, the Roman troops were tense. They were half expecting the enemy to launch a new attack. There was still time, after all-it was no later than mid-afternoon-and this Malwa army had proven its mettle.

  Tense, but not worried. The Roman soldiers, in fact, were almost hoping their enemies would try to force their way across the river. They were quite confident of their ability to beat back the assault, and with heavy losses.

  But, soon enough, it became obvious that the Rajputs had no intention of making any such foolish gesture. They were too battlewise, first of all. And, secondly, they were completely preoccupied with watching the single combat on the crest between Sanga and Valentinian.

  By the time Belisarius emerged from his tent, his arm splinted and bound to his chest, the Roman troops themselves had settled into the relaxation of watching the match. More accurately, they listened to the news brought by dispatch riders. Only Maurice, using Belisarius' telescope, was actually able to see much.

  When Belisarius came up to Maurice, the chiliarch lowered the telescope.

  "You heard?" he asked. Belisarius nodded.

  "Craziest damned thing I've ever seen," muttered Maurice.

  His attitude did not surprise Belisarius. Nor Aide:

  The custom of single combat between champions is no longer part of Graeco-Roman culture. Hasn't been, for over a millennium-not since the days of Homer. But it's still a living part of India's traditions, at least among Rajputs. Not even two decades of Malwa rule has broken that romantic notion of chivalry.

  Belisarius' eyes studied the pass above. There seemed to be Rajputs covering every inch of the slopes which provided a view of the battle. Even the Rajput units standing guard, assigned to watch for a possible enemy counterattack, had their heads turned away from the Roman army.

  If anything, added Aide, their time in the Malwa yoke is making them treasure this moment even more. There has been nothing like this in years, for Rajputana's warriors. Just the butchery of Ranapur, and Amaravati before that.

  Maurice extended the telescope to its rightful owner.

  Belisarius shook his head. "One of two men I treasure is going to die, today. I have no desire to watch it."

  Aide's voice, soft: I am sorry for it, too.

  Maurice brought the telescope back to his eye and resumed observing the battle. He had expected Belisarius' response. His offer of the telescope had been more in the way of a formality than anything else.

  But he was still astonished by the Malwa commander.

  "Craziest thing I've ever seen," he repeated. "What the hell is Damodara thinking?" He pulled the telescope a few inches from his eye and used it to point at the huge force of Rajputs covering the entire pass. "All he has to do is give the order, and Valentinian is a pincushion. You couldn't see him, for all the arrows sticking out of his body."

  Belisarius shook his head. "No Rajput would obey that order, and Damodara knows it. If he sent anyone else, the Rajputs would kill them. And Damodara himself, most likely, if they thought he'd given the command. Besides-"

  Belisarius stared across the river, and up the slope. He was not trying to watch the battle between Sanga and Valentinian. He was simply searching, in his mind's eye, for Damodara.

  Aide verbalized his thoughts. A man who rides a tiger long enough begins to think like a tiger himself.

  "This is utter madness!" snarled the Malwa spymaster. He glared down at Damodara, and pointed to the enemy army across the river half a mile distant. "While you waste time in this frivolity, the Romans are making their escape!"

  The Malwa commander, squatting comfortably on a cushion, did not respond for a few seconds. His eyes remained fixed on the two men battling fiercely a few dozen yards away. When he did reply, his tone was mild.

  "It's a moot point, Isanavarman." Damodara glanced down the slope. "Under no circumstances would I order my army to force the river against that opponent." His tone hardened. "I certainly have no intention of giving such an order today. Not after the losses we've taken, from those infernal handcannons."

  His eyes moved to the spymaster. They were hard, cold eyes. "Of whose existence I was not informed, by men whose duty it is to know such things."

  The spymaster did not flush. But he looked away. Behind him, his three top subordinates tried to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible.

  "The best spies in the world," muttered Isanavarman, "cannot discover everything."

  The spymaster gave Narses a sour look. The eunuch was squatting on his own cushion next to Damodara. At Damodara's left hand-the position allotted, by Indian custom, to a lord's chief civilian adviser. "Did your Roman pet warn you?" demanded Isanavarman, almost snarling. "He has his own spies."

  "Not more than a few," responded Damodara. The Malwa commander was back to watching the battle. "Nothing like the horde of spies which Nanda Lal placed at your disposal."

  The spymaster gritted his teeth, but said nothing. What was there to say?

  Nanda Lal was the chief spymaster for the entire Malwa Empire, and considered Isanavarman his best agent. Nanda Lal had assigned him to be the spymaster for Damodara's army for that very reason. By the simple nature of geography, Damodara was operating an independent command. His was the only army not under the immediate and watchful eye of Malwa's rulers. So Nanda Lal had sent Isanavarman-with many spies, if not quite a horde-as much to keep an eye on Damodara as his enemies.

  So what was there to say?

  Damodara found words. "Make yourself useful for a change, Isanavarman. Interview the surviving Ye-tai. Find out as much as you can about the handcannons."

  Isanavarman began to say something, but Damodara cut him short. "Do it. I am the commander of this army, spymaster, not you."

  The Malwa lord lifted his finger in a little gesture at the troops surrounding them. Rajputs, all of them, except a few hundred kshatriyas-those whose proven valor had made them welcome. Most of the kshatriyas were in the camp, knowing full well the Rajputs would not permit their presence.

  Isanavarman scanned the mass of soldiers. There were perhaps a thousand Ye-tai there also. But the spymaster did not fail to notice that the Ye-tai were scattered through the mass of Rajputs in small groups. Individuals, often enough, chatting amiably with their Rajput companions. Rajputs had a certain scorn for Ye-tai barbarity. But this was a day of manliness, and no one questioned Ye-tai courage.

  "Do it," repeated Damodara. Again, cold eyes went to the spymaster. "Leave now, Isanavarman. This is not a place for you."

  The spymaster left, then, trailed by his three subordinates. Nanda Lal's agents did not flee, exactly, but neither did they amble. They were not oblivious to other hard, cold eyes upon them. The eyes of thousands of Rajput warriors, who had no love for Malwa spies at any time or place-and certainly not here, on this day of glory.

  When they were gone, Damodara leaned toward Narses. The commander's eyes were still fixed on the combat between Valentinian and Rana Sanga, but his gaze seemed a bit unfocused. As if Damodara's thoughts were elsewhere.

  "I trust he no longer has a horde of spies," he murmured.

  Narses' sneer, as always, was magnificent. "He's got the three who came with him, and two others. The rest are on my payroll."

  Damodara nodded. "Tonight, then. I think that would be best."

  "It'll be perfect," agreed Narses. "A pitched battle was fought today. A great victory for Malwa, of course, but not without its cost. The cunning Roman general sent a cavalry troop raiding into our camp. Terrible carnage. Great losses."

  Narses crooked his finger. Ajatasutra, squatting ten feet away, rose and came over.

  "Tonight," whispered Narses. "Do it yourself, if possible."

  Ajata
sutra did not sneer. He never did. That was one of the reasons, oddly, why Narses had grown so fond of him. But the assassin's thin smile had not a trace of humor in it.

  "Those arrogant snobs haven't used a dagger in years," he said softly. "Years spent lounging in Kausambi, reading reports, while poor downtrodden agents like me were having hair-raising adventures with tired old eunuchs."

  Narses had a fine grin, to match his sneer. It was not an expression often seen on his reptilian face-and no more reassuring, come to it, that a cobra's yawning gape. But the grin stayed on his face, for minutes thereafter.

  He was amused, thinking not of serpents but of different animals. Tigers, and men who choose to ride them.

  He glanced at Damodara. The Malwa commander's eyes were riveted on the combat, now, and there was nothing unfocused in the gaze.

  He might as well have stripes himself, thought Narses.

  In the tales of bards, and the lays of poets, truth takes on a rosy tinge. More than a tinge, actually. The reality of a single combat between two great warriors becomes something purely legendary.

  There is little place, in legends, for sweat. Even less for thirst and exhaustion. And none at all for urination.

  But the fact remains that two men do not battle each other, for hours, without rest. Not even if they were fighting half-naked, with bare hands-much less encumbered by heavy armor and wielding swords. Single combat between champions, other than a glancing encounter in the midst of battle, is by nature a formal affair. And, like most formalities, has a practical core at the center of its rituals.

  After the first five minutes, Sanga and Valentinian broke off, gasping for breath. By then, the area was surrounded by Rajputs. Sanga's cavalrymen were still astride their mounts, holding their weapons. One of them, seeing the first open space between the two combatants, began edging his horse toward Valentinian. The man's lance was half-raised.

  Sanga bellowed inarticulate fury. The Rajput shied away.

  Sanga planted his sword tip in the ground-carefully, making sure there were no stones to dull the blade-and leaned upon it. After gasping a few more breaths, he pointed at Valentinian.

  "Give the man water," he commanded. "Wine, if he prefers." The Rajput king studied his opponent, for a few seconds. Valentinian was still breathing deeply, and leaning on his own sword, but Sanga saw that he was no longer gasping.

  "And bring us food and cushions," added Sanga. He smiled, quite cheerfully. "I think we're going to need them."

  For the next few minutes, while Sanga and Valentinian rested, the Rajputs organized the necessities. A dozen Rajputs clustered around Sanga. Four began moving toward Valentinian, after lowering their weapons. One of them carried a winesack; another, a skin full of water; the third, a rolled-up blanket to serve Valentinian as a cushion whenever he rested; the fourth, some dry bread and cheese.

  Sanga nodded toward them, while keeping his eyes on Valentinian. "They will assist you," he called out to the Roman. "Anything you need."

  Sanga straightened. "You may surrender, of course. At any time."

  For a moment, Valentinian almost gave his natural response-fuck you, asshole! — but restrained the impulse. He simply shook his head. A gesture which, at the end, turned into a little bow. Even Valentinian, hardbitten and cynical as he was, could sense the gathering glory.

  In the hours which followed, as a lowborn Roman cataphract fought his way into India's legends, the man's mind wondered at his actions.

  Why are you doing this, you damned fool?

  All his life, Valentinian had been feared by other men. Feared for his astonishing quickness, his reflexes, his uncanny eye-most of all, for his instant capacity to murder. Precious few men, in truth, can kill at the drop of a hat. Valentinian, since the age of ten, could do it before the hat was touched.

  And so men feared him. And found, in his whipcord shape and narrow face, the human image of a vicious predator.

  Because I'm tired of being called a weasel, came the soul's reply.

  The end came suddenly, awkwardly, unexpectedly-almost casually. As it usually does, in the real world. The bards and poets, of course, would have centuries to clean it up.

  Sanga's foot slipped, skidding on a loose pebble. For a moment, catching his balance, his shield swung aside. Valentinian, seeing his opening, swung for the Rajput's exposed leg. No Herculean stroke, just Valentinian's usual economic slice. The quick blade cut deeply into Sanga's thigh.

  The Rajput fell to one knee, crying out in pain. Pain-and despair. His leg was already covered with blood. It was not the bright, crimson spurting of arterial blood, true, but it was enough. That wound would slay him within half an hour, from blood loss alone. Sooner, really. Within minutes, pain and weakness would cripple him enough for his enemy to make the kill.

  Then-

  All other men, watching or hearing of that battle in years to come, would always assume that Valentinian made his only mistake.

  But the truth was quite otherwise. For hours, Valentinian had avoided matching strength with Sanga. He had countered the king's astonishing power with speed, instead. Speed, cunning, and experience. He could have-should have-ended the battle so. Circling the Rajput, probing, slashing, bleeding him further, staying away from that incredible strength, until his opponent was so weak that the quick death thrust could be driven home. Killing a king, like a wolf brings down a crippled bull. Like a weasel kills.

  Something inside the man, buried deep, rebelled. For the first time since the battle began-for the first time in his life, truth be told-Valentinian swung a heroic blow. A mighty overhand strike at the Rajput's head.

  Sanga threw up his sword, crosswise, to block the cut. Valentinian's sword, descending with the power of his own great strength, met a blade held in Rajputana's mightiest hand.

  The finest steel in the world was made in India. The impact snapped the Roman sword in half, leaving not more than a six-inch stub in Valentinian's fist.

  Six inches can still be enough, in a knife fight. Valentinian never hesitated. Weasel-quick, he flung himself to his own knee and drove the sword stub at Sanga's throat.

  The Rajput king managed to lower his helmet in time. The blade glanced off the noseguard and ripped a great tear in Sanga's cheek. More blood gushed forth.

  It was not enough. No cry of despair escaped his lips, but Valentinian knew he was finished. Facing each other at close distance, both on their knees, the advantage now was all Sanga's.

  Sanga was never one for hesitation himself. Instantly, the Rajput king swung a blow. Valentinian interposed his shield. The shield cracked. Another blow. The shield broke. Another blow, to the head, knocked the Roman's helmet askew. The final blow, again to the helmet, split the segmented steel and sent Valentinian sprawling to the ground. Senseless, at the very least. Probably dead, judging from the blood which began pouring through the sundered pieces of the Spangenhelm.

  Sanga raised his arm, to sever Valentinian's neck. But he stopped the motion, even before the sword finished its ascent.

  He had won a glorious victory, this day. He would not stain it with an executioner's stroke.

  Sanga sagged back on his heels. In a daze, he stared up at the sky. It was sunset, and the mountains were bathed in purple majesty. Around him, vaguely, he heard thunderous cheers coming from thousands of Rajput throats. And, seconds later, felt hands laying him down and beginning to bind his wounds.

  A glorious victory. He had not felt this clean-this Rajput pure-for many years. Not since the day he fought Raghunath Rao, and first entered himself into Indian legend.

  In the river valley below, the Romans also heard the cheer. The mountains seemed to ring with the sound.

  Maurice lowered the telescope. "That's it," he said softly.

  Belisarius took a deep breath. Then, turning to Coutzes: "Send a courier, under banner of truce. I want to know if Valentinian's dead, so that the priests can do the rites."

  "And if he's alive?" asked Coutzes.

  "See
if they'll accept a ransom." Belisarius' crooked smile made a brief appearance. "Not that I think I could afford it, even as rich as I am. Not unless Damodara's truly lost his mind."

  "Not for all the gold in Rome," was Damodara's instant reply. "Do I look like a madman?"

  When Coutzes brought back the news, Belisarius lowered his head. But his heart, for the first time in hours, soared to the heavens.

  "He might still die," cautioned Coutzes. "They say he's lost a lot of blood. And his skull's broken."

  Anastasius snorted. So did Maurice.

  "Not Valentinian," said Belisarius. He lifted his head, smiling as broadly as he ever had in his life. "Not my champion. Not that great, roaring, lion of a man."

  The following morning, the Malwa army began moving along the river. To the northwest, away from the Romans. Belisarius' army, still holding the fords, made no effort to block them.

  Not a single soldier, on either side, thought the matter odd.

  "Let's hear it for maneuvers," said a Rajput to a Ye-tai. The barbarian nodded quick agreement.

  "God, I love to march," announced a Greek cataphract. His eyes swept the mountains. "Gives us a chance to admire the scenery. For weeks, if we're lucky. Maybe even months."

  "Beats staring at your own guts," came a Syrian's response. "Even for a minute."

  Chapter 15

  Yemen

  Spring, 532 A.D.

  "It'll be tonight, for sure," stated Menander.

  Ashot wobbled his hand back and forth, in a gesture which indicated less certainty. "Maybe. Maybe not."

  Menander stood his ground. "It'll be tonight," he repeated confidently. The young cataphract took two steps to the entrance of the field headquarters and pulled back the flap. The Roman army's camp had been set up half a mile east of a small oasis. Menander was staring in that direction, but his eyes were on the horizon rather than the oasis itself.