by David Drake
The guardhouse was still ten yards distant. The sounds coming through the open door suddenly ceased.
Finally, finally, she reached the door. Shuffled into the guardhouse.
Stopped. Very abruptly. Behind her, the Maratha women bumped into her back. Tarabai and Ahilyabai peeked over the shorter shoulders of their Empress. Gasped. Gagged.
Shakuntala did not gasp, or gag. She made no sound at all.
Hers was a fierce, fierce heart. The ferocity of that heart, in the decades to come, would be a part of the legacy which she would leave behind her. A legacy so powerful that historians of the future, with a unanimity of opinion rare to that fractious breed, would call her Shakuntala the Great. But even that heart, at that moment, quailed.
The Kushans had gone through the Ye-tai like wolves through a flock of sheep. Like werewolves.
The floor was literally awash in blood. Not a single Ye-tai, so far as she could see, was still bodily intact. The barbarians were not simply dead. Their corpses were gutted, beheaded, amputated, cloven, gashed, sliced, ribboned. The room looked like the interior of a slaughterhouse. A slaughterhouse owned and operated by the world's sloppiest, hastiest, most maniacal butcher.
Her eyes met those of Kungas across the room. The commander of her bodyguard had a few bloodstains on his tunic and light armor, but not many. He was down on one knee, wiping his sword on a Ye-tai's tunic. His face, as always, showed nothing. Neither horror, nor fury, nor even satisfaction in a job well done. So might a mask of iron, suspended on a wall of brimstone, survey damnation and hellfire.
Strangely, then, the emotion which swept through Shakuntala's soul was love. Love, and forgiveness.
Not for Kungas, but for Rao. She had never, quite—not in the innermost recesses of what was still, in some ways, a child's heart—forgiven Rao. Forgiven him, for the months she had remained in captivity before he finally rescued her. Weeks, at the end, in Venandakatra's palace at Gwalior, while she paced the battlements and halls, guarded by Kungas and his Kushans, knowing—sensing—that Rao was lurking in the forest beyond. Lurking, but never coming. Watching, but never striking.
She had cursed him, then—somewhere in that child's innermost heart—for a coward. Cursed him for his fear of Kungas.
Now, finally, the curse was repudiated. Now, finally, she understood.
Understanding brought the Empress back. The child vanished, along with its quailing heart.
"Excellent," she said. "Very excellent."
Kungas nodded. His men smiled. None of them, she was relieved to see, was badly hurt. Only two were binding up wounds, and those were obviously minor.
Kungas jerked his head toward a door at the far end of the guardhouse.
"That leads into the armory itself. It is not barred."
"We must hurry," said Shakuntala. She eyed the floor, trying to find a way to cross without leaving her feet soaked with blood.
Two of the Kushan soldiers—grinning, now—solved the problem in the simplest way possible. They grabbed Ye-tai corpses and dumped them on the floor, forming a corduroy road of dead flesh.
Shakuntala, never hesitating, marched across that grisly path. More gingerly, her women followed.
By the time she passed through the far door, the Kushans were already spreading through the recesses of the armory, setting a perimeter. They knew, from a prior hasty reconnaissance, that there was another guardhouse on the opposite side of the huge brick building. Now, they were searching for the door leading to that guardhouse, and keeping a watch for any Ye-tai or Mahaveda who might chance to be in the armory itself.
The armory was uninhabited. They found the door. Behind it, the Kushans heard the sounds of Ye-tai. Idle sounds, barracks sounds. The barbarians had obviously heard nothing of the lethal struggle.
The Kushans relaxed, slightly. They set a watch on the door, leaving four of their number on guard, while the remainder sped about the task which had brought them there.
Shakuntala and her women were already prying open the lids of gunpowder baskets, using knives which had once belonged to Ye-tai guards. Following them, the Kushan soldiers upended the baskets and spread granular trails throughout the armory. Soon, very soon, every stack of baskets in the armory was united by a web of gunpowder on the floor. That work done, the Kushans seized racks of rockets hanging on the wall and positioned them in and around the gunpowder baskets.
"Enough," commanded Kungas. His voice, though quiet, carried well. Instantly, his men left off their labor and hurried back to the guardhouse. Hurried through, until stymied by the slow-moving women. At Shakuntala's irritated command, the Kushans picked up all of the women—including her—and carried them into the street. Carried them, at Shakuntala's command, down the street and into the alley. Only then, at her command, did they place the women on their feet.
Shakuntala looked back. Kungas was already halfway to the alley, walking backward, spilling a trail of gunpowder from a basket in his arms. The last of the gunpowder poured out of the basket just as he reached the alley.
"Do it," commanded Shakuntala. Kungas drew out the striking mechanism, bent down, operated it. Immediately, the gunpowder began a furious, hissing burn. The sputtering flame marched its crackling way toward the armory.
"Hurry," he growled. He did not wait for Shakuntala's command. He simply scooped her up in his arms and began racing down the alley. Behind him, his men followed his lead, carrying the Maratha women in that same loping run.
Shakuntala, bouncing up and down in his arms, was filled with satisfaction. But not entirely. There was still room in her heart for another emotion.
When the armory blew, two minutes later, the Empress was caught by surprise. Her frustrated mind had been elsewhere. Thinking about pantaloons.
Chapter 14
Belisarius was now fifty yard s from the barge, well into the mainstream of the Jamuna. He paused, treading water, to take his bearings. Slowly he circled, to examine his situation, beginning with the near shore.
He was safely out of range of lantern or torchlight from the wharf where Great Lady Holi's barge was moored. There was a bit of moonlight shimmering on the water, but not much. The moon was only the slimmest crescent. And, from the look of the clouds which were beginning to cover the sky, he thought there would soon be one of the downpours which were so frequent during the monsoon season. Visibility would be reduced almost to nothing, then.
All he had to fear, immediately, was being spotted from one of the oared galleys which patrolled the river. He could see several of those galleys, beating their way toward the wharf. The officers in command had obviously heard the commotion on the barge, and were coming to investigate.
Suddenly, a rocket was fired from the wharf. A signal rocket, Belisarius realized, watching the green burst in the sky when the rocket exploded, at low altitude. Another. Another.
Instantly, the galleys picked up the tempo of their oarstrokes. The officers commanding them were shouting commands. Belisarius could not make out the words, but their content was unmistakable. The galleys were converging rapidly on the wharf—and he could see new ones appearing, from all directions. Within seconds, no fewer than fourteen galleys were in sight.
He decided that he had time, finally, to shed his clothing. He needed to wait, anyway, to observe whatever search pattern the galleys would adopt.
It was the work of a minute to remove his clothing. Another minute, to remove his boots without losing them. Another minute, carefully, to make sure that the pouch carrying his small but extremely valuable pile of coins and gems was securely attached to his waist. Another minute, very carefully, to make sure the pouch containing the jewel was secure around his neck. A final minute, then, to tie all his clothing into a bundle, the boots at the center. Before doing so, he removed the little knife from its pouch and held it in his teeth. He might need that knife, quickly. It would be no use to him bundled away out of reach.
He finished the work by tying the sleeves of his tunic in a loop around
his neck. He would be able to tow his bundle of boots and clothing without obstructing his arms. The knife in his teeth would interfere, a bit, with his breathing. But there was nowhere else to put it.
Throughout, he had been keeping a close eye on the galleys. By the time he was finished, the small fleet of warcraft were moving away from the wharf. He could hear commands being shouted, but, again, could not make out the words.
There was no need. The search pattern which the Malwa adopted was obvious. Most of the galleys began rowing along the near shore, upstream and downstream of the Great Lady Holi's barge. Soldiers in the galleys were leaning over the sides, holding lanterns aloft. A matching line of torches was being carried along the south bank of the Jamuna, in the hands of soldiers searching the shore line.
Six of the galleys, however, began rowing their way out into the river. Belisarius was most interested in these craft. After a minute, watching, he understood the logic. Two of them would remain in the center of the river, patrolling in both directions. The other four were headed for the opposite shore, spreading out as they went. The Malwa were taking no chances. Clearly, they thought Belisarius was either staying by the south bank or had already gone ashore. But they would patrol the entire river, anyway.
He decided upon the galley farthest to his right. That galley was heading for the opposite shore, and it would reach the shore farther upstream than any other.
He began swimming toward it. He maintained the same powerful breaststroke. It was a relatively slow method—Belisarius was an excellent swimmer, and was quite capable of moving more rapidly in water—but it would be fast enough. And the breaststroke had several advantages. It was almost silent; it kept his arms and legs from flashing above the surface of the water; and—with the knife in his teeth—it enabled him to breathe easily.
Fortunately, the angle was good, and so he was able to position himself where he needed to be a full half-minute before the galley swept through the area. Treading water, directly in the galley's path, he waited. As he had hoped, the Malwa soldiers aboard the galley were not holding lanterns over the bow. The lanterns were being held toward the stern. The soldiers on that galley, like all the Malwa, did not really think that Belisarius had gone anywhere but the near shore. It was that south bank of the river that the soldiers were watching, even as they headed in the opposite direction.
The galley was almost upon him. Belisarius took a deep breath and dove below the surface. For a moment, he feared that the bundle he was towing might act as a buoy, hauling him back toward the surface. But his clothing was now completely waterlogged. If anything, the bundle simply acted as a weight.
Now, swimming below the barge, down its starboard side, Belisarius encountered the first snag in his hastily-improvised plan.
He was blind as a bat. He couldn't see a thing.
He had expected visibility to be limited, of course, at night-time. But he had thought he would be able to see enough to guide himself. What he hadn't considered, unfortunately, was the nature of the Jamuna itself.
This was no mountain stream, with clear and limpid waters. This was a great, murky, slow-moving valley river. Heavy with silt and mud. It was like swimming through a liquid coal mine.
He guided himself by sound and touch. To his left, he used the splashing oars as a boundary. To his right, stretching out his fingers, he groped for the planks of the hull.
He misgauged. Driven, probably, by an unconscious fear of his sudden blindness, he swam too shallow. His head, not his fingers, found the hull.
The impact almost stunned him. For a moment, he floundered, before he brought himself under control. Quickly, he found the hull with his fingers.
The wood planks were racing by. He heard a sudden dimunition in the sound of the oars, as if they had passed him.
Now.
He took the knife from his teeth and thrust it upward, praying the little blade wouldn't break. The tip sank into the wood. Not far—half an inch—but enough.
Using the knife to hold himself against the hull, Belisarius desperately sought the surface. He was almost out of air.
Again, he had misgauged. He was still too far from the stern. The side of his face was pressed against the hull. He could feel the surface of the water ruffling through his hair, but could not reach it to breathe.
He jerked the knife out, let the current carry him for a split second, stabbed again. The thrust, this time, was even feebler.
It was enough, barely. The blade held. He let the current raise him up against the hull. His head broke water.
His lungs felt like they were about to burst, but he took the time for a quick upward glance before taking a breath.
Finally, something went as planned. As he had hoped, he was hidden beneath the overhang of the stern. He opened his mouth and took a slow, shuddering breath, careful to make as little sound as possible.
For a minute, he simply hung there, breathing, resting. Then he took stock of his situation.
The situation was precarious. The knife was barely holding him to the hull. It could slip out at any moment. If it did, the galley would sweep forward, leaving him cast behind in its wake. He was not worried so much at being spotted, then, but he could not afford to lose the shelter of the galley. The shelter—and the relaxation. He had no desire to make the long swim to the opposite shore on his own effort. He could make it, yes, but the effort would leave him exhausted. He could not afford exhaustion. He still had many, many hours of exertion before him. A day, at least, before he could even think to rest.
He studied the underside of the galley, looking for a solid plank to replant the knife. He did not have to worry about interfering with a rudder. The galley did not use a rudder. Few ships did, in his day, other than the craft built by north European barbarians. Instead, the galley was steered by an oar. The oar was on the opposite side of the stern from where Belisarius was hidden. Like Romans, the Malwa hung their steering oars off the port side of the stern. Belisarius had chosen to swim down the starboard side precisely in order not to become fouled in that oar.
He heard a sudden, distant explosion. Then another.
Another. Another.
Now, a veritable barrage was rumbling across the river. The sound of the explosions had an odd, muffled quality.
Cautiously, he turned his head, raised it a bit. He could now see the nature of the activity on the shore behind him. The Malwa were casting grenades into the river. He watched several plumes of water spout from the surface.
Those grenades, he thought, could be dangerous to him.
A thought from Aide surfaced. The facets had restored their identity.
Depth-charges. Very dangerous. Water transmits concussion much better than air.
He caught a quick, gruesome image of his own body, ruptured, bleeding from a thousand internal wounds.
He shook the image off. First things first. For his immediate needs, the thunderous sound of the grenade blasts was a blessing. He jerked the knife out of the hull—paused a split-second, timing the galley's passage—and drove it upward again. The knife sank solidly into the thick plank. It—and he—were securely anchored.
That powerful knife-thrust, striking the wood, had been far from silent. But the noise was completely drowned under the cacophony of the grenade blasts—the more so since many of those blasts, now, were nearby. The Malwa soldiers on the galleys racing across the river were tossing their own grenades.
It was an absurd exercise, thought Belisarius. He did not know much about the effects of underwater explosions. But, no matter how effective concussion was in water, he did not believe the Malwa had more than a small portion of the grenades necessary to saturate the entire, vast sweep of the Jamuna.
The real problem, he knew, would come later. He could not stay hidden beneath the galley for long. At daybreak, he was sure to be spotted. And he needed to make his escape onto shore long before daybreak, anyway. He would need the hours of darkness to make his way safely out of the city.
&nb
sp; The fact that the Malwa grenades were no immediate danger to him, therefore, brought little consolation. If they maintained that barrage, he would be in danger the moment he left the galley and began swimming toward the far shore. Unless the galley actually docked at one of the wharves—which he doubted; none of the galleys on the opposite side were doing so—he would have to swim at least thirty yards to shore. The Malwa would be scanning the shore, by then. And, even if they did not spot him, they could kill him with one of the random grenades they were casting about.
He looked up at the sky. The cloud cover was advancing rapidly. He prayed for a downpour.
The galley continued its powerful sweeping progress across the Jamuna. It had reached the middle of the river.
Belisarius prayed for a downpour.
The galley began angling upstream, west by northwest. Now, it was a hundred yards from shore, and more than two hundred yards west of Great Lady Holi's barge on the opposite bank.