The Dance of Time: Chapter Thirty Four

The Iron Triangle

    “Keep the pressure on,” said Maurice firmly. “We’ll do that. But that’s all we’ll do.”

    He ignored the sour look on Sittas’ face. That was a given, and Maurice saw no point in getting into another argument with him. Sittas was the most aggressive commander in the Roman army, a trait which was valuable when it came time for headlong cavalry charges. But that same trait also made him prone to recklessness. The Romans and Persians had been able to seize the Malwa fortresses upstream on the west bank of the Indus simply—and solely—because Menander and his warships had been able to launch an attack on their unprotected rear. No such advantage existed if they tried to carry the fight across to the east bank of the river.

    Menander was also looking sour-faced, however, and that Maurice did have to deal with.

    “All right,” he growled. “You can keep making your sorties up the river—until you spot any signs that the Malwa are bringing over ironclads from the other rivers—”

    “And how will they do that?”

    “Don’t be stupid. They’ll do it in the simplest way possible. Just pick them up and haul the damn things there.”

    “That’d take—”

    “A mighty host of slave laborers and ruthless overseers. Which is exactly what the Malwa have.”

    Maurice decided it was time for a moderate display of temper. He gave a quick glance at Agathius and then slammed his fist onto the table in the command bunker.

    “God damn it! Have you all lost your wits so completely that one single victory turns you into drooling babes?”

    “Take it easy,” said Agathius soothingly. As Maurice had expected, the crippled cataphract commander picked up the cue instantly. He’d been a tremendous asset ever since he arrived in the Triangle.

    “There’s no need to lose our tempers. Still, Maurice is right. It’ll take them some time, but the Malwa will get those ironclads into the Indus. One, at least—and you’ve already admitted, Menander, that the Justinian probably can’t handle even one of them.”

    Menander still looked sour-faced, but he didn’t try to argue the point. The Justinian had mainly been designed to destroy Malwa shipping. Its guns were probably as heavy as anything the Malwa ironclads had, but it wasn’t as well armored. They’d been designed to do one thing and one thing only—destroy the Justinian, if it ever came out against them.

    Agathius swiveled on his crutches to face Sittas. “And will you please leave off your endless pestering? To be honest, I’m as sick of it as Maurice is. Sittas, even if you could get your cataphracts across the river in the face of enemy fire—”

    “We could go—”

    “Upstream? Where? Anywhere below here and Multan, the Malwa now have fortifications all along the Indus. And if you try to take your cavalry north of Multan...”

    He shrugged. “Leave that to the Persians. We need the cavalry here in case the Malwa manage to penetrate our lines somewhere.”

    For all his stubbornness, Sittas wasn’t actually stupid. After a moment, the anger faded from his face, leaving an oddly-rueful expression.

    “It’s not fair!” he said, half-chuckling. “Once again, that damned Belisarius grabs all the glory work for himself and leaves me to hold the fort.”

    Unexpectedly, Calopodius spoke up from his communications table. He normally kept silent during these command conferences, unless he was asked to do something.

    “Is a shield ‘false,’ and only a sword ‘true’?”

    All of the commanders peered at him.

    “What does that mean?” demanded Sittas.

    Calopodius smiled and pointed a finger—almost exactly in the right direction—at his servant Luke, sitting inconspicuously on a chair against a far wall, next to Illus.

    “Ask him.”

    The commanders peered at Luke.

    “Ah...” said that worthy fellow.

 

---

 

    Antonina took a slow turn on her heels, admiring the huge audience chamber of the Goptri’s palace in Bharakuccha.

    “Pretty incredible,” she said. “You’d think the weight of encrusted gems in the walls alone would collapse the thing.”

    Ousanas shared none of her sentiments. “Incredible nuisance,” he grumbled. He gave Dadaji Holkar a look from under lowered brows. The peshwa of Andhra was standing just a few feet away from them. “Mark my words, Antonina. No sooner will this current world war end than a new one will begin, every nation on earth fighting for possession of this grotesque monument to vanity.”

    She chuckled softly. “Don’t exaggerate. The fighting will be entirely between you and the Marathas. The empires of Rome and Persia and Malwa will only send observers.”

    Dadaji made a face. Ousanas sneered.

    “Ha! Until they observe the obscene wealth piled up here themselves. At which point great armies will be marching. Mark my words!”

    Still slowly turning, Antonina considered the problem. To be sure, Ousanas was indulging himself in his beloved Cassandra impersonation. But there did remain a genuine core of concern, underneath.

    What were they to do with the Goptri’s palace? Except for the palace of the emperor himself at Kausambi, it was the most splendiferous edifice ever erected by the Malwa. And the interior was an even greater source of greed and potential strife than the glorious shell. For every gem encrusted in the walls, there were twenty in the chests piled high in the vaults below. Along with other chests of gold, silver, ivory, valuable spices—everything, it seemed, that a viceroy could flaunt before a conquered half-continent.

    There’d been skin-sacks, too, but those the Ethiopian soldiers and Maratha irregulars had taken down immediately, once they took possession of the palace. Since then, they’d simply glared at each other over the rest.

    By the time she finished the turn, she had the answer.

    “Give it to me,” she said. “To my Hospitalers, rather. And to Anna Saronites, and her Wife’s Service.”

    She lowered her eyes to look at Dadaji. “Surely you—or Bindusara, more likely—can devise an equivalent body for Hindus. If so, you will get an equal share in the palace. An equal share in the wealth in the vaults, as well as equal space in the palace itself.”

    Thoughtfully, Holkar tugged at his ear. “And for the Kushans? Another equal share, if they create a Buddhist hospital service?”

    “Why not?”

    “Hm.” He kept tugging at his ear, for a few more seconds. Then, shrugged. “Why not?”

    Ousanas’ eyes widened, half with outrage and half with... something that seemed remarkably like amusement.

    “Preposterous? What of we Axumites? We get nothing?”

    “Nonsense,” said Antonina. “The Hospitalers are a religious order, not an imperial one. Nothing in the world prevents Ethiopians from joining it. Or creating your own hospital service, if you insist on maintaining your sectarian distinction.”

    Holkar’s hand fell from his ear, to rise again, with forefinger pointing rigidly. “Absolutely not! You Christians already have two hospital services! Three is too many! You would take half the palace!”

    “Nonsense,” Antonina repeated. “The Wife’s Service has no religious affiliation at all. True—so far—all of its members are probably Christians. But they’ve given medical care to Persians and Indians just as readily as they have to Christians.”

    The accusing forefinger went back to tugging the ear. “Hm. You propose, then, that every religion be given a share of the palace, provided they create a medical service. And then one other—the Wife’s Service—which is free of any sectarian affiliation altogether. Yes?”

    “Yes.”

    “Hm.” She began to fear for his earlobe. “Interesting. Keep the kings and emperors at arm’s length.”

    “Arm’s length, with the hand holding a pole,” Ousanas grunted. “Very long pole. Only way it will work. Kings and emperors are greedy by nature. Let them get within smelling distance of gold and jewels... might as well throw bloody meat into a pond full of sharks.”

    “True,” mused Holkar. “Monks and priests will at least resist temptation for a generation or two. Thereafter, of course—”

    “Thereafter is thereafter,” said Antonina firmly. “There is a plague coming, long before that ‘thereafter’ will arrive.”

    By now, the three of them had drifted closely together, to what an unkind observer might have called a conspiratorial distance.

    “Major religions only,” insisted Ousanas. “No sects, no factions. Or else the doctrinal fanatics in Alexandria alone would insist their eighty-seven sects were entitled to the entire palace and its vaults—and demand that eighty-six more be built.”

    Holkar chuckled. “Be even worse among Indians. Hindus are not given to heresy-hunts, but they divide over religious matters even more promiscuously than Christians.”

    “Agreed,” said Antonina, nodding. “One for the Christians, one for the Hindus, one for the Buddhists, and one for the Zoroastrians if the Persians want it. And one non-denominational service.”

    After a moment, she added: “Better offer a share to the Jews, too, I think. Half a share, at least.”

    “There aren’t that many Jews,” protested Ousanas.

    “And almost none in India,” added Holkar.

    “True—and beside the point. One-third of the populace of Alexandria is Jewish. And it will be through Alexandria that the plague enters the Mediterranean.”

    Ousanas and Holkar stared at her. Then, at each other. Then, back at Antonina.

    “Agreed,” said Ousanas.

    “A half-share for the Jews,” added Holkar. “But if we’re going to do that, we’ll need to offer a half-share to the Jains, as well.”

    Ousanas frowned. “What is this adding up to?”

    “Six shares all told,” Antonina answered. She’d been keeping track. “One of the shares to be divided evenly between the Jews and the Jains.”

    Now it was her turn to hold up the rigid forefinger of admonition. “But only if they all agree to form hospitals and medical services! We don’t need this palace crawling with useless monks and priests, squabbling over everything.”

    “Certainly don’t,” said Ousanas. His eyes swept the great room. “One-sixth of this... and the vaults below...”

    He grinned, then. That great, gleaming Ousanas grin.

    “I do believe they will accept.”

 

---

 

    Ajatasutra had no difficulty at all getting out of Kausambi. The guards at the gates were carefully checking everyone who sought to leave the city, but they were only looking for someone who might fit the description of “a great lady and her entourage.”

    Even dressed at his finest, Ajatasutra bore no resemblance to such. Dressed in the utilitarian garb of an imperial courier and riding a very fine but obviously spirited horse, the guards didn’t give him more than a glance. Great ladies traveled only in howdahs and palanquins. Those armed peasants didn’t know much, but they knew that. Everybody knew that.

    Nor did the assassin have any trouble in the first two days of his journey. Until, mid-morning of the third day, he began encountering the first refugees fleeing from Mathura.

    Thereafter, the situation became contradictory. On the one hand, the ever-widening flow of refugees greatly impeded his forward progress. On the other hand, he was cheerfully certain that whatever progress he made was indeed forward.

    Only two things in the world could cause such an immense flow of refugees: plague, or an invading army. And none of the refugees looked especially sick.

    Frightened, yes; desperate, yes; ill, no.

    Damodara was somewhere up ahead. And no longer far away at all.

 

---

 

    “He’s within a hundred miles, you—you—!”

    Skandagupta lapsed into gasping silence, unable to come up with a word or phrase that properly encapsulated his sentiments toward the generals standing before him.

    No longer standing, of course. They were prostrate, now, hoping he might spare their lives.

    Stupid-incompetent-worthless-craven-fumbling-halfwitted-stinking-treacherous dogs—

    Would have done it. But he was too short of breath to even think of uttering the phrase. Never in his worst nightmares had he imagined Damodara would penetrate the huge Malwa empire this far. All the way from the Deccan, he’d come, in less than two months. Now...

    Within a hundred miles of Kausambi!

    Only a supreme effort of self-control enabled Skandagupta to refrain from ordering the three generals impaled immediately. He desperately wanted to, but there was a siege coming. As surely and certainly as the sunrise. He could not afford to lose his remaining top generals on the eve of a siege.

    Could... not... afford... it.

    Finally, his breathing slowed. “See to the city’s defenses!” he barked. “Leave me, you—you—dogs!”

    The generals scuttled from the audience chamber.

 

---

 

    Once outside, one of them said to the others: “Perhaps we should we have told him that Damodara will surely be bringing the big guns from Mathura...”

    “Don’t be a fool,” hissed one of the others.

    “He’ll hear them anyway, once they start firing.”

    The third general shook his head. “Don’t be so sure of that. Within a day he’ll be hiding below the palace in the deep bunkers. They say—I’ve never been down there myself—that you can’t hear anything, so deep.”

 

---

 

    You couldn’t, in fact. That evening, Skandagupta went down to the inner sanctum. Seeking...

    Whatever. Reassurance, perhaps. Or simply the deep silence there.

    He got none, however. Neither reassurance, nor silence. Just a stern command, in the tones of an eight-year-old girl, to return above and resume his duties.

    Now.

    He did so. The girl was not yet Link. But someday she would be. And, even today, the special assassins would obey her.

 

---

 

    Belisarius studied the sketch that one of the Pathan trackers had made in the dirt. It was a good sketch. Pathans served the Rajput kings as scouts and skirmishers, just as Arabs did for Roman emperors. The man was even less likely to be literate than an Arab, but he had the same keen eye for terrain, the same superb memory for it, and the same ability to translate what he’d seen into symbols drawn in dirt with a knife.

    “Two days, then,” Belisarius mused. “It would take the monster at least that long to retreat to the Ganges, with such a force.”

    The Pathan, naturally, had been far less precise in his estimate of the size of Link’s army. It could be anywhere between twenty and sixty thousand men, Belisarius figured. Splitting the difference would be as good a guess as any, until he had better reports.

    Forty thousand men, then. A force almost twice as large as his own.

    Almost all infantry, though. That had been suggested by the earliest reports, and the Pathan scout was able to confirm it. If the man could not tell the difference between five thousand and ten thousand, he could easily distinguish foot soldiers from cavalry. He could do that by the age of four.

    “Start burning today?” asked Jaimal.

    Belisarius shook his head. “I’d like to, but we can’t risk it. The monster could drive its men back across two days’ worth of ashes. Even three days’ worth, I think.”

    “With no water?” Jaisal asked skeptically.

    “They’ll have some. In any event, there are streams here and there, and we can’t burn the streams.”

    “Not much water in those streams,” grunted Dasal. “Not in the middle of garam. Still... the monster would lose some men.”

    “Oh, yes,” agreed Belisarius. Then, he shrugged. “But enough? We’re outnumbered probably two to one. If we let them get back to the Ganges, they’ll be able to cross eventually.”

    “No fords there. Not anywhere nearby. And we will have burned all the trees they could use for timber.”

    “Doesn’t matter. First of all, because you can’t burn all the trees. You know that as well as I do, Jaisal. Not down to the heartwood. And even if you could, what difference would it make? A few days’ delay, that’s all, while the monster assembled some means to cross. It would manage, eventually. We could hurt them, but not kill them. Not with so great a disparity in numbers. They’d get hungry, but not hungry enough—and they’d have plenty of water. Once they were on the opposite bank of the Ganges, they’d be able to make it to Kausambi. Nothing we could do to stop them.”

    “By then, Damodara might have taken Kausambi,” pointed out Jaimal.

    “And he might not, too,” said Dasal. The old Rajput king straightened up. “No, I think Belisarius is right. Best to be cautious here.”

 

---

 

    A day later, three more Pathan scouts came in with reports. Two from the south, one from the north.

    “There is another army coming, General,” said one of the two scouts in the first party. He pointed a finger to the south. “From Mathura. Most of the garrison, I think. Many men. Mostly foot soldiers. Maybe five thousand cavalry. Some cannons. Not the great big ones, though.”

    “They’re moving very slowly,” added the other scout.

    Belisarius nodded. “That’s good news, actually—although it makes our life more complicated.”

    Jaisal cocked his head. “Why ‘good’ news?”

    His brother snorted. “Think, youngster. If we’ve drawn the garrison at Mathura to leave the safety of the city’s walls to come up here, we’ve opened the door to Kausambi for Damodara.”

    “Oh” Jaisal looked a bit shame-faced.

    Belisarius had to fight down a smile. The “youngster” thus admonished had to be somewhere in his mid-seventies.

    “Yes,” he said. “It makes our life more difficult, of course.”

    He began to weigh various alternatives in his mind. But once he heard the second report, all those alternatives were discarded.

    “Another army?” demanded Dasal. “From the north?”

    The scout nodded. “Yes. Maybe two days’ march behind the Great Lady’s. They’re almost at the Ganges. But they move faster than she does. Partly because they’re a small army—maybe one-third as big as hers—but mostly because...”

    He shook his head, admiringly. “Very fast, they move. Good soldiers.”

    All the Rajput kings and officers assembled around Belisarius were squinting northward. All of them were frowning deeply.

    “From the north?” Dasal repeated. The old king shook his head. “That makes no sense. There is no large Malwa garrison there. No need for one. Not with that great huge army they have in the Punjab. And if they were coming back to the Ganges, they’d be many more of them.”

    “And why would they bother with the northerly route, at all?” wondere Udai Singh. “They’d simply march through Rajputana. No way we could stop them.”

    As he listened to their speculations, Belisarius’ eyes had widened. Now he whispered, “Son of God.”

    Dasal’s eyes came to him. “What?”

    “I can think of one army that could come from that direction. About that size, too—one-third of the monster’s. But...”

    He shook his head, wonderingly. “Good God, if I’m right—what a great gamble he took.”

    “Who?”

    Belisarius didn’t even hear the question.

    Of course, he is a great gambler, said Aide.

    So he is.

    Decisively, Belisarius turned to the Pathan scout. “I need you to return there. At once. Take however many scouts you need. Find out—”

    His thoughts stumbled, a moment. Most Pathans were hopelessly insular. They’d have as much trouble telling one set of foreigners from another as they would telling one thousand from two thousand.

    He swept off his helmet, and half-bowed. Then, seized his hair and drew it tightly into his fist. “Their hair. Like this. A ‘top-knot,’ they call it.”

    “Oh. Kushans.” The scout frowned and looked back to the north. “Could be. I didn’t get close enough to see. But they move like Kushans, now that I think about it.”

    He nodded deeply—the closest any Pathan ever got to a “salute”—and turned to his horse. “Two days, general. I will tell you in two days.”

 

---

 

    “And now what?” asked Jaimal, after the scout was gone.

    “Start burning—but only behind them. Leave them a clear path forward.”

    The Rajput officer nodded. “You want them away from the Ganges.”

    “Yes. But mostly, I want someone else to see a signal. If it’s the Kushans, when they see the great smoke from the burning, they’ll know.”

    “Know what?”

    Belisarius grinned at him. “That I’ll be back. All they have to do is hold the Ganges—keep the monster pinned on this side—and I’ll be back.”

    The oldest of the kings grunted. “I understand. Good plan. Now we go teach those shits from Mathura that all they’re good for is garrison duty.”

    “Indeed,” said Belisarius. “And we move quickly.”

 

---

 

    After they began the forced march, Aide spoke uncertainly.

    I don’t understand. You must be careful! Link is not stupid. When it sees you are only burning behind its army, it will understand that you are trying to lure it further from the river. It will return, then, not come forward.

    I know. And by then Kungas will already be there. They will not cross the Ganges against Kungas’ will. Not though they outnumbered him ten-to-one.

    There was silence, for a bit.

    Oh. What you’re really doing is keeping Link at the Ganges, not drawing it overland—which gives you time to crush the army coming up from Mathura.

    Yes. That’s where we’ll kill the monster’s army. Right on the banks of the holy river, caught between two enemies.

    They’ll have plenty of water.

    Man does not live by water alone. Soon, they’ll have nothing to eat—and we have all the time we need to watch them starve. We’ll have Link trapped up here—when it needs to be in Kausambi. If Damodara can’t do the rest, against Skandagupta alone, he’s not the new emperor India needs.

    Silence again, for a bit.

    What if that new army isn’t the Kushans?

    Then we’re screwed, said Belisarius cheerfully. I’m a pretty good gambler myself, you know—and you can’t gamble if you’re not willing to take the risk of getting screwed.

    That produced a long silence. Eventually, Aide said:

    I can remember a time when I wouldn’t have understood a word of that. Especially “screwed.” How did a proper little crystal fall into such bad company?

    You invited yourself to the party. As a matter of fact, as I recall, you started the party.

    That’s a very vulgar way of putting it.