The Dance of Time: Chapter Sixteen

Peshawar

    “What if it’s in the middle of garam season?” Kungas asked skeptically, tugging at his little goatee. “The heat won’t be so bad, here in the Vale, although it will be if we descend into the Punjab. But I’m concerned about water.”

    Ashot started to say something, but Kungas waved him down impatiently. “Yes, yes, fine. If we make it to the Indus, we’ll have plenty of water. Even in garam.”

    He jerked his head toward a nearby window in the palace, which faced to the south. “I remind you, Ashot, that I have well over twenty thousand Malwa camped out there, just beyond the passes. Closer to thirty, I think. I’d have to get through them, before I could reach the Indus—with no more than twenty thousand men of my own. Less than that, actually, since I’d have to leave some soldiers here to keep the Pathans from getting stupid ideas.”

    Ashot said nothing. Just waited.

    Kungas went back to his beard-tugging.

    “The Malwa have stopped trying to break into the Vale. For weeks, now, they’ve been putting up their own fortifications. So I’d have to get through those, too.”

    Tug. Tug. Tug.

    “Piss-poor fortifications, true. Lazy Malwa. Also true that those are not their best troops. There are not more than three thousand Ye-tai in the lot. Still.”

    Tug. Tug. Tug.

    Eventually, Kungas gave Ashot his crack of a smile. “You are not trying to persuade me, I notice. Smart man. Let me persuade myself.”

    Ashot’s returning smile was a wider thing. Of course, almost anyone’s smile was wider than that of Kungas, even when the king was in a sunny mood.

    “The general is not expecting you to defeat those Malwa,” the Armenian cataphract pointed out. “If you can, splendid. But it would be enough if he knew you could tie them up. Keep them from being used elsewhere.”

    Kungas sniffed. “Marvelous. I point out to you that I am already tying them up and keeping them from being used against him. And have to do nothing more vigorous than drink wine and eat fruit in the doing.”

    He matched deed to word, taking a sip from his wine and plucking a pear from a bowl on the low table in front of the settee. The sip was very small, though, and he didn’t actually eat the pear. Just held it in his hand, weighing it as if it were the problem he confronted.

    Ashot started to open his mouth, then closed it. Kungas’ little smile widened slightly.

    “Very smart man. Yes, yes, I know—the general is assuming that if he produces enough of a crisis, the Malwa will draw their troops away from the Vale to reinforce the soldiers he faces. And he wants me to stop them from doing so, which—alas—I cannot do drinking wine and eating pears.”

    Kungas set the pear back in the bowl, rose and went to the window. On the way, almost absently, he gave his wife’s pony tail a gentle stroke. Irene was sitting on a chair—more like a raised cushion, really—at the same low table. She smiled at his passing figure, but said nothing.

    Like Ashot, she knew that the best way to persuade Kungas of anything was not to push him too hard.

    Once at the window, Kungas looked out over the Vale of Peshawar. Not at the Vale itself, so much as the mountains beyond.

    “How certain is Belisarius that such a crisis is coming?” he asked.

    Ashot shrugged. “I don’t think ‘certain’ is the right word. The general doesn’t think that way. ‘Likely,’ ‘not likely,’ ‘possible,’ ‘probable’—it’s just not the way his mind works.”

    “No, it isn’t,” mused Kungas. “As my too-educated Greek wife would put it, he thinks like a geometer, not an arithmetician. It’s the angles he considers, not the sums. That’s because he thinks if he can gauge the angle correctly, he can create the sums he needs.”

    The Kushan king’s eyes lowered, now looking at the big market square below. “Which, he usually can. He’d do badly, I think, as a merchant. But he’s probably the deadliest general in centuries. I’m glad he’s not my enemy.”

    Abruptly, he turned away from the window. “Done. Tell Belisarius that if the Malwa start trying to pull troops from the Vale, I will do my best to pin them here. I make no promises, you understand. No guarantees. I will do my best, but—I have a kingdom to protect also, now that I have created it.”

    Ashot rose, nodding. “That will be more than enough, Your Majesty. Your best will be more than enough.”

    Kungas snorted. “Such phrases! And ‘Your Majesty,’ no less. Be careful, Ashot, or your general will make you an ambassador instead of a soldier.”

    The Armenian cataphract winced. Irene laughed softly. “It’s not so bad, Ashot. Of course, you’ll have to learn how to wear a veil.”

    “I’m going with you,” Shakuntala announced. “And don’t bother trying to argue with me. I am the Empress.”

    Her husband spread his hands, smiling. A very diplomatic smile, that was.

    “I would not dream of opposing your royal self.”

    Shakuntala gazed up at him suspiciously. For a moment, her hand went to stroke her belly, although she never completed the gesture.

    “What’s this?” she demanded. “I was expecting a husband’s prattle about my duties as a mother. A lecture on the dangers of miscarriage.”

    The smile still on his face, Rao shrugged. “Bring Namadev, if you want to. Not much risk of disease, really, now that garam has started.”

    “Don’t remind me,” the Empress said. She moved over to a window in the palace and scowled out at the landscape of Majarashtra. The hills surrounding Deogiri shimmered in the heat, from hot air rising from the baked soil.

    Whatever else Indians disputed over, they all agreed that rabi was the best season, cool and dry as it was. One of India’s three seasons, it corresponded roughly to what other lands considered winter. Alas, now that they were in what Christians called the month of March, rabi had ended.

    Thereafter opinions diverged as to whether garam was worse than khalif, or the opposite. In Shakuntala’s opinion, it was a silly argument. Garam, obviously! Especially here in the Great Country!

    The monsoon season could be a nuisance, true enough, with its heavy rains. But she came from Keralan stock, on her mother’s side, and had spent a fair part of her childhood in Kerala. Located as it was on India’s southwest coast, Kerala was practically inundated during khalif. She was accustomed to rains far heavier than any that came here.

    In any event, stony and arid Majarashtra desperately needed the monsoon’s rainfall by the time it came. That began in what the Christians called “late May.” What the Great Country did not need was the dry and blistering heat of garam. Not for one day, much less the three months it would last.

    “I hate garam,” she muttered. “Especially in the palace. It will be good for me—our son too!—to get outside for a while.”

    “Probably,” Rao allowed. “You and Namadev will travel in a howdah, of course. The canopy will keep off the sun, and you might get some breeze.”

    Shakuntala turned away from the window and looked at him. “Are you really that sure, Rao? You are my beloved.”

    The expression that came to her husband’s face then reminded Shakuntala forcibly of the differences between them, however much they might love each other. Where she was young, Rao was middle-aged. And, perhaps even more importantly, he was a philosopher and she was... not.

    “Who can say?” he asked serenely.

    “You are relying too much on complicated logic,” she hissed. “Treacherous, that is.”

    “Actually, no. There is the logic of it, true enough. But, in the end...”

    He moved to the same window and gazed out. “It is more than I am swayed by the beauty of the thing. Whatever deities exist, they care not much for logic, for they treasure their whimsy. But they do love beauty. All of them—even the most bloody—will adore the notion.”

    “You are mad,” she stated, with the certainty of an Empress.

    Of course, she’d stated those words before. And been proven wrong.

    “Bring the baby too,” Rao said, tranquilly. “He will be in no danger.”

    Before nightfall, the promenade was over and Toramana returned to his own quarters.

    No sooner had the Ye-tai general entered his private sleeping chamber than the one sure and simple sign he’d expected made its appearance.

    Like a ghost, emerging from the wall. Toramana had no idea where the assassin had hidden himself.

    “I’m afraid I’ll need to sleep here,” Ajatasutra said. “Nanda Lal has spies almost everywhere.”

    Toramana’s lip curled, just a bit. “He had no spies here.”

    “No, not here.”

    “When?”

    “Four days. Though nothing will be needed from you immediately. It will take at least two days for Damodara to return.”

    Toramana nodded. “And then?”

    The assassin shrugged. “Whatever is necessary. The future is hard to predict. It looks good, though. I do not foresee any great difficulty.”

    Toramana began removing his armor. It was not extensive, simply the half-armor he wore on garrison duty. “No. There should be no great difficulty.”

    There was a thin, mocking smile on Ajatasutra’s face, as there often was. On another man’s face, that smile would have irritated Toramana, perhaps even angered him. But the Ye-tai general was accustomed to it, by now.

    So, he responded with a thin, mocking smile of his own.

    “What amuses you?” Ajatasutra asked.

    “A difficulty I had not foreseen, which I just now remembered. Nanda Lal once promised me that he would attend my wedding. And I told him I would hold him to it.”

    “Ah.” The assassin nodded. “Yes, that is a difficulty. A matter of honor is involved.”

    The armor finally removed and placed on a nearby stand, Toramana scratched his ribs. Even half-armor was sweaty, in garam.

    “Not that difficult,” he said.

    “Oh, certainly not.”

    He and Ajatasutra exchanged the smile, now. They got along very well together. Why not? They were much alike.

    Agathius was on the dock at Charax to greet Antonina and Photius and Ousanas when the Axumite fleet arrived.

    So much, Antonina had expected. What she had not expected was the sight of Agathius’ young Persian wife and the small mountain of luggage next to her.

    “We’re going with you,” Agathius announced gruffly, as soon as the gangplank was lowered and he hobbled across.

    He looked at Ousanas. “I hear you have a new title. No longer the keeper of the fly whisks.”

    “Indeed, not! My new title is far more august. ‘Angabo,’ no less. That signifies—”

    “The keeper of the crutches. Splendid, you can hold mine for a moment.” Agathius leaned his weight against the rail and handed his crutches to Ousanas. Then, started digging in his tunic. “I’ve got the orders here.”

    By the time Antonina stopped giggling at the startled expression on Ousanas’ face, Agathius was handing her a sheaf of official-looking documents.

    “Right there,” he said, tapping a finger on the name at the bottom. “It’s not a signature, of course. Not in these modern times, with telegraph.”

    He seemed to be avoiding her eyes. Antonina didn’t bother looking at the documents. Instead, she looked at Agathius’ wife, who was still on the dock and peering at her suspiciously.

    “I’ll bet my husband’s orders don’t say anything about Sudaba.”

    Agathius seemed to shrink a little. “Well, no. But if you want to argue the matter with her, you do it.”

    “Oh, I wouldn’t think of doing so.” Honey dripped from the words. “The children?”

    “They’ll stay here. Sudaba’s family will take them in, until we get back.” The burly Roman general’s shoulders swelled again. “I insisted. Made it stick, too.”

    Antonina was trying very hard not to laugh. Sudaba had become something of a legend in the Roman army. What saved Agathius from being ridiculed behind his back was that the soldiery was too envious. Sudaba never henpecked Agathius about anything else—and precious few of them had a young and very good-looking wife who insisted on accompanying her husband everywhere he went. The fact that Agathius had lost his legs in battle and had to hobble around on crutches and wooden legs only augmented that amatory prestige.

    Ousanas grinned and handed back the crutches. “’Angabo’ does not mean keeper of the crutches. It also doesn’t mean ‘nursemaid,’ so don’t ask me to take in your brats when you return. They’ll be spoiled rotten.”

    In a cheerier mood, now that he knew Antonina wouldn’t object to Sudaba’s presence, Agathius took back the crutches. “True. So what? They’re already spoiled rotten. And we’ll see how long that grin lasts. The Persians insist on a huge festival to honor your arrival. Well—Photius’ arrival, formally speaking. But you’ll have to attend also.”

    The grin vanished.

    There had never been a grin on the face of the Malwa assassination commander, or any of his men. Not even a smile, since they’d arrived at Charax.

    Any assassination attempt in Egypt had proven impossible, as they’d surmised it would be. Unfortunately, the situation in Charax was no better. The docks were still under Roman authority, and the security there was even more ferocious than it had been in Alexandria.

    True, for the day and half the festival lasted, their targets were under Persian protection. But if the Aryans were slacker and less well-organized than the Romans, they made up for it by sheer numbers. Worst of all, by that invariant Persian snobbery. Only Roman officials and Persian grandees and azadan—“men of noble birth”—were allowed anywhere in the vicinity of the Roman and Axumite visitors.

    With the resources available, in the time they had, there was no way for the assassins to forge documents good enough to pass Roman inspection. As for trying to claim noble Aryan lineage...

    Impossible. Persian documents were fairly easy to forge, and it would be as easy for some of the assassins to pass themselves off as Persians as polyglot Romans. But if Persian bureaucrats were easy to fool, Persian retainers were not. Tightly knit together by kinship as the great Persian families were, they relied on personal recognition to separate the wheat from the chaff—and to those keen eyes, the Malwa assassins were clearly chaff. If nothing else, they’d certainly insist on searching their luggage, and they’d find the bombard—a weapon that had no conceivable use except assassination.

    “No help for it,” the commander said, as he watched the Axumite war fleet leaving the harbor, with their target safely aboard the largest vessel. “We’ll have to try again at Barbaricum. No point even thinking about Chabahari.”

    His men nodded, looking no more pleased than he did. Leaving aside the fact that this mission had been frustrating from the very start, they now had the distinctly unpleasant prospect of voyaging down the Gulf in an oared galley. It was unlikely they’d be able to use sails, traveling eastbound, with monsoon season still so far away. And—worst of all—while they’d had enough money to afford a galley, they hadn’t been able to afford a crew beyond a pilot.

    Malwa assassins were expert at many things. Rowing was not one of them.

    “Our hands’ll be too badly blistered to hold a knife,” one of them predicted gloomily.

    “Shut up,” his commander responded, every bit as gloomily.