The Dance of Time: Chapter Fourteen

The Lower Indus
Spring, 534 A.D.

    “I don’t believe this,” mumbled Illus—more than a little abashed. He glanced down at his uniform. For all the finery of the fabric and the cut, the garment seemed utterly drab matched against the glittering costumes which seemed to fill the wharf against which their river barge was just now being tied.

    Standing next to him, Anna said nothing. Her face was stiff, showing none of the uneasiness she felt herself. Her own costume was even more severe and plainly cut than those of her officers, even if the fabric itself was expensive. And she found herself wishing desperately that her cosmetics had survived the journey from Constantinople. For a woman of her class, being seen with a face unadorned by anything except nature was well-nigh unthinkable. In any company, much less...

    The tying-up was finished and the gangplank laid. Anna was able to guess at the identity of the first man to stride across it.

    She was not even surprised. Anna had read everything ever written by Irene Macrembolitissa—several times over—including the last book the woman wrote just before she left for the Hindu Kush on her great expedition of conquest. The Deeds of Khusrau, she thought, described the man quite well. The Emperor of Persia was not particularly large, but so full of life and energy that he seemed like a giant as he strode toward her across the gangplank.

    What am I doing here? she wondered. I never planned on such as this!

    “So! You are the one!” were the first words he boomed. “To live in such days, when legends walk among us!”

 

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    In the confused time which followed, as Anna was introduced to a not-so-little mob of Persian officers and officials—most of them obviously struggling not to frown with disapproval at such a disreputable woman—she pondered on those words.

    They seemed meaningless to her. Khusrau Anushirvan—“Khusrau of the Immortal Soul”—was a legend, not she.

    So why had he said that?

    By the end of that evening, after spending hours sitting stiffly in a chair while Iran’s royalty and nobility wined and dined her, she had mustered enough courage to lean over to the emperor—sitting next to her!—and whisper the question into his ear.

    Khusrau’s response astonished her even more. He grinned broadly, white teeth gleaming in a square-cut Persian beard. Then, he leaned over and whispered in return:

    “I am an expert on legends, wife of Calopodius. Truth be told, I often think the art of kingship is mainly knowing how to make the things.”

    He glanced slyly at his assembled nobility, who had not stopped frowning at Anna throughout the royal feast—but always, she noticed, under lowered brows.

    “But keep it a secret,” he whispered. “It wouldn’t do for my noble sahrdaran and vurzurgan to discover that their emperor is really a common manufacturer. I don’t need another rebellion this year.”

    She managed to choke down a laugh, fortunately. The effort, however, caused her hand to shake just enough to spill some wine onto her long dress.

    “No matter,” whispered the emperor. “Don’t even try to remove the stain. By next week, it’ll be the blood of a dying man brought back to life by the touch of your hand. Ask anyone.”

    She tightened her lips to keep from smiling. It was nonsense, of course, but there was no denying the emperor was a charming man.

    But, royal decree or no, it was still nonsense. Bloodstains aplenty there had been on the garments she’d brought from Constantinople, true enough. Blood and pus and urine and excrement and every manner of fluid produced by human suffering. She’d gained them in Chabahari, and again at Barbaricum. Nor did she doubt there would be bloodstains on this garment also, soon enough, to match the wine stain she had just put there.

    Indeed, she had designed the uniforms of the Wife’s Service with that in mind. That was why the fabric had been dyed a purple so dark it was almost black.

    But it was still nonsense. Her touch had no more magic power than anyone’s. Her knowledge—or rather, the knowledge which she had obtained by reading everything Macrembolitissa or anyone else had ever written transmitting the Talisman of God’s wisdom—now, that was powerful. But it had nothing to do with her, except insofar as she was another vessel of those truths.

    Something of her skepticism must have shown, despite her effort to remain impassive-faced. She was only nineteen, after all, and hardly an experienced diplomat.

    Khusrau’s lips quirked. “You’ll see.”

    The next day she resumed her journey up the river toward Sukkur. The emperor himself, due to the pressing business of completing his incorporation of the Sind into the swelling empire of Iran, apologized for not being able to accompany her personally. But he detailed no fewer than four Persian war galleys to serve as her escort.

    “No fear of dacoits,” said Illus, with great satisfaction. “Or deserters turned robbers.”

    His satisfaction turned a bit sour at Anna’s response.

    “Good. We’ll be able to stop at every hospital along the way then. No matter how small.”

    And stop they did. Only briefly, in the Roman ones. By now, to Anna’s satisfaction, Belisarius’ blood-curdling threats had resulted in a marked improvement in medical procedures and sanitary practices.

    But most of the small military hospitals along the way were Persian. The “hospitals” were nothing more than tents pitched along the riverbank—mere staging posts for disabled Persian soldiers being evacuated back to their homeland. The conditions within them had Anna seething, with a fury that was all the greater because neither she nor either of the Isaurian officers could speak a word of the Iranian language. Abdul could make himself understood, but his pidgin was quite inadequate to the task of convincing skeptical—even hostile—Persian officials that Anna’s opinion was anything more than female twaddle.

    Anna spent another futile hour trying to convince the officers in command of her escort to send a message to Khusrau himself. Clearly enough, however, none of them were prepared to annoy the emperor at the behest of a Roman woman who was probably half-insane to begin with.

    Fortunately, at the town of Dadu, there was a telegraph station. Anna marched into it and fired off a message to her husband.

    WHY TALISMAN MEDICAL PRECEPTS NOT TRANSLATED INTO PERSIAN STOP INSTRUCT EMPEROR IRAN DISCIPLINE HIS IDIOTS STOP

    “Do it,” said Belisarius, after Calopodius read him the message.

    The general paused. “Well, the first part, anyway. The Persian translation. I’ll have to figure out a somewhat more diplomatic way to pass the rest of it on to Khusrau.”

    Maurice snorted. “How about hitting him on the head with a club? That’d be somewhat more diplomatic.”

 

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    By the time the convoy reached Sukkur, it was moving very slowly.

    There were no military hospitals along the final stretch of the river, because wounded soldiers were kept either in Sukkur itself or had already passed through the evacuation routes. The slow pace was now due entirely to the native population.

    By whatever mysterious means, word of the Wife’s passage had spread up and down the Indus. The convoy was constantly approached by small river boats bearing sick and injured villagers, begging for what was apparently being called “the healing touch.”

    Anna tried to reason, to argue, to convince. But it was hopeless. The language barrier was well-nigh impassible. Even the officers of her Persian escort could do no more than roughly translate the phrase “healing touch.”

    In the end, not being able to bear the looks of anguish on their faces, Anna laid her hands on every villager brought alongside her barge for the purpose. Muttering curses under her breath all the while—curses which were all the more bitter since she was quite certain the villagers of the Sind took them for powerful incantations.

    At Sukkur, she was met by Menander and the entire crew of the Victrix. Beaming from ear to ear.

    The grins faded soon enough. After waiting impatiently for the introductions to be completed, Anna’s next words were: “Where’s the telegraph station?”

    URGENT STOP MUST TRANSLATE TALISMAN PRECEPTS INTO NATIVE TONGUES ALSO STOP

    Menander fidgeted while she waited for the reply.

    “I’ve got a critical military cargo to haul to the island,” he muttered. “Calopodius may not even send an answer.”

    “He’s my husband,” came her curt response. “Of course he’ll answer me.”

 

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    Sure enough, the answer came very soon.

    CANNOT STOP IS NO WRITTEN NATIVE LANGUAGE STOP NOT EVEN ALPHABET STOP

    After reading it, Anna snorted. “We’ll see about that.”

    YOU SUPPOSEDLY EXPERT GRAMMAR AND RHETORIC STOP INVENT ONE STOP

    “You’d best get started on it,” mused Belisarius. The general’s head turned to the south. “She’ll be coming soon.”

    “Like a tidal bore,” added Maurice.

 

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    That night, he dreamed of islands again.

 

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    First, of Rhodes, where he spent an idle day on his journey to join Belisarius’ army while his ship took on supplies.

    Some of that time he spent visiting the place where, years before, John of Rhodes had constructed an armaments center. Calopodius’ own skills and interests were not inclined in a mechanical direction, but he was still curious enough to want to see the mysterious facility.

    But, in truth, there was no longer much there of interest. Just a handful of buildings, vacant now except for livestock. So, after wandering about for a bit, he spent the rest of the day perched on a headland staring at the sea.

    It was a peaceful, calm, and solitary day. The last one he would enjoy in his life, thus far.

    Then, his dreams took him to the island in the Strait of Hormuz where Belisarius was having a naval base constructed. The general had sent Calopodius over from the mainland where the army was marching its way toward the Indus, in order to help resolve one of the many minor disputes which had erupted between the Romans and Persians who were constructing the facility. Among the members of the small corps of noble couriers who served Belisarius for liaison with the Persians, Calopodius had displayed a great deal of tact as well as verbal aptitude.

    It was something of a private joke between him and the general. “I need you to take care of another obstreperous aunt,” was the way Belisarius put it.

    The task of mediating between the quarrelsome Romans and Persians had been stressful. But Calopodius had enjoyed the boat ride well enough; and, in the end, he had managed to translate Belisarius’ blunt words into language flowery enough to slide the command through—like a knife between unguarded ribs.

    Toward the end, his dreams slid into a flashing nightmare image of Bukkur Island. A log, painted to look like a field gun, sent flying by a lucky cannon ball fired by one of the Malwa gunships whose bombardment accompanied that last frenzied assault. The Romans drove off that attack also, in the end. But not before a mortar shell had ripped Calopodius’ eyes out of his head.

    The last sight he would ever have in his life was of that log, whirling through the air and crushing the skull of a Roman soldier standing in its way. What made the thing a nightmare was that Calopodius could not remember the soldier’s name, if he had ever known it. So it all seemed very incomplete, in a way that was too horrible for Calopodius to be able to express clearly to anyone, even himself. Grammar and rhetoric simply collapsed under the coarse reality, just as fragile human bone and brain had collapsed under hurtling wood.

    The sound of his aide-de-camp clumping about in the bunker awoke him. The warm little courtesy banished the nightmare, and Calopodius returned to life with a smile.

    “How does the place look?” he asked.

    “It’s hardly fit for a Melisseni girl. But I imagine it’ll do for your wife.”

    “Soon, now.”

    “Yes.” Calopodius heard Luke lay something on the small table next to the cot. From the slight rustle, he understood that it was another stack of telegrams. Private ones, addressed to him, not army business.

    “Any from Anna?”

    “No. Just more bills.”

    Calopodius laughed. “Well, whatever else, she still spends money like a Melisseni. Before she’s done, that banker will be the richest man in India.”

    Luke said nothing in response. After a moment, Calopodius’ humor faded away, replaced by simple wonder.

    “Soon, now. I wonder what she’ll be like?”