Belisarius I Thunder at Dawn

by David Drake

  Sanga began to protest. Damodara drove him down.

  "Nothing proves otherwise, Rana Sanga. Your suspicions were simply groundless. That is all." Another wave of his hand. The gesture done, the hand reached for a pastry.

  "There is no evidence," concluded Damodara. "Nothing solid. Nothing concrete."

  Satisfied—self-satisfied—Damodara popped the pastry into his mouth.

  "There is," grated Sanga. He reached into his tunic, brought forth a small pouch, opened it, and spilled its contents onto the table between them.

  An emerald. Small, but dazzling.

  Damodara choked on his pastry. Coughing, he reached for his tea and hastily washed his throat clear.

  "Rajput," he muttered, setting down the tea cup. He glared at the emerald.

  The glare was brief. When he looked up, Damodara was smiling again.

  "This, I presume, is the emerald which you say Belisarius gave the peddler? One of the emeralds from the Emperor's gift?"

  Sanga nodded stiffly.

  Damodara laughed. "What nonsense!" Shaking his head: "Any Rajput in the world can gauge a sword or a horse at a glance, but show them a jewel—"

  For all its plumpness, Damodara's hand moved like a lizard on a hot rock snatching an insect. The emerald disappeared into his own tunic. Sternly: "These counterfeiters! Shameless criminals! I shall report this latest outrage to the appropriate bureau in Kausambi upon my return." Again, the waving hand. "Whichever it is. I believe the Ranabhandagaradhikara's office in the treasury handles counterfeiting. Perhaps the police Bhukti. One of those small departments, buried somewhere in the Grand Palace. Staffed by somnolent dullards."

  The Rajput King's protest was cut short.

  "It is done, Rana Sanga! Finished. That is all."

  He rose. Sanga rose with him. The short Malwa commander stared up at the Rajput. He did not flinch in the least from the taller man's anger.

  "My name is Lord Damodara," he said softly. "And I have reached my conclusion."

  Still without moving his eyes from Sanga's hot gaze, Damodara leaned over and scooped up another pastry. Popped it in his mouth.

  "These are truly excellent," he mumbled. "Please give my compliments to your baker."

  Sanga was still glaring. Damodara sighed.

  "Rana Sanga, so far as Malwa is concerned, the truth is clear. Belisarius escaped—with his men—to the south. The royal couriers who were to have alerted the port garrisons were all ambushed along the way by savage Maratha brigands. So the wicked foreign general and his accomplices were able to make their escape on an Axumite ship waiting in the harbor. By predesign, undoubtedly. We have—had—a clear description of one of those accomplices from a naval officer who failed to stop the ship. A vivid description." Coldly: "For his failure to capture that ship, the naval officer has been executed. Along with the commander of Bharakuccha's garrison."

  Sanga snorted. Damodara, expressionless:

  "Impaled, both of them. At Lord Venandakatra's command, as soon as the Goptri arrived in Bharakuccha."

  Damodara, his face as blank as ice:

  "Upon my return, upon my demand, the officer in charge of the unit from which the Ye-tai murderer deserted will also be executed. For dereliction of his duty."

  He looked away. "I will not demand impalement. Beheading will suffice."

  Sanga's face twisted.

  Damodara murmured, "It has been done, and it will be done. Do not make those—sacrifices—vain exercises in murder, Rana Sanga. Please. Let it be."

  He laid a hand on Sanga's arm.

  "Now, I have news myself. I have been appointed head of the northern army for the upcoming Persian campaign. Lord Jivita, of course, will be in overall command."

  The Rajput glanced at him, stonily. Looked away.

  "I have requested—and my request has been approved—that most of the Rajput forces be assigned to my army. You—and your cavalry—in particular."

  Now, Sanga's eyes came back. Fixed.

  Damodara's lips quirked. "My official argument was that my army will be operating, more than any other, in broken country. Hence—so I argued—I require the bulk of our best cavalry units." He shrugged. "The argument is valid enough, of course. And it spared me the embarassment of explaining to Lord Jivita that I do not share his faith in the invincibility of gunpowder. Personally, I want good Rajput steel guarding my flanks, on the backs of good Rajput steeds."

  Sanga almost smiled. Not quite.

  Damodara's hand gave Sanga's arm a little shake. "I need you, Rana Sanga. Alive, healthy, and in command of your troops." He dropped the hand and turned away. "I will leave now. I have kept you from your family long enough."

  Rana Sanga escorted Damodara all the way to the courtyard. As he waited for his horse to be brought around, Damodara murmured his last words:

  "Do not fret over Belisarius' escape, Rana Sanga. Let it go. Leave it be. We will be seeing him again, anyway. Soon enough—too soon, for my taste. Of that I am as sure as the sunrise."

  "So am I," muttered Sanga, after Damodara left. "As sure as the sunrise." A rueful smile came to his face. "But, unfortunately, not as predictable."

  He turned back to his home. His wife and children were already rushing out the door, arms spread wide. All other emotions vanished, beyond simple joy in their loving embrace.

  A week later, on his way back to Kausambi, Lord Damodara and his escort came to the Jamuna River.

  Lord Damodara ordered a halt, and dismounted.

  "I have to piss," he announced to his soldiers. "Wait here," he commanded, waving his hand casually. "I can manage the task quite well myself."

  Once he reached the river, he paced a few feet along the bank, looking for a suitable spot. Having found it, Damodara went about his business.

  He was a practical man, Damodara. Malwa. He saw no reason not to complete two necessary chores simultaneously.

  He did have to piss, after all. While, in the middle of his urination, tossing a small emerald into a deep spot in the river.

  At the very moment when that emerald nestled into the mud of a riverbed, a ship nestled against a dock an ocean's width away. Sailors began to lay the gangplank.

  "There's your father," announced Garmat. The adviser pointed up the slope overlooking the harbor of Adulis. At the top of a steep stone stairway, a regal figure loomed.

  Axumites did not favor the grandiose imperial regalia of other realms. The negusa nagast wore a simple linen kilt, albeit embellished with gold thread. His massive chest was covered by nothing more than crossed leather straps sewn with pearls. A heavy gold collar circled his thick neck and five gold armbands adorned each of his muscular arms. On his head was a plain silver tiara, studded with carnelians, signifying his status as a king of kings. The tiara held in place the traditional phakhiolin, the four-streamered headdress which announced his more important position as king of the Axumites. In his right hand, Kaleb held the great spear of his office, with its Christian cross surmounted on the shaft; in his left, a fly-whisk. The spear, symbolizing his piety and power; the fly-whisk, his service to his people.

  Nothing more. Other than, of course, the gravity of his own figure—thick-shouldered, heavy-thewed, majestically-bellied—and the dignity of his own face. Glowering brow over powerful nose; tight lips; heavy, clenched jaws.

  "He looks grumpy," surmised Menander.

  "He looks downright pissed," opined Anastasius. "You'd think he already heard the bad news. His headstrong youngest son just got him in a war with the world's mightiest empire."

  "Of course he's heard!" cried Ousanas happily. "Look at his companion—the world's fastest bringer of bad news. Crooked Mercury himself!"

  Belisarius. Standing, now, next to the King. Smiling his crooked smile.

  "Damn," muttered Valentinian. "Rather face the King's glare than that smile, any day." Sigh: "Exciting adventures, coming up."

  Chapter 23

  Constantinople

  Winter 530 AD

 
; Five minutes into her meeting with Balban, Antonina knew that something was not right. The Malwa spymaster was not listening to her carefully enough.

  He seemed to be, true. To almost anyone but Antonina, Balban would have appeared to be the very model of attentiveness. He was sitting on the edge of his chair—almost perched, in fact—leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees. His eyes were riveted on the woman sitting across the small room from him. He was utterly silent, apparently engrossed in the information which Antonina was giving him.

  The information alone should have guaranteed his interest, even if it wasn't being imparted by a beautiful woman. The Malwa spymaster was learning every single detail of every current or planned troop movement of every Roman military unit of any consequence in Syria, the Levant and Egypt. For a man who stood at the very center of a plot to overthrow the Roman Emperor—a plot which was finally coming to fruition—such information was literally priceless.

  Wonderful information, too—in every respect. Wonderful, not just in the fact that he had it, but wonderful in its own right. The gist of Antonina's report was that no Roman military unit from the great southern and eastern provinces could possibly arrive in Constantinople in time to prevent the planned coup d'etat.

  But he was not paying any attention. Not to the information, at least.

  For a moment, Antonina wondered if Balban's indifference stemmed from his knowledge that everything she was telling him was a lie. In actual fact, Theodora had sent word to Daras weeks before that the plot was coming to a head. Antonina's grenadiers had been in Constantinople for ten days, disguised as pilgrim families. They, along with all the Thracian cataphracts, had been transported aboard a small fleet of swift transports. The units from Sittas and Hermogenes' armies, carried on slower grain ships, had just arrived the day before. They were still hidden in the holds of those ships, anchored in the Portus Caesarii.

  But Antonina dismissed that possibility almost instantly. She detected no hostility from Balban, not a trace—which she surely would have, did the spymaster suspect her duplicity.

  No, it was simply that Balban was not interested in the information, one way or the other. He did not disbelieve; but he did not believe, either. He simply didn't care.

  He was interested in her—in the same way that almost every man was, who found himself in her company. Few men of her acquaintance were able to ignore Antonina's beauty. That was just a simple fact of life.

  But, beyond that—nothing.

  Antonina was chilled to the bone. She realized exactly what was happening. And what was planned.

  They are going to kill me.

  Had Balban known how perfectly Antonina was reading him, he would have been absolutely shocked. The Malwa was a master of his trade. He would have sworn that no one could have detected a trace of murderous intent in his perfectly maintained composure.

  And, in truth, almost no one in the world could have done so. With the exception of a woman who, in her earlier days, had been one of the most exclusive and sought-after courtesans in the entire Roman empire.

  Antonina, unlike Balban, was not an expert in the subjects of espionage, and assassination. But she was an expert—one of the world's greatest experts, in fact—on the subject of men, and their moods. Her success as a courtesan had been partly due to her physical beauty, of course. But many women were beautiful. Antonina's great skill had been her ability to keep men interested. Not simply in her beauty, but in the pleasure of her company.

  Over the years, she had learned to detect the danger signs. Sooner or later—until she met Belisarius—the men who sought her company would lose interest. Not in her, necessarily. They might well retain a powerful desire for her body. But they would lose interest in her company.

  She had always been able to tell when that moment came. And she had always broken off such relationships immediately. Or, at least, as soon as she could do so gracefully.

  Her relationship with Balban had never been sexual in the least. But, with him too, that moment had come.

  In the brief time that it took to finish her report, she quickly assessed her options.

  They would not kill her in Balban's own villa. Of that, she was certain. The Malwa had always taken great pains to maintain a low profile in Constantinople. Even Irene, with all her expertise and the vast resources which Theodora had placed at her disposal, had only discovered the whereabouts of the Malwa military base a few days before. Balban had managed to smuggle several hundred elite Indian soldiers into the Roman capital—and keep them hidden, for weeks—without being spotted.

  Such a man would not risk drawing attention to himself at this penultimate hour.

  Nor, she thought, would he employ the services of Ajatasutra or any other Malwa agent. There was always the risk, should her assassination fail, that such agents might be captured and traced back to him.

  She would be murdered by Roman thugs, hired for the occasion through intermediaries.

  The streets of Constantinople had become increasingly rowdy over the past few days. The Hippodrome factions which had been bribed by the Malwa grew more assertive and self-confident by the hour. Gangs of Blue and Green thugs roamed freely, disrupting the capital's tranquillity with impunity. The military units stationed in Constantinople had withdrawn to their barracks—just as Irene had predicted months earlier. The officers in command of those units could sense the coming coup, and they intended to sit on the sidelines until the outcome was clear.

  Antonina was certain of the Malwa plan.

  It was already very late in the afternoon. By the time she left Balban's villa, it would be dusk. As instructed, she had come alone to the meeting, following the same route she always took. On her way back, she would be accosted by a gang of street thugs. Not closer than three blocks away, but not farther than six. The attack would take place near a deserted building or some other secluded location. She would be dragged off the street and taken out of sight. Then, she would be robbed, probably raped, and murdered. When her body was discovered—which might not be for days—the crime would be dismissed as an unfortunate episode during the current chaos.

  She managed, barely, not to heave a sigh of relief.

  Professional assassins, like Ajatasutra, were probably beyond her capability. Street thugs, she thought she could handle.

  Her mind now (more or less) at ease, Antonina had no difficulty getting through the final few minutes of her meeting with Balban. Her biggest problem was restraining her impatience at Balban's protracted social pleasantries. The hour ahead of her was dangerous in the extreme, but Antonina was the kind of person who just wanted to be done with it.

  As soon as possible, she rose and made her exit. Balban escorted her to the door. On the way, they passed Ajatasutra in the corridor. Antonina smiled at him pleasantly, and walked by without flinching. It was not easy, that—after all, she might be wrong.

  But Ajatasutra did nothing beyond return her nod with a polite smile.

  Balban opened the door, mumbling some final courtesies. Antonina strode through the courtyard to the open gate which led to the street beyond. Even before she passed through the gate, she heard the door close behind her.

  Balban, shaking his head, turned away from the door. To his surprise, Ajatasutra was still standing in the corridor.

  "A pity," muttered Balban. "Such a beautiful—"

  "She knows," hissed Ajatasutra.

  Balban blinked his eyes.

  "What?"

  "She knows," repeated the assassin.

  Balban frowned.

  "Why do you say that? I saw no indication that she had any suspicions at all."

  He made a little gesture at Ajatasutra.

  "And—just now—she walked right by you with hardly any notice."

  "That's the point," retorted the assassin. "That woman is not stupid, Balban. She knows exactly who I am. What I am. Every other time I've been in her company she always kept a close eye on me. It was a subtle thing, but—" Frustrated, he grop
ed for words. "I'm telling you—she knows."

  Balban hesitated. He turned his head, looking at the door. For a moment, it almost seemed as if he would reopen it. But the moment passed, quickly. Then, when Ajatasutra began to approach the door himself, Balban stayed him with a hand.

  The spymaster shook his head.

  "I think you're imagining things, Ajatasutra. But, even if you're not, there's nothing we can do about it."

  Balban scowled. "I think Nanda Lal's orders were an overreaction, anyway. The last thing I'm going to do—now, of all times!—is run any risk of exposing our mission."