In the Heart of Darkness

by Eric Flint

  Glaring, now, and tugging fiercely on his bandage:

  "And what else?"

  Sanga shrugged. "With Belisarius, who knows? I would trace everything back to the beginning, from the day he arrived in India. I can see no connection, but—I always wondered, Nanda Lal. Exactly how did Shakuntala escape from Venandakatra's palace?"

  Jivita interrupted, his voice full of irritation:

  "What is the point of this, Rana Sanga? Everybody knows how she escaped. That fiend Rao butchered her guards and took her away."

  Rana Sanga stared at him. He managed to keep any trace of contempt out of his face.

  "So? Have you ever spoken—personally—to the Pathan trackers who were with the Rajputs who tried to recapture Rao and the princess?"

  Jivita drew back haughtily.

  "That is hardly my—"

  "No, he didn't," interrupted Nanda Lal. "Neither did I. Should I have?"

  Sanga shrugged. "Every Pathan tracker claimed there was only one set of footprints to be found, not two. A man's footprints. No trace of a woman at all." Sanga stroked his beard. "And that's not the only peculiar thing about that escape. I know none of the details, but—again, I have wondered. How did one man kill all those guards? Excellent guards, I would assume?"

  He caught the odd look in Nanda Lal's eyes.

  "Tell me," he commanded.

  "She was being guarded by priests and mahamimamsa," muttered Nanda Lal.

  "What?" erupted Sanga. "Who in their right mind would set any but the finest soldiers to guard someone—from Rao?" For the second time that day, Sanga lost his temper. "Are you Malwa all mad?" he roared. "I have fought Raghunath Rao in single combat! He was the most terrifying warrior I ever encountered!"

  The Malwa in the room, for all their rank, almost cringed. They knew the story. All of India knew that story.

  "From Raghunath Rao? You—you—imbeciles—thought to guard Shakuntala from Rao—with priests? Stinking torturers?"

  Jivita tried to rally his Malwa outrage, but the attempt collapsed under the sheer fury of the Rajput's glare. Lord Damodara coughed apologetically.

  "Please, Rana Sanga! It was Lord Venandakatra's decision, not ours. He was concerned about the girl's purity, it seems. So he put her in the custody of sworn celibates instead of—"

  It was almost comical, the way Damodara and Nanda Lal's jaws dropped in unison.

  "—instead of an elite Kushan unit," finished Nanda Lal, hoarsely.

  "Commanded by a man named Kungas, as I recall," croaked Damodara. "I am not certain."

  Sanga snorted. "You can be certain of it now, Lord Damodara. Investigate! You will find, I imagine, that these Kushans were removed just before Shakuntala escaped. And just before Belisarius himself arrived at the palace, if memory serves me correctly."

  "It does," hissed Nanda Lal. The spymaster almost staggered.

  "Gods in heaven," he whispered. "Is it possible? How—there was no connection, I am certain of it. But the—coincidence." He looked to the Rajput, appeal in his eyes. "How could any man be so cunning as to manage that?" he demanded.

  Sanga made a chopping gesture with his hand. "If any man could, it is Belisarius. Investigate, Nanda Lal. For the first time, assume nothing. Look for treasure, and mysterious Ye-tai and Kushans who appear and disappear. And, most of all—look for the Princess Shakuntala." He turned away, growling: "But that is your job, not mine. I have a Roman to catch."

  "A fiend!" cried Nanda Lal.

  "No," murmured Sanga, leaving the room. "A fiendish mind, yes. But not a fiend. Never that."

  * * *

  Nanda Lal did investigate, thoroughly and relentlessly. He was an immensely capable man, for all his Malwa arrogance. And his natural tenacity was fueled by a burning hatred for all things remotely connected to Belisarius. Once Nanda Lal set himself to the task—and, for the first time, without careless prior assumptions—he solved the riddle within two days. Most of it, at least. All of it, he thought.

  Some weeks later, an inn beside the Ganges was blessed beyond measure. It was a poor inn, owned by a poor Bengali family. Their only treasure, the innkeeper liked to say, was the sight of the mighty Ganges itself, pouring its inexorable way south to the Bay of Bengal.

  (The sacred Ganges, he would say, in the presence of his immediate family, as he led them in secret prayers. He and his family still held to the old faith, and gave the Mahaveda no more than public obeisance.)

  That poor family was rich tonight, as northern Bengali measured such things. The nobleman was most generous, and his wife even more so.

  She spoke little, the noblewoman—properly, especially for a wife so much younger than her husband—but her few words were very kind. The innkeeper and his family were quite taken by her. The nobleman, for all his cordiality and good manners, frightened them a bit. He had that pale, western look to his features. That Malwa look. (They did not think he was Malwa himself, but—high in their ranks. And from western India, for certain. That cruel, pitiless west.)

  But his wife—no, she was no Malwa. No western Indian. She was as small as a Bengali, and even darker. Keralan, perhaps, or Cholan. Whatever. One of them, in some sense. Bengalis, of course, were not Dravidians, as she obviously was. More of the ancient Vedic blood flowed in their veins than in the peoples of the southern Deccan. But not all that much more; and they, too, had felt the lash of purity.

  The next morning, after the rich nobleman and his retinue departed, the innkeeper told his family they would close the inn for a few days. They had not been able to afford a vacation for years. They would do so now, after bathing in the sacred Ganges.

  The innkeeper and his wife remembered the few days which followed as a time of rare and blessed rest from toil. Their brood of children remembered it as the happiest days of their happy childhood.

  Happy, too, was the innkeeper and his wife, after their return. When their neighbors told them, hushed and fearful, of the soldiers who had terrorized the village the day before. Shouting at folk—even beating them. Demanding to know if anyone had seen a young, dark-skinned woman accompanied by Kushan soldiers.

  Something stirred, vaguely, in the innkeeper's mind. But he pushed it down resolutely.

  None of his business. He had not been here to answer any questions, after all. And he certainly had no intention of looking for the authorities.

  So, in the end, Nanda Lal would fail again.

  Partly, because he continued to make assumptions even when he thought he wasn't. He assumed, without thinking about it, that a fleeing princess and her soldiers would seek the fastest way out of the Malwa empire. So he sent a host of soldiers scouring north India in all directions, looking for a young woman and Kushans on horseback.

  Neither a pious innkeeper on vacation, nor a young officer hiding his humiliation, nor any of the other folk who might have guided the Malwa to Shakuntala, made the connection.

  And the one man who could, and did, kept silent.

  When Malwa soldiers rousted the stablekeeper in Kausambi, and questioned him, he said nothing. The soldiers did not question him for very long. They were bored and inattentive, having already visited five stables in the great city that morning, and with more to come. So the stablekeeper was able to satisfy them soon enough.

  No, he had not seen any young noblewoman—or soldiers—leaving on horseback.

  He could not tell the difference between Kushans and any other steppe barbarians, anyway. The savages all looked alike to him.

  The soldiers, peasants from the Gangetic plain, smiled. Nodded.

  He had seen nothing. Heard nothing. Knew nothing.

  The soldiers, satisfied, went on their way.

  The plans and schemes of tyrants are broken by many things. They shatter against cliffs of heroic struggle. They rupture on reefs of open resistance. And they are slowly eroded, bit by little bit, on the very beaches where they measure triumph, by countless grains of sand. By the stubborn little decencies of humble little men.

  Chap
ter 20

  On his way through the Panther Gate, just as he had promised Lord Jivita, Rana Sanga disciplined the soldiers who had allowed Belisarius to leave the city. "Give them lashes," Jivita had demanded, specifying the plural.

  Sanga's word, as always, was good.

  Two lashes, each. From his own quirt, wielded by Rajputana's mightiest hand. It is conceivable that a fly might have been slain by those strokes. It is conceivable.

  Once he and his cavalry unit were outside the walls of the capital, Sanga conferred with his lieutenants and his chief Pathan tracker as they rode westward. The conference was very brief, since the fundamental problem of their pursuit was obvious to anyone who even glanced at the countryside.

  The Gangetic plain, after a week of heavy rainfall, was a sea of mud. Any tracks—tracks even a day old, much less eight—had been obliterated. The only portion of the plain which was reasonably dry was the road itself. A good road, the road to Mathura, but the fact brought no comfort to the Rajputs. Many fine things have been said about stone-paved roads, but none of them has ever been said by Pathan trackers.

  "No horse even leave tracks this fucking idiot stone," groused the Pathan. "No man on his foot."

  Sanga nodded. "I know. We will not be able to track him until we reach Rajputana. Not this time of year."

  The Rajput glanced up, gauging. The sky was clear, and he hoped they had reached the end of the kharif, India's wet season. The kharif was brought by the monsoon in May, and lasted into September. It would be succeeded by the cool, dry season which Indians called rabi. In February, then, the blistering dry heat of garam season would scorch India until the monsoon.

  Jaimal echoed his own thoughts:

  "Rabi is almost here. Thank God."

  Sanga grunted approvingly. Like most Indians, rabi was his favorite season.

  "There is no point in looking for tracks," he announced. "But we have one advantage, here in the plain—there are many travelers on the road. They will probably have noticed a single Ye-tai. Anyone Belisarius encountered in his first days of travel will be long gone, by now. But we can hope, in two or three days, to start encountering people who saw him."

  "The soldiers in the courier relay stations may have spotted him," commented Udai. "They have nothing else to do except watch the road."

  "True," said Sanga. "We can make it to the first relay station by mid-afternoon. Udai may well be right—the soldiers may have spotted him. Let's go!"

  "Are you sure it is them?" asked the crouching young warrior, peering down into the ravine.

  "Oh, yes," said Rao. "Quite sure. I only met one of them, but he is not the sort of man you forget."

  The Maratha chieftain rose from his hiding place behind a boulder. The armored horseman leading the small party through the trail below immediately reined in his horse. Rao was impressed by the speed with which the man unlimbered his bow.

  He probably shoots well, too. Let's not find out.

  "Ho—Ousanas!" he bellowed. "Do you still maintain the preposterous claim that all appearance is but the manifestation of eternal and everlasting Forms?"

  The reply came instantly:

  "Of course! You are the living proof yourself, Raghunath Rao, even where you stand. The very Platonic Form of a sight for sore eyes."

  The young guerrillas lining the ravine where Rao had set his ambush—friendly ambush, to be sure; but Rao never lost the chance for training his young followers—were goggling.

  They were provincials, almost without exception. Poor young villagers, most of whom had never seen any of the world beyond the hills and ridges of the Great Country. The Romans were odd enough, with their ugly bony faces and sick-looking pallid complexions. The Ethiopians and Kushans were even more outlandish. But the other one! A tall half-naked man, black as a cellar in night-time—arguing philosophy with Rao himself!

  A maniac. Obvious.

  "Oh, Christ," muttered Valentinian, replacing his bow. "Another philosopher. Maniacs, the lot of 'em."

  In truth, Valentinian was finding it hard not to goggle himself. Finally, after all these months, he had met the legendary Raghunath Rao. And—

  The man was the most ordinary looking fellow he had ever seen! Valentinian had been expecting an Indian version of Achilles.

  He studied Rao, now standing atop the boulder some thirty feet away and ten feet up the side of the ravine.

  Shortish—by Roman standards, anyway. Average size for a Maratha. Getting a little long in the tooth, too. Must be in his early forties. Well-built, true—no fat on those muscles—but he's no Hercules like Eon. I wonder—

  Rao sprang off the boulder and landed lithely on the floor of the ravine ten feet below. Two more quick, bounding steps, and he was standing next to Valentinian's horse. Smiling up at him, extending a hand in welcome.

  Mary, Mother of God.

  "The Panther of Majarashtra," Valentinian had heard Rao called. He had dismissed the phrase, in the way veterans dismiss all such romantic clap-trap.

  "Be polite, Valentinian," he heard Anastasius mutter. "Please. Be polite to that man."

  The bodies had been rotting for days, with only two small windows to let air through the thick mudbrick walls. The stench was incredible.

  "He's a demon," snarled Udai. "Only a soulless asura would—"

  "Would what, Udai?" demanded Sanga.

  The Rajput kinglet gestured to the pile of festering corpses.

  "Kill enemies? You've done as much yourself."

  Udai glared. "Not like this. Not—"

  "Not what? Not from ambush? I can remember at least five ambushes which you laid which were every bit as savage as this one."

  Udai clamped his lips shut. But he was still glaring furiously.

  Sanga restrained his own temper.

  "Listen to me, Udai," he grated. Then, his hard eyes sweeping the other Rajputs in the room:

  "All of you. Listen. It is time you put this—this Malwa superstition—out of your minds. Or you will never understand the nature of this enemy."

  He paused. When he was certain that he had their undivided attention—not easy, that; not in a charnelhouse—he continued. His voice was low and cold.

  "Some of you were there, in the Emperor's pavilion, when Belisarius ordered his cataphract to execute the prisoners. Do you remember?"

  Jaimal and Pratap nodded. The other four Rajputs, after a moment, nodded also. They had not seen, themselves, but they had heard.

  Sanga waved at the bodies heaped in a corner of the relay station.

  "This is the same man. The Malwa think—did think, at least—that he was a weakling. Full of foolish soft notions. Not ruthless, like them. Not hard."

  A soft chuckle came from the Pathan tracker kneeling by the bodies. "Did really?" he asked. Then rose, his examination complete.

  "Well?" demanded Sanga.

  "Soldiers all kill same time." The tracker pointed to a crude table collapsed against one of the relay station's mudbrick walls. One of the table's legs was broken off cleanly; another was splintered. Stools were scattered nearby on the packed-earth floor.

  "Come through door. Think at night. Quick, quick, quick. Soldiers eat. Surprise them at sitting."

  He pointed to the blackened, dried bloodstains on the floor, the wall, the table, the stools. Scattered pieces of food, now moldy.

  "That was battle." Indifferent shrug. "Not much. Think two soldiers draw weapon before die. Maybe three. Do no good. Sheep. Butchered."

  He paced back to the pile of bodies.

  "Then wait for couriers. Eat soldier food while wait. Pack away other food. Round up horses in corral. Make ready."

  The Pathan bent over and seized one of the corpses. With a casual jerk, he spilled the rotting horror onto the floor. The impact, slight as it was, ruptured the stomach wall. Half-liquid intestines spilled out, writhing with maggots. The Pathan stepped back a pace, but showed no other reaction.

  "First courier. Tortured."

  He leaned over the putri
d mess, picked up a wrist, waved the hand. The thumb fell off. The index and middle fingers were already missing.

  "Two finger cut off. Want information. How many courier come after?"

  He dropped the hand, straightened.

  "Good method. Cut one, say: `Tell, or cut two.' Cut two, say: `tell, or cut three.' That mostly enough. Good method. Very good. Quick, quick. Have use myself."

  The Pathan turned away. To those who did not know him, his callous attitude was appalling. To those who did know him, it was considerably worse.

  "Wait again. Next courier." He pointed to one of the bodies in the livery of the royal courier service.

  "No torture. No need. He tell, die."

  He pointed to the third courier.

  "Last one. No torture. No need. He tell, die."

  The Pathan glanced at the far door, which led to the corral where the spare horses were kept. Had been kept.

  "Then put courier horses to corral. Tired horses. No good. Take all other horses. Fed, rested. Five horses. Good horses. Leave."

  Finished with his report, the tracker planted his hands on hips and surveyed the entire scene.

  "Very fine man!" grunted the tracker. "Quick, quick. No stupidityness. Would adopt into own clan."

  Sanga allowed his subordinates to digest the information a moment, before continuing.

  "Never make that mistake again," he growled. "That Malwa mistake. He is not a cruel man, Belisarius. Of that I am quite certain. But no mahamimamsa who ever lived can match him for ruthlessness when he needs to be. The man is as quick and shrewd as a mongoose. And just as deadly. How much mercy does a mongoose give a cobra?"

  Jaimal grunted. Sanga drove on:

  "There's another lesson. He is not a devil, but he has a devil's way of thinking. Consider how bold and cunning this move was. After his men created a diversion and led all of us on a wild goose chase, Belisarius marched out of Kausambi—openly—disguised as a Ye-tai." He cast a cold eye sideways. "Three guesses how he got the Ye-tai's uniform, Udai?"