In the Heart of Darkness

by Eric Flint

  The death of arrogant lordlings was a thing to be treasured, true. But, at bottom, none of Constantinople's commoners thought Death was truly a friend. They were far too familiar with the creature.

  No, better to go and enjoy Antonina's parades. There was nothing, there, to frighten a child. Nothing, to worry a mother or bring a frown to a father's face. There was only—

  Triumph, in the victory of humble people.

  Enjoyment, in the constant and casual conversations with those simple grenadiers, and their wives. And their children, for those of an age—who gazed upon those lads and lasses with an adulation rarely bestowed upon rustics by cosmopolitan street urchins. But those were the children of grenadiers—a status greatly to be envied.

  And, most of all, a feeling of safety. Safety, in the presence of—her.

  She—the closest friend of the Empress. Whom all knew, or soon learned, was striving to hold back the imperial madness.

  She—who smote the treason of the mighty.

  She—who was of their own kind.

  She—who was the wife of Belisarius. Rome's greatest general, in this time of war. And Rome's sanest voice, in this time of madness.

  Belisarius had already been a name of legend, among those people. Now, the legend grew, and grew. His legend, of course. But also, alongside it—swelling it and being swollen by it—the legend of Antonina.

  "The whore," she had often been called, by Rome's upper crust.

  The populace of Constantinople had heard the name, in times past. Had wondered. Now, knowing, they rejected it completely.

  "The wife," they called her; or, more often, "the great wife."

  Her legend had begun with the words of a famous holy man, spoken in distant Syria. The grenadiers passed on his words to the people of Constantinople. The legend had expanded in a kitchen, here in the city itself. The grenadiers and the cataphracts told the tale.

  Soon enough, that pastry shop became a popular shrine in its own right. The shopkeeper grew rich, from the business, and was able to retire at an early age; but, an avaricious man, he complained to his dying day that he had been cheated out of his cleaver.

  The legend grew, and swelled. Then, five days after the crushing of the insurrection, Michael of Macedonia arrived in Constantinople. Immediately, he took up residence in the Forum of Constantine and began preaching. Preaching and sermonizing, from dawn to dusk. Instantly, those sermons became the most popular events in the city. The crowds filled the Forum and spilled along the Mese.

  He preached of many things, Michael did.

  Some of his words caused the city's high churchmen to gnash their teeth. But they gnashed them in private, and never thought to call a council. They were too terrified to venture out of their hiding places.

  But, for the most part, Michael did not denounce and excoriate. Rather, he praised and exhorted.

  The legend of Antonina now erupted through the city. So did the legend of Belisarius. And so, in its own way, did the legend of Theodora.

  By the end of the week, the overwhelming majority of Constantinople's simple citizens had drawn their simple conclusions.

  All hope rested in the hands of Belisarius and his wife. Please, Lord in Heaven, help them restore the Empress to her sanity.

  The great city held its breath.

  An Empress and Her Tears

  The Empress and her general gazed at each other in silence, until the servants placed a chair and withdrew.

  "Sit, general," she commanded. "We are in a crisis. With Justinian blinded, the succession to the throne is—"

  "We are not in a crisis, Your Majesty," stated Belisarius firmly. "We simply have a problem to solve."

  Theodora stared at him. At first, with disbelief and suspicion. Then, with a dawning hope.

  "I swore an oath," said Belisarius.

  Sudden tears came to the Empress' eyes.

  Not many, those tears. Not many at all. But, for Belisarius, they were enough.

  He watched his Empress turn away from Hell, and close its gate behind her. And, for the first time in days, stopped holding his own breath.

  "A problem to solve," he repeated, softly. "No more than that. You are good at solving problems, Empress."

  Theodora smiled wanly.

  "Yes, I am. And so are you, Belisarius."

  The general smiled his crooked smile. "That's true. Now that you mention it."

  Theodora's own smile widened. "Pity the poor Malwa," she murmured.

  "Better yet," countered Belisarius, "let us pity them not at all."

  A Man and His Purpose

  In the cabin of a ship, another Empress argued with a slave.

  "We will arrive in Muziris tomorrow. You must now decide. I need you, Dadaji. Much more than he does."

  "That may be true, Your Majesty." The slave shrugged. "The fact remains, he is my legal master."

  Shakuntala chopped her hand. "Malwa law. You were bought in Bharakuccha."

  Again, Holkar shrugged. "And so? The sale is legally binding anywhere in the world. Certainly in the Roman Empire. Malwa India has not, after all, been declared an outlaw state."

  The Empress glared. The slave held up a hand, trying to mollify her.

  "I am not quibbling over the fine points of law, Your Majesty. The truth is, even if the Malwa Empire were to be declared outlaw"—he chuckled—"although I'm not sure who would be powerful enough to do so!—I would still feel bound to my obligation."

  He took a deep breath. "I owe my life to the general, Empress. I was a dead man, when he found me. Still walking—still even talking, now and then—but dead for all that. He breathed life back into my soul. Purpose."

  Shakuntala finally saw her opening.

  "What purpose?" she demanded. "The destruction of Malwa, isn't it?"

  Dadaji leaned back. He and the Empress were seated, facing each other three feet apart, each on cushions, each in the lotus position. He eyed her suspiciously.

  "Yes. That. One other."

  Shakuntala nodded vigorously, pressing the advantage.

  "You can serve that purpose better as my imperial adviser than you can as his slave," she stated. "Much better."

  Holkar stroked his beard. The gesture, in its own way, illustrated his quandary.

  As a slave, he had been forced to shave his respectable beard. That beard, and the middle-aged dignity which went with it, had been restored by Belisarius. It was a symbol of all that he owed the general.

  Yet, at the same time—it was a badge of his dignity. Full, now; rich with the gray hairs of experience and wisdom. Foolish, really, to waste the beard and all it signified on the life of a slave. A slave who, as Shakuntala rightly said, was no longer of great use to his master.

  Stroke. Stroke.

  "How do you know I could serve you properly?" he demanded.

  Shakuntala felt the tension ease from her shoulders. Get the argument off the ground of abstract honor and onto to the ground of concrete duty, and she was bound to win.

  "You are as shrewd as any man I ever met," she stated forcefully. "Look how you managed this escape—and all the preparations which went into it. Belisarius always relied on you for anything of that nature. He trusted you completely—and he is immensely shrewd himself, in that way as well as others. I need men I can trust. Rely on. Desperately."

  Stroking his beard. "What you need, girl, is prestige and authority. An imperial adviser should be noble-born. Brahmin. I am merely vaisya. Low-caste vaisya." He smiled. "And Maratha, to boot. In most other lands, my caste would be ranked among the sudra, lowest of the twice-born."

  "So?" she demanded. "You are as literate and educated as any brahmin. More than most! You know that to be true."

  Holkar spread his hands. "What does that matter? The rulers and dignitaries of other lands will be offended, if your adviser does not share their purity. They would have to meet with me, privately and intimately, on many occasions. They would feel polluted by the contact."

  The Empress almost s
narled. "Damn them, then! If they seek alliance with me, they will have to take it as it comes!"

  Holkar barked a laugh.

  "Tempestuous girl! Have you already lost your wits—at your age? They will not be seeking alliance with you, Empress. They are not throneless refugees, hunted like an animal. You will be knocking on their doors, beggar's bowl in hand."

  With amazing dignity (under the circumstances; she was, after all, a throneless refugee): "I shall not."

  "You shall."

  "Shall not."

  Dadaji glowered. "See? Already you scorn my advice!" Shaking his finger: "You must learn to bridle that temper, Empress! You will indeed treat with possible allies with all necessary—I won't say humility; I don't believe in magic!—decorum."

  Glower.

  "And another thing—"

  Shakuntala spent the next hour in uncharacteristic silence, nodding her head, attending patiently to her new adviser. It was not difficult. His advice, in truth, was excellent. And she had no need to rein in her temper. Even if he had been babbling nonsense, she would have listened politely.

  She had her adviser. In fact, if not yet in name.

  At the end of that hour, Dadaji Holkar reined himself in. With a start of surprise.

  "You are a treacherous girl," he grumbled. Then, chuckling: "Quite well done, actually!" He gazed at her fondly, shaking his head with amusement.

  "Very well, Empress," he said. "Let us leave it so: I will send your request to Belisarius. If he agrees, I will serve you in whatever capacity you wish."

  Shakuntala nodded. "He will agree," she said confidently. "For reasons of state, if no other. But he will want to know—what do you wish? What will you tell him?"

  Holkar stared at her. "I will tell him that it is my wish, also." Then, still seated, he bowed deeply. "You are my sovereign, Empress. Such a sovereign as any man worthy of the name would wish to serve."

  When he lifted his head, his face was calm. Shakuntala's next words destroyed that serenity.

  "What is your other purpose?" she asked.

  Holkar frowned.

  "You said, earlier, that the destruction of Malwa was one of your purposes. One of two. Name the other."

  Holkar's face tightened.

  Shakuntala was ruthless.

  "Tell me."

  He looked away. "You know what it is," he whispered.

  That was true. She did. But she would force him to face it squarely. Lest, in the years to come, it gnawed his soul to destruction. Youth, too, has its bold wisdom.

  "Say it."

  The tears began to flow.

  "Say it."

  Finally, as he said the words, the slave vanished. Not into the new, shadow soul of an imperial adviser, but into what he had always been. The man, Dadaji Holkar.

  In the quiet, gentle time that followed, as a low-born Maratha sobbed and sobbed, his grey head cradled in the small arms of India's purest, most ancient, most noble line, the soul named Dadaji Holkar finished the healing which a foreign general had begun.

  He would help his sovereign restore her broken people.

  And he would, someday, find his broken family.

  A Family and Its Resolve

  Ironically, Dadaji Holkar had already found his family, without knowing it. He had even, without knowing it, helped them through their troubles.

  Standing next to the stablekeeper in Kausambi, watching the rockets flaring into the sky, he had been not half a mile from his wife. She, along with the other kitchen slaves, had been watching those same rockets from the back court of her master's mansion. Until the head cook, outraged, had driven them back to their duties.

  She had gone to those duties with a lighter heart than usual. She had no idea what that catastrophe represented. But, whatever it was, it was bad news for Malwa. The thought kept her going for hours, that night; and warmed her, a bit, in countless nights that followed.

  His son had actually seen him. In Bihar, rearing from his toil in the fields, his son had rested for a moment. Idly watching a nobleman's caravan pass on the road nearby. He had caught but a glimpse of the nobleman himself, riding haughtily in his howdah on the lead elephant. The man's face was indistinguishable, at that distance. But there was no mistaking his identity. A Malwa potentate, trampling the world.

  The overseer's angry shout sent him back to work. The shout, combined with the sight of that arrogant lord, burned through his soul. From months and months of hard labor, the boy's body had grown tough enough to survive. But he had feared, sometimes, that he himself was too weak. Now, feeling the hardening flame, he knew otherwise.

  Stooping, he cursed that unknown Malwa, and made a solemn vow. Whoever that stinking lord was, Dadaji Holkar's son would outlive him.

  Holkar had not come as close to his daughters. As planned, Shakuntala and her companions had taken a side road before reaching Pataliputra. They had no desire to risk the swarming officialdom in that huge city, and so they had bypassed it altogether.

  Still, they had passed less than fifteen miles to the south. Thirteen miles, only, from the slave brothel where his daughters were held.

  In a way, Dadaji had even touched them. And his touch had been a blessing.

  The soldiers at the guardpost where Shakuntala had browbeaten the commanding officer, had contributed to his humiliation later. The bribe had been very large, and their officer was a weakling. An arrogant little snot, whom they had browbeaten themselves into a bigger cut than common soldiers usually received. With their share of the bribe, they had enjoyed a pleasant visit to the nearest brothel, on the southern outskirts of the city. They had had money to burn.

  Money to burn, and they spent it all. Gold coin from the hand of Dadaji Holkar had found its way into the hands of his daughters' pimps. The girls were popular with the soldiers, and they had paid handsomely.

  It cannot be said that the soldiers were popular with the girls. None of their customers were. But, in truth, Holkar's daughters had been relieved to spend two days in their exclusive company. The soldiers were not rough with them; and, young men, unjaded, were not given to the bizarre quirks that some of the local merchants and tradesmen preferred.

  After the soldiers left, their pimps informed the girls that they had decided to turn down the various offers which had come in for their purchase, from other brothels. Holkar's daughters had known of those offers, and dreaded them, for they would result in separation.

  But the pimps had decided to keep them. They were popular with the soldiers. Steady business.

  The brothel-keeper even tossed them one of the coins. A bonus, he said, for good work.

  That coin, in the endless time which followed, was his daughters' secret treasure. They never spent it. Sometimes, late at night, in the crib they shared, the girls would bring the coin from its hiding place and admire it, holding hands.

  It was their lucky coin, they decided. So long as they had it, they would be together. The family of Dadaji Holkar would still survive.

  An Empress and Her Decision

  As she watched Dadaji's tears soak her royal skin, the Empress Shakuntala made her own decision. And reaffirmed a vow.

  She had never thought much about purity and pollution, in her short life. She had resented the caste system, half-consciously, for the many ways it constrained her. Had even hated it, half-consciously, for the inseparable barrier which it placed between her and her most precious desire. But she had never really thought about it, before. It had simply been there. A fact of life, like the three seasons of India.

  She began to think about it, now. Her thoughts, unlike her heart, were very unclear. She was young. Rao, in times past, had tried to teach her some aspects of philosophy, and devotion. But the girl she had been had not taken to those lessons kindly. His soft words had met none of the enthusiastic attention which had greeted his training in other, much harder, fields.

  Now, she began to think, and learn.

  She had learned this much, already. Watching a foreign general,
she had seen Rao's forgotten lessons come to life. Hard fists, and harder steel, were like snow at the foot of mountains. Mountains called minds, which produced that snow, and then melted it when they so desired. Only the soul matters, in the end. It towers over creation like the Himalayas.

  She made her decision. As she rebuilt Andhra, she would gather what there was of human learning and wisdom around her throne. She would not only rebuild the stupas, the viharas. She would not simply recall the philosophers, and the sadhus, and the monks. She would set them to work—mercilessly—driving them one against the other. Clashing idea against idea like great cymbals, until truth finally emerged.

  That doing, of course, required another. And so, watching her purity imperilled by the racking tears of the low-born man in her arms, and drawing strength from that pollution, she reaffirmed her vow.

  I will make Malwa howl.

  An Empire and Its Howl

  Malwa was howling. As yet, however, only in the privacy of the Emperor's chambers. And only, as yet, howling with rage. Fear was still to come.

  The rage blew inward, centered on Malwa itself. The fate of Lord Venandakatra hung in the balance.

  "I always told you he was a fool," snarled Nanda Lal. "He's smart enough, I admit. But no man's intelligence is worth a toad's croak if he cannot restrain his lusts and vanities."

  "You can no longer protect him, Skandagupta," stated Sati. "You have coddled him enough. He—not the underlings he blames—is responsible for Belisarius. For Shakuntala. Recall him. Discipline him harshly."

  Link, then, was all that saved Venandakatra from disgrace. Or worse.

  "NO. YOU MISS THE GREAT FRAMEWORK. VENANDAKATRA WAS JUST APPOINTED GOPTRI OF THE DECCAN. TO RECALL HIM IN DISGRACE WOULD HEARTEN THE MARATHA. SHAKUNTALA IS IMPORTANT, BUT SHE IS NOT AS IMPORTANT AS HER PEOPLE. BREAK THAT PEOPLE, YOU BREAK HER."

  The Malwa bowed to their overlord.

  "BREAK MAJARASHTRA. TERRORIZE THE MARATHA MONGRELS, TILL THEIR BASTARDS WHISPER FEAR FOR A MILLENIUM. PULVERIZE THAT POLLUTED FOLK."