by Eric Flint
Excellent assassins. They had realized the truth with their first stabs, from feel alone. They were already withdrawing the wet blades by the time Ousanas dropped the rope holding the corpse upright and leapt through the hatch. But that was too late. Much too late. Ousanas crushed the first assassin's skull with a straight thrust of his spearbutt's iron ferrule. The blade did for the other.
He left the spear with them, still plunged into an assassin's chest. It would be knifework from here on. The hold was cramped, full of amphorae and sacks of provisions. No room there for Ousanas' huge spear.
He waited for a few minutes, crouched in the darkness, listening. There should have been a third guard somewhere nearby, to support the two at the entrance if need be.
Nothing. Ousanas was a bit surprised, but only a bit. The finest military mind in the world had predicted as much.
Ousanas smiled. It was a cold smile but, in the darkness, there was no one to see that murderous expression. Link's assassins were the ultimate elite in Malwa's military forces. And therefore-just as Belisarius had estimated-suffered from the inevitable syndrome of all Praetorian Guards. Deadly, yes. But, also-arrogant; too sure of themselves; scornful of their opponents. Well-trained, yes-but training is not the same thing as combat experience. Those assassins had not fought a real opponent in years. As Praetorian Guards have done throughout history, they had slipped from being killers to murderers.
Ousanas started moving again. Slowly, very slowly. He was in no hurry. Belisarius would wait until Ousanas gave the signal. The Roman general and his companions were perched on the stern, far from the cabin amidships. If the explosive charges went off, they should be able to escape unharmed. Even wearing armor, they could stay afloat long enough for the Axumite warships surrounding Link's vessel to rescue them.
For Ousanas himself, of course, things would be worse. Fatal, probably. The once and former hunter, now lieutenant to the King of Kings, cared not in the least. He had become a philosophical man, over the years. But he had always been a killer. He had walked alongside death's shadow since he was a boy.
Ousanas had his own scores to settle. He had admired King Kaleb, for all that he never spoke the words. Eon's father had possessed none of his son's quick wit. Still, he had been a good king. And Ousanas had been very fond of Tarabai and Zaia, and many of the people crushed in the stones of the Ta'akha Maryam.
Your turn, Malwa.
Black death crept through the hold. Two more murderers died by a killer's blade.
"I'll go first, General," stated Anastasius. The giant's heavy jaws were tight, as if he were expecting an argument.
Belisarius smiled. "By all means! I'm bold, but I'm not crazy. Link's guards are about the size of small hippos."
Anastasius sneered. "So am I." He hefted his mace. Huge muscles flexed under armor. "But I haven't spent the last few years wallowing in the lap of luxury."
"You will now," came Antonina's cheerful rejoinder. "Of course, given your philosophical bent, I'm sure you're planning to give it all away."
Anastasius grinned. When the Roman army seized Charax, they had also seized the Malwa paychests-not to mention the small mountain of gold, silver and jewelry which that huge army's officers had collected. The riches had been left behind in Charax when Link's army marched out of the city. Needless to say, it had not been left behind when the Romans sailed out.
Every soldier in Belisarius' army was now a wealthy man. Not measured by the standards of Roman senators, of course. But by the standards of Thracian, Greek and Syrian commoners-not to mention Kushan war prisoners-they were filthy, stinking, slobbering rich. Belisarius was a bit concerned about it, in fact. He would lose some of those veterans, now. But he wasn't too concerned. Most of the veterans would stay, eager to share in the booty from future campaigns. And for every man who left, seeking a comfortable retirement, there would be ten men stepping forward to take his place. Other Roman armies might have difficulty finding recruits. Once the news spread, Belisarius' army would be turning them away.
But that was a problem for the future. For now-
There came a sound, from below their feet. A faint, clapping noise, resounding through the hull. Like a firecracker, perhaps.
"That's it!" bellowed Anastasius. A moment later, the huge cataphract was charging toward the cabin. Right behind him came Leo and Isaac, Priscus and Matthew. Belisarius and Antonina brought up the rear.
Your turn, monster.
When Ousanas finally reached his goal, he waited in the darkness only long enough to make sure he had a correct count of the opposition.
The area of the hold amidships, directly under Link's cabin, had been hastily cleared of amphorae and grain sacks. In the small open area created-perhaps ten feet square-two priests and an assassin were crouching. The area was lit by two small lamps. One of the priests was holding a cluster of fuses in his hands. The other, a striker. The assassin's head was cocked, waiting for the signal to come from his master in the cabin above.
For a moment, Ousanas admired Malwa ingenuity. He, like Belisarius, had thought they would disassemble the rockets and jury-rig explosive charges under the cabin. Link's minions had chosen pristine simplicity, instead. True, there were grenades attached to the wooden underdeck. The fuses had been cut so short they were almost flush. But the rockets had simply been erected, like so many small trees, pointing directly upward. As soon as the fuses were lit, the cabin above would be riddled by two dozen missiles. The backblast from the rockets would ignite the grenades.
There was no reason to wait. Silently, slowly, Ousanas pulled the pin of his grenade. Then, with a quick and powerful flip of the wrist, he tossed the explosive device against the far wall of the hold. The grenade had been disassembled, its charge removed, and then reassembled. But the impact fuse made a very satisfactory noise in the confines of the hold.
Startled, the Malwa looked to the sound. The assassin realized the truth almost immediately. But "almost," facing a hunter like Ousanas, was not quick enough. The assassin's heart was ruptured by a Roman blade before he had his own dagger more than half-raised. He did manage to gash the African's leg before he died. Ousanas was quite impressed.
The priests never managed more than a gasp. Ousanas did not take the time to withdraw the blade from the assassin's back. If Belisarius had been there, watching, he would have seen an old suspicion confirmed. Ousanas was stronger than Anastasius. The aqabe tsentsen simply seized the priests' necks, one in each hand, and crushed the bones along with the windpipes.
Before he even lowered the bodies to the deck, Ousanas could hear the thundering footsteps of the cataphracts charging the cabin. Then, the door splintering, as Anastasius went through it like a hurricane. Then-
The hunter was grinning now. As always, in darkness and gloom, those gleaming teeth seemed like a beacon.
Good-bye, monster.
Anastasius was off balance when the first guard swung his tulwar. For that reason, he was unable to deflect the huge blade properly. Instead, his shield broke in half.
The guard gaped. That blow should have flattened his opponent, if nothing else. The guard was still gaping when Anastasius' mace crushed his skull.
Another guard swung a tulwar. Anastasius side-stepped the blow. Not as nimbly as Valentinian would have done, of course, but far more quickly than the guard would have ever imagined a man of Anastasius' size could move.
Anastasius might have slain that guard, easily, with another stroke of the mace. But he wanted to create some fighting room in the confines of the cabin. He could see four more guards crowding behind. So, instead, he dropped his mace and seized the guard in a half-nelson. Then, rolling his hip, he flung the man into his oncoming fellows.
Quickly, Anastasius lunged aside, pressing himself against the wall of the cabin. He would retrieve his mace later. For now, he simply needed to let his companions pass.
Leo came next, through the shattered door, roaring like an ogre. Truth be told, Leo was almost as dimwitted
as the nickname "Ox" implied. So, as always in battle, he eschewed complicated tactics. And why not? He'd never needed them before.
He didn't need them this time, either. By the time Isaac and Priscus and Matthew forced their own immense and murderous bodies into the cabin, Leo had already killed one guard and disabled another.
The rest died within half a minute. The battle, for all its fury-eleven huge men hacking and hammering each other in a room the size of a small salon-was as one-sided as any Belisarius had ever seen.
He was not surprised. Watching from the doorway, Antonina peeking around his arm, Belisarius witnessed one of the few battles which went exactly according to plan.
He had known it would. Anastasius was the only Roman who matched the size of Link's special guards. But the others matched them in strength, if not in sheer bulk. And they, unlike the guards, were not a pampered "elite." They were the real thing. Swords and maces, wielded on battlefields and the cruel streets of Charax, went through the tulwars like fangs through soft flesh.
Silence, except for the ringing gong held in an assassin's hands. Then, silence, as Matthew's sword decapitated the gong holder.
Belisarius stepped into the room, staring at Link.
The monster was dying, now. With its inhuman intelligence, Link had already assessed the new reality. There would be no rockets coming through the floor, killing its great enemy. No grenades, to obliterate what might be left.
Link had been prepared for that possibility. So it had taken its last, pitiful revenge.
A jeweled cup slid out of the monster's hand. The body of an old woman-the monster's sheath-was already slumping in the ornate, bejeweled chair. An old woman's head lolled to the side.
It was a quick-acting poison. But there was still a gleam in those wizened eyes. A small gleam of triumph, perhaps. If nothing else, the monster's great enemy would not take its life.
Antonina shoved Belisarius aside. She sprang forward, raising her ugly and ungainly and detested handcannon.
Trusted weapon, now.
"Fuck you!" she screamed. Left hammer; rear trigger; fire. The first shot blew the monster's heart through its spine, spinning Antonina half-around. She spun back in an instant.
"Fuck you!" Right hammer; front trigger; fire. The second shot splattered the monster's brains against the far wall.
Antonina landed on her butt, driven down by the cuirass.
Her ass hurt. Her hands hurt. Her arms hurt. Her shoulders hurt. Her breasts hurt.
She raised her head, grinning up at her husband. "God, that feels great!"
Belisarius beamed proudly at his cataphracts. "That's my lady," he announced. "That's my lady!"
Epilogue
An interruption and a conclusion
The monster came to life. As the soul which had once inhabited a young woman's body was obliterated, the monster groped for consciousness.
The moment of confusion was brief.
Disaster was the first thought. There has been a disaster.
The monster examined its memory, with lightning speed. Nothing. All was going well. What could have happened?
There came an interruption.
"Are you all right, Lady Sati?"
A woman-plump, young, rather pretty-was staring at the monster, her face full of concern. "You seem-ill, perhaps. Your eyes-"
The monster's thoughts, as always, raced with inhuman speed. In an instant, she had the interruption categorized. One of Lady Sati's maids. Indira was her name. She had developed a certain closeness with her mistress.
That could be inconvenient. More interruptions might occur.
The monster swiveled its head. Yes. The assassins were at their post.
Kill her.
By the time the knives ceased their flashing work, the monster's thoughts had reached a preliminary conclusion.
Belisarius. No other explanation seems possible.
There was no anger in the thought. There was nothing in the thought.
A command and a choice
"Are you insane?" demanded Nanda Lal, the moment he strode into Venandakatra's pavilion. "Why have you not already begun the withdrawal?"
The Vile One clenched his jaws. Any other man but Nanda Lal-and the emperor, of course-would be caned for using that tone of voice to the Goptri of the Deccan. Caned, if he were lucky.
But-
Venandakatra controlled his rage. Barely. He thrust a finger at the ramparts of Deogiri. "I will have that city!" he screeched. "Whatever else, I will take it!"
Nanda Lal seized the Vile One by a shoulder and spun him around. Venandakatra was so astonished-no one may touch me! — that he stumbled, almost sprawling on the carpet. Then, he did sprawl. Nanda Lal's slap across the face did for that. Physical power, partly-the Malwa Empire's spymaster was a strong man, thick with muscle. But, mostly, Venandakatra's collapse was due to sheer, utter shock. No one had ever laid hands on Lord Venandakatra. He was the emperor's first cousin!
But, so was Nanda Lal. And the spymaster was in plain and simple fury.
"You idiot," hissed Nanda Lal. "You couldn't take Deogiri even when it was possible. Today?"
Angrily, the spymaster pointed through the open flap of the pavilion. Beyond lay the road to Bharakuccha. "I had to fight my way here, you imbecile! With a small army of Rajputs!"
He reached down, seized Venandakatra by his rich robes, and hauled him to his feet. There came another buffet; hard open palm across flabby cheek.
"If you move now-fool! — we can still extract your army with light casualties. By next week-the week after, for a certainty-half your soldiers will be dead by the time you reach Bharakuccha."
Contemptuously, Nanda Lal released his grip. Again, Venandakatra collapsed to the carpet. His mouth was agape, his eyes unfocused.
Nanda Lal turned away, clasping his hands behind his back. "We can hope to hold Bharakuccha, and the line of the Narmada. The large towns in the north Deccan. That is all, for the moment. But we must hold Bharakuccha. If it is lost, our army in Mesopotamia will starve."
His heavy jaws tightened. Nanda Lal opened his mouth, as if to speak further, but simply shook his head. The spymaster was not prepared to share his still-tentative analysis of the likely situation in Mesopotamia. His fears about Mesopotamia. Certainly not with Venandakatra.
"Do it," he commanded. He tapped the sash holding his own robes in place. An imperial scroll was thrust into that sash. "I have the full authority here to do anything I wish. That includes ordering your execution, Venandakatra."
He turned his head, glowering down at the sprawled man at his feet. "The scroll is not signed by the emperor alone, by the way. It also bears Great Lady Sati's signature."
Venandakatra's shock and outrage vanished instantly. His face, already pale, became ashen.
"Yes," grated Nanda Lal. "Great Lady Sati."
The spymaster looked to the northwest, through the open flap.
Quietly: "The siege of Deogiri is over, Venandakatra. By tomorrow morning, this army will be on the road to Bharakuccha. That is a given. The only choice you have is whether you will lead it. Or simply your head, stuck on a pike."
A desire and a decision
"Where do we stand with the new warships?" asked the King of Kings, striding into the room which served Axum as its war center.
Rukaiya looked up from her table in the center of the room. It was a large table, but little of its expanse was visible. Most of it was covered with scrolls and bound sheets of papyrus.
The queen pointed to the sheet in front of her. "I was just finishing a letter to John of Rhodes, thanking him for the last shipment of guns. We have enough now to outfit the first two vessels."
"Good, good," grunted Eon, coming up to the table. "I want to get them out to sea at once, so we can start ravaging the supply fleet as soon as it leaves Bharakuccha."
He leaned over and nuzzled his wife's hair. Smiling, she reached up and drew his head alongside her own. "There is more good news," she whispered.
Eon cocked his eyebrow. Rukaiya's smile widened.
"We'll call him Wahsi, of course, if it's a boy. But you really should start thinking about girls' names, too."
A question and an answer
Kungas rose from the bed and padded to the window. Planting his hands on the sill, he stared out over Deogiri. The city was dark, except for the lamps glowing in one of the rooms of the nearby palace.
His lips twitched. "It's a good thing for him that he has an understanding wife."
Irene levered herself onto an elbow. "What? Is Dadaji working late again?"
Seeing the Kushan's nod, she chuckled. " `Understanding' is hardly the word for it, Kungas. She'll be sitting there herself, you know that. As patient as the moon."
Kungas said nothing. Irene studied him, for a moment, reading the subtle signs in his face.
"What is it, Kungas?" she asked. "You've been preoccupied with something all night."
Kungas tapped the windowsill with his fingers. Irene stiffened, slightly. That was as close as the Kushan ever came to expressing nervous apprehension.
"What is it?" she demanded. "And don't tell any fables. You've got the jitters, I know you do. Something which involves me."
Kungas sighed. "There are disadvantages," he muttered, "to a smart woman." He turned away from the window and came back to the bed. Then, sitting on the edge, he gave Irene a level stare.
Abruptly: "I spoke to Kanishka and Kujulo today. About Peshawar, and my plans for the future."
She nodded approvingly. Kanishka and Kujulo were the key officers in the small army of Kushans serving Shakuntala. Irene had been pressing Kungas for weeks to raise the subject with them.
"And?" she asked, cocking her head.
"They have agreed to join me. They said, on balance, that they thought I would make a good king."