The Dance of Time: Chapter Twenty One

Bharakuccha

    The soldiers along the battlements were so excited they weren’t even trying to maintain disciplined formations. The closer Lord Damodara’s army came to the gates of Bharakuccha, they more excited they got. By now, most of them were shouting.

    Malwa’s soldiers hated service in the Great Country. The war against the Marathas had been a savage business. But now, it seemed, it was finally over.

    “A great victory, clearly,” commented Toramana to Nanda Lal. “Look at those skin-sacks! Dozens of them. That must be Raghunath Rao’s, floating from Rana Sanga’s lance.”

    Nanda Lal squinted into the distance. “Yes, probably...”

    It was frustrating! A properly prepared skin-sack had all its holes sewed up, so the skin could be filled with air. Thus buoyant and bloated, it swung gaily in the breeze, like a paper lantern. Best of all, the features could be distinguished. Grossly deformed, of course, but still made out clearly enough. Even all these years later, the face of the former emperor of Andhra was recognizable, where he hung in the great feasting hall of the imperial palace at Kautambi.

    These skin-sacks, however, were limp and flaccid. Simply the flayed pelts of men, flapping like streamers and quite unrecognizable as individuals. No way to avoid it, of course. A field army like Damodara’s simply wasn’t equipped to do the work properly. Flaying skin came naturally enough to soldiers. Careful sewing did not.

    No matter, in and of itself, as long as the skins weren’t too badly damaged. Once the sacks arrived in the city, they could be salvaged and redone correctly. Nanda Lal was simply frustrated because he was a man who liked to know, not guess.

    The Malwa spymaster squinted at the other skin-sacks hanging from the lances toward the fore of the army. Even without being properly inflated, the dugs of a female sack should be easy enough to discern. Damodara and Rana Sanga and the lead elements of the army were quite close, now. In fact, the gates to the city were already opening.

    Toramana had apparently spotted the same absence. “Shakuntala must have escaped. If she was even there at all.”

    Nanda Lal grunted. He was...

    Not happy, he realized.

    Why? It was indeed a great victory. If Raghunath Rao’s skin was among those—and who else’s would be hanging from Rana Sanga’s own lance?—the Maratha rebellion that had been such a running wound in the side of Malwa was effectively over. No doubt, small and isolated bands of rebels would continue to fight. But with Rao dead and the main Maratha army broken, they would soon degenerate into simple banditry. No more than a minor nuisance.

    Even assuming that Shakuntala had escaped, that was no great problem either. With her rebellion broken, she would simply become one of the world’s petty would-be rulers, of which there were a multitude. In exile at Constantinople, she would be no threat to anyone beyond Roman imperial chambermaids.

    And, who knew? With the lapse of enough time, it might be possible for a Malwa assassination team to infiltrate the Roman imperial compound, kill her, and smuggle out the corpse. The day might come when Shakuntala’s skinsack hung also from the rafters of Skandagupta’s feasting hall, swaying in the convivial breeze of the celebrants below alongside her father’s and mother’s.

    Yet, he was not happy. Definitely not.

    The death of a couple of his telegraph operators bothered him, for one thing. That had happened two days ago. A simple tavern killing, to all appearances. Eyewitnesses said the men got into a drunken brawl over a prostitute and stabbed each other. But...

    A sudden fluke of the wind twisted the skinsack hanging from Sanga’s lance. For the first time, Nanda Lal was able to see the face clearly.

    He froze. Paralyzed, for just that moment.

    Toramana spotted the same thing. A warrior, not a spymaster, he reacted more quickly.

    “Treachery,” he hissed. The sword seemed to fly into his hand. “Lord, we have a traitor among us.”

    “Yes,” snarled Nanda Lal. “Close the gates. Call—”

    There was no pain, really. Or, perhaps, agony so great it could not register as such.

    Nanda Lal stared down at the sword Toramana had driven into his belly. So deeply, he knew the tip must be sticking out from his back. Somewhere about the kidney area. The long-experienced torturer’s part of his mind calmly informed him that he was a dead man. Two or three vital organs must have been pierced.

    With a jerk of his powerful wrist, Toramana twisted the sword to let in air and break the suction. Then, his left hand clenched on Nanda Lal’s shoulder, drew the blade back out. Blood spilled down out like a torrent. At least one artery must have been severed.

    That hurt. But all Nanda Lal could do was gasp. He still seemed paralyzed.

    Unfairest of all, he thought, was that Toramana had stepped aside so deftly that only a few drops of the blood had spattered his tunic and armor.

    Nanda Lal saw the sword come up, for a mighty blow. But could not move. Could only clutch the great wound in his stomach.

    “Your head’ll do,” said Toramana. He brought the sword around and down.

    Sanga had been watching, from under the edge of his helmet. The moment he saw Toramana strike, he spurred his horse forward. An instant later, the two hundred Rajputs who followed him did likewise.

    By the time they reached the gate, now standing wide, they were at a full gallop. The dozen or so Malwa soldiers swinging open the gates gaped at them.

    Not for long. Hundreds of war horses approaching at a gallop at a distance measured in mere yards is a purely terrifying sight. Even to soldiers braced and ready for the charge, with pikes in their hands. These garrison soldiers, expecting nothing but a celebration, never thought to do anything but race aside.

    By then, Toramana was bringing his Ye-tai contingents under control. They were caught just as much by surprise, since he’d taken none of them into his confidence.

    But it didn’t matter, as he’d known it wouldn’t. Confused men—soldiers, especially—will automatically turn to the nearest authority figure for guidance. With Nanda Lal dead—many of them had seen the killing—that meant...

    Well, Toramana. The commander of the entire garrison.

    And Lord Damodara, of course. The Goptri of the Decca, whom they could even now see passing through the gates behind Rana Sanga and the lead Rajputs.

    “Treason!” Toramana bellowed, standing on the battlements where the soldiers could see him easily. “Nanda Lal was planning treason! The murder of Lord Damodara!”

    He pointed with the sword in his hand to the figure of Damodara, riding into the city. “All rally to the Goptri! Defend him against assassins!”

    In response, Lord Damodara waved his hand. It was a rather cheery gesture, actually. Then, twisted in his saddle and gave Toramana something in the way of a salute.

    It took no more that. The soldiers were still confused, the Ye-tai as much as any of them. But, if anything, the confusion made them even more inclined to obey unquestioningly.

    And why not? For years, for that army, their real commanders had been soldiers like Damodara. Toramana, for the Ye-tai; Sanga for the Rajputs.

    Nanda Lal was simply a mysterious and unsettling figure from far-off Kausambi. Neither known nor popular. And, if somewhat fearsome, not nearly as fearsome as the commanders who had once even beaten Belisarius in battle.

    The reaction of two Ye-tai soldiers was typical. Drawing his sword, one of them snarled at a nearby squad of regular troops.

    “You heard him, you piglets! Spread out! Watch for assassins!”

    As the squad scurried to obey, the Ye-tai’s companion leaned over and half-whispered: “What do you think—”

    “Who gives a shit?” the first Ye-tai hissed.

    He stabbed his sword toward the distant body of Nanda Lal. The headless corpse had sprawled to the edge of the parapet. By now, most of the blood had drained from the neck, leaving a pool on the ground below.

    “If you care that much, go ask him.”

    The other Ye-tai stared at the corpse. Then, at the head lying some yards from the parapet wall. It had bounced, twice, and then rolled, after it hit the ground.

    He drew his own sword and lifted it high. “Long live the Goptri! Death to traitors!”

    Some time later, once he was sure the city was under control, Toramana returned to the parapet wall and retrieved Nanda Lal’s head. After brushing off the dirt, he held it up.

    “A bit dented. But you’ll do.”

    Sanga came up.

    “Lord Damodara wants the wedding this evening, if possible. The Ye-tai seem solid, but the wedding will seal the thing.”

    “Yes. Not just my clan, either. All of them.” Toramana continued to admire the head. “I told Indira to be ready several days ago, for a quick wedding. You know your sister.”

    Sanga’s dark eyes studied him, for a moment. “Yes, I do. I hadn’t realized you did, so well.”

    Toramana smiled. “Nothing improper! If you don’t believe me, ask that mob of old women. But you can talk about other things than flowers and insects in a garden, you know. And she’s smart. Very, very smart.”

    “Yes, she is.” The dark eyes went to the severed head. “I approve of a man who keeps his promises. On a spike?”

    Toramana shook his head. “Bit of a nuisance, that. It’s garam, don’t forget.”

    Sanga made a face. “Flies.”

    “A horde of them. Even more than those old women. I think a clear jar will do fine.” The Ye-tai commander finally lowered the head. “I promised him he’d be at the wedding. I made no guarantees he’d be able to flatter the bride.”

    By sundown, Sanga was satisfied that all the mahaveda and mahamimamsa in the city had been tracked down and slaughtered. There might be a handful surviving in a corner here and there. Bharakuccha was a huge city, after all.

    But, he doubted it—and knew for a certainly that even if there were, they wouldn’t survive long anyway. The Mahaveda cult had never sunk roots into India’s masses. Had never, for that matter, even tried to win any popular support. It was a sect that depended entirely on the favor of the powerful. That favor once withdrawn—here, with a vengeance—the cult was as helpless as a mouse in a pen full of raptors.

    Most of the time, the Rajputs hadn’t even needed to hunt down the priests and torturers. At least a third of the populace was still Maratha. The majority of the inhabitants might not have hated them as much, but they hated them nonetheless. The only face the cult had ever turned to the city’s poor was that of the tithe-collector. And a harsh and unyielding one, at that. Most of the priests and mahamimansa who went under the swords of the Rajputs were hauled to them by the city’s mobs.

    The telegraph and radio stations were secured almost immediately. Ajatasutra’s assassins had seen to the first, with the telegraph operators whom Narses had already suborned.

    The Ye-tai commander of the unit guarding the radio station had not been not privy to Toramana’s plans. But the Ye-tai general had selected the man carefully. He was both smart and ambitious. It hadn’t taken him more than thirty seconds to realize which way the new wind was blowing—and that it was blowing with all the force of a monsoon. By the time Toramana and Damodara got to the radio station, the operators had all been arrested and were being kept in an empty chamber in the palace.

    Damodara studied them. Huddled in a corner, squatting, the radio operators avoided his gaze. Several of them were trembling.

    “Don’t terrify them any further,” he instructed Toramana’s lieutenant. “And give them plenty of food and water. By tomorrow, I’ll need at least one of them to be co-operative.”

    “Yes, Lord.”

    Damodara gave him an impassive look. It didn’t take the lieutenant—smart man—more than half a second to remember the announcement.

    “Yes, Emperor.”

    “Splendid.”

    The wedding went quite smoothly. More so than Sanga had feared, given the hastiness of the preparations.

    Not that hasty, he finally understood. He sister took firm charge of it, driving right over the protests of the old women who’d expected a traditional Rajput wedding. Within an hour, it became obvious to Sanga that she and Toramana must have planned this too.

    He’d never think of promenades in a garden the same way, he realized ruefully.

    The ceremony was a hybrid affair. Half-Rajput, half-Ye-tai, with both halves almost skeletal.

    Good enough, however. More than good enough.

    “Don’t you think?” he asked the head in a glass jar.

    Nanda Lal’s opinion remained unspoken, but Sanga was quite sure he disapproved mightily. The Malwa dynasty had maintained its rule, among other things, by always keeping a sharp and clear boundary between the Rajputs and the Ye-tai. Able, thus, to pit one against the other, if need be.

    True, under the pressure of the Roman offensive, the Malwa had begun to ease the division. The dynasty had agreed to this wedding also, after all. But Sanga knew they’d never intended to ease it very far.

    Damodara was simply tossing the whole business aside. He’d base his rule—initially, at least—on the oldest and simplest method. The support of the army. And, for that, he wanted the two most powerful contingents within the army tied as closely together as possible. The marriage between Toramana and Indira would only be the first of many.

    Sanga understood the logic. For all the many things that separated the Rajputs and the Ye-tai, they had certain things very much in common.

    Two, in particular.

    First, they were both warrior nations. So, whatever they disliked about the other—for the Rajputs, Ye-tai crudity; for the Ye-tai, Rajput haughtiness—there was much to admire also.

    Secondly, they were both nations still closely based on clan ties and allegiances. The fact that the Rajputs draped a veil of Hindu mysticism over the matter and called their clan chieftains “kings” was more illusion than truth. Sanga had known since he was a boy that if you scratched the shiny Rajput veneer, you’d find more than a trace of their central Asian nomadic origins.

    Clan ties meant blood ties. Which were brought by marriages. Within three generations, Rajput and Ye-tai clans would be so intermingled as to make the old divisions impossible.

    Not conflict, of course. Clan wars could be as savage as any. But they were not the stuff—could not be the stuff—that would tear northern India into pieces.

    The Malwa methods had been determined by their goal of world conquest. For Damodara, having given up that grandiose ambition, everything else followed. He would build a new empire that would not go beyond northern India. But, within those limits—which were still immense, after all—he would forge something far more resilient, and more flexible, than anything the dynasty had done before.

    More resilient and flexible, for that matter, than anything the Maurya or Gupta empires had accomplished either. Sanga was beginning to suspect that Damodara would someday have the cognomen “the Great” attached to his name.

    Not in his own lifetime, though. He was far too canny for that.

    Before the wedding was halfway over, Sanga realized he was in an excellent mood. He even participated in the dancing.

    “Good thing I stopped the duel,” Damodara told him afterward. “That too-clever-by-half Maratha bandit probably would have insisted on a dancing contest as part of it.”

    Sanga grimaced.

    “Oh, yes. We’d have found your body strewn all over. Speaking of which—” He glanced around. “What happened to Nanda Lal’s head?”

    “My brother-in-law felt that propriety had been satisfied enough by his presence at the wedding, and there was no need to keep him around for the festivities. I believe he gave it to some Ye-tai boys. That game they play. You know, the one where—”

    “Oh, yes. Of all my many cousins, I think I disliked him the most except Venandakatra. Well. Hard to pick between Nanda Lal and Skandagupta, of course. Isn’t that the game where they use dogs to retrieve the lost balls?”

    “Yes, Emperor.”

    “Splendid.”