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The Dance of Time: Chapter Eighteen
Last updated: Wednesday, October 19, 2005 20:53 EDT
The Narmada river
The Malwa army drawn up on the open plain just south of the Narmada was terrifying. Looking over them from a distance, perched in her howdah with the baby, Shakuntala finally understood—really understood—why her husband had been so cautious in his tactics from the very beginning.
It might be better to say, cautious in his strategy. When the Panther did strike, he struck hard and fast. But he’d carefully avoided getting anywhere near the Malwa lion’s jaws and talons.
“Impressive, aren’t they?” Rao called up to her. He was riding a horse alongside the elephant that bore her and Namadev.
Until that morning, two maidservants had been in the howdah with them. But Shakuntala had insisted they remain behind, when the Maratha army moved out at dawn to meet Damodara and his forces. The Empress still suspected treachery. For that reason, she had one of the best horses in India following behind, in case she and Namadev had to flee precipitously into the badlands of the Great Country. On that horse, she was confident she could elude even Rajput cavalry. On an elephant, hopeless to do so.
She stared down at her husband. Amazingly, to all appearances, he was in as sunny a mood as she’d ever seen him.
Rao raised himself a little in his stirrups—by now, the Roman innovations were ubiquitous—to get a better view of the enemy. “The best army the Malwa have, for a certainty.” He pointed with his finger, and then slowly swept it across the front lines of the enemy. They were still a thousand yards away.
“See how Damodara has his artillery units scattered among the infantry? You won’t see that in any other Malwa army. No lolling about in the comfort of the rear for his kshatriya.”
The finger jabbed; here, there, there.
“Notice, also, the way he has the Ye-tai units positioned with respect to the main force of Rajput cavalry. In the center, most of them, forming his spearhead while the Rajputs are concentrated on the flanks. His Ye-tai will lead the charge, here, not stay behind to drive forward badly-trained and ill-motivated peasant foot soldiers.”
The finger lowered. “Of which,” he concluded cheerily, “Damodara doesn’t have that many in any event. They’re back guarding the supply wagons, I imagine. Along with the mahaveda priests, of course, who control the munitions supply. That last feature is about the only way in which Damodara’s army still resembles a Malwa force.”
“Rao...” Shakuntala said hesitantly.
“Oh, yes, my dearest. You’re quite right.” Still standing in the stirrups, Rao swiveled his upper body back and forth, studying his own army.
The Maratha army was barely than half the size of the enemy force across the field. And didn’t bear so much as a fourth the weight of fine armor, fine swords and lances—and not a tenth the weight of firearms and gunpowder.
“Oh, yes,” he repeated, his voice still as sunny-toned as ever, “if I were idiotic enough to meet them on this field, they’d hammer us flat. Be lucky if a third of my army survived at all.”
“Rao...”
“Be still, dearest. This is not a field where two armies will meet. Simply two souls. Three, actually, counting Damodara. Perhaps four, if we count Narses as well. Which I think we must.”
She took a deep, slow breath. “Your soul is as great as any I have ever known. But it is not great enough to do this.”
He laughed. “Of course not! It’s not my soul I’m counting on, however.”
He reached up and extended his hand. “Touch me, dearest. Not for the last time! Simply—a gift.”
She did so, briefly clutching the strong fingers. Strong and large. Rao had the hands of a man half again his size.
Then, he was gone, trotting his horse onto the open field between the armies.
Sitting on his own mount at the very front and center of the Malwa army, Rana Sanga watched him come.
At first, he simply assumed it was Raghunath Rao, from the logic of the matter. Even the keen eyes of the man who was probably India’s greatest archer could not distinguish features at the distance of a thousand yards. The more so, when he had not seen the features themselves in over two decades. The famous duel between he and Rao had happened when they were both young men.
Long ago, that was. A thousand years ago, it seemed to the greatest king of Rajputana. Between then and now lay a gulf that could not be measured in simple years. The young Sanga who had faced a young Rao so long ago had been sure and certain in his beliefs, his creed, his duty, his loyalties, and his place in the universe. The middle-aged man who was about to meet him again was no longer sure of anything.
Except in his prowess as a warrior, of course. But Rana Sanga knew full well that was the least of the things that were meeting today on a new field of battle. Something much greater was at stake now. He only wished he knew exactly what it was. But the only thought that came to his mind was...
Onions.
It was bizarre, really. All he could think of was onions, peeling away. With every horse’s pace the distant figure shortened between them, Sanga could sense another peel, falling.
Soon enough—still long before he could recognize the features—he knew it was Rao.
“I’d half-forgotten,” he murmured.
Next to him, Damodara raised a questioning eyebrow.
“How frightening an opponent he is,” Sanga explained.
Damodara squinted at the coming figure, trying to discern what Sanga seemed to see in it. Damodara himself was...
Unimpressed, really. Given the reputation of the Panther—or the Wind of the Great Country, as he was also known—he’d been expecting some sort of giant of a man. But the Maratha warrior approaching across the field seemed no more than average size.
Very wide in the shoulders, true. So much was obvious even at a distance, and Damodara didn’t think it was due to the armor Rao was wearing. It was not elaborate armor, in any event. Just the utilitarian gear than any hill-fighter might bring into battle.
But as Rao neared, he began to understand. It was a subtle thing, given that the man was on horseback. Still, after a time, it became apparent enough.
“The way he moves, even riding a horse...”
Sanga barked a harsh laugh. “Hope you never see him move up close, with a blade or his iron-clawed gauntlet! Not even the Mongoose is so fast, so sure. Always so balanced. I remember thinking I was facing an asura under the human-seeming flesh.”
The Rajput king eased his sword out of the scabbard. Just an inch or so, making sure it was loose. Then, did the same with the lance in its scabbard by his knee.
Then, drew his bow. He’d start with that, of course. With a bow, Sanga out-matched Rao. With a lance also, probably, especially now with the added advantage of stirrups.
Still, given Rao, it would probably end with them on foot. The last time they’d met, they’d fought for an entire day with every weapon they’d possessed. And then, too exhausted to move, had finished by exchanging philosophical barbs and quips.
“Wish me well, Lord,” he said. Then, spurred his own horse into a trot.
A great roar went up from the Malwa army. Matched, a moment later, by one from the Marathas across the field.
“Oh, splendid,” murmured Ajatasutra. He and the assassin he’d kept with him exchanged a little smile.
“Let’s hope they keep it up.” The assassin glanced at one of the nearby munitions wagons. The mahaveda head priest and the two mahamimansa who guarded it were standing, their eyes riveted on the two combatants approaching each other. They were paying no attention at all to the men who, in the nondescript and patchy armor of common infantrymen, were quietly spreading through the munitions wagons.
“You will give the signal?”
Ajatasutra pinched his hawk nose, smiling more widely under the fingers. “If need be, yes. But unless I’m much mistaken, that won’t be necessary. The thing will be, ah, quite obvious.”
The assassin cocked his head slightly, in a subtle question.
“Look at it this way. The two most flamboyant men in India are about to meet. True, one is the sternest of Rajputs and the other is reputed to be a great philosopher. Still, I don’t think subtlety will be the end result.”
Narses just watched, perched on his mule. Whatever he could do, he had done. The rest was in the hands of whatever God existed.
So, although he watched intently, he was quite calm. What would happen, would happen. There remained only the anticipation of the outcome. The greatest game of all, the game of thrones.
For the rest—whatever God might be—Narses was quite sure he was damned anyway. But he thought he’d have the satisfaction, whatever happened, of being able to thumb his nose at all the gods and devils of the universe, as he plunged into the Pit.
Which, he reminded himself, might still be some decades off anyway.
Damodara was far less relaxed. As tense and as keyed up as he’d ever been, on the edge of a battle.
It could not be otherwise, of course. It was he who would, as commanders must, gauge the right moment.
Once Sanga and Rao were within seventy yards of each other, Rao drew up his horse.
Sanga did likewise. He already had the bow in his left hand. Now, relinquishing the reins, he drew and notched an arrow with the right.
Then, waited. Gallant as ever, the Rajput king would allow the Maratha chieftain and imperial consort to ready his own bow.
Titles had vanished, on this field. Everything had vanished, except the glory of India’s two greatest warriors meeting again in single combat.
Rao grinned. He hadn’t intended to, but the sight of Sanga’s frown—quite obvious, even at the distance, given the open-faced nature of Rajput helmets—made it impossible to do otherwise.
Always strict! Sanga was obviously a bit disgruntled that Rao had been so careless as not to have his own bow already in hand. Had the great Maratha warrior grown senile?
“The last time,” Rao murmured, “great king of the Rajputs, we began with bows and ended with philosophy. But we’re much older now, and that seems like such a waste of sweat. So let’s start with philosophy, shall we? Where it always ends, anyway.”
Rao slid from his horse and landed on the ground, poised and balanced on his feet.
First, he reached up, drew his lance from the saddle scabbard, and pitched it aside. Then, did the same with the bow. Being careful, of course, to make sure they landed on soft patches of soil and far from any rocks. They were good weapons, very well made and expensive. It would be pointless extravagance to damage them. From a philosophical standpoint, downright grotesque.
The arrow quiver followed. Holding it like a vase, he scattered the arrows across the field. Then, tossed the quiver aside. He was less careful where they landed. Arrows were easy enough to come by, and the utilitarian quiver even more so.
Armed now only with a sword and hand weapons, Rao began walking toward Sanga. After ten steps, the sword was pitched to the ground.
Laid on the ground, rather, and carefully at that. It was an excellent sword and Rao didn’t want to see it damaged. Still, it was all done very quickly.
The dagger, likewise.
His iron-clawed gauntlet being a sturdier thing, he simply dropped it casually as he moved on.
He walked slowly. Not for the sake of drama, but simply because unlacing and removing armor requires some concentration.
The helmet was the easiest, so it went first. Tough and utilitarian, like the gauntlet, simply dropped from one pace to the next. The rest took a bit of time. Not much, given Rao’s fingers.
By the time he was done, he stood thirty yards from Sanga. And wore nothing but a loincloth.
And, still—he hadn’t meant to, but couldn’t resist—that same grin.
Shakuntala held her breath. The baby squawled, so tightly was she clutching him. But she never heard.
Damodara rolled his eyes. Just for a moment, praising the heavens.
True, he’d expected something. That was why he had waited. But he hadn’t expected Rao to make it the simplest task he’d probably ever confront, as the emperor of Malwa.
He spurred his horse forward. No slow trot, this, either.
Sanga stared. Paralyzed.
There was no way—not even Rao!—that any man could survive against him, standing there and in that manner.
He didn’t know what to do.
No, worse.
He did know what to do. And couldn’t.
Not though his very soul was screaming at him. As was the soul of his wife, whether she was dead or not.
And, still, all he could think of was onions. Not peeling away now, though. He could sense the shadow of his wife, throwing them at him.
“King of Rajputana! Stop!”
The voice came as an immense relief. Swiveling in his saddle, Sanga stared at Damodara. For years now, the man coming toward him had been his commander. At first, Sanga had obeyed of necessity; then, with acceptance; finally, with great pleasure.
Never greater than now.
For the first time in his life, Sanga realized, he had a true and genuine lord. And, desperately, wanted his master’s guidance.
Ajatasutra glanced up at the priest atop the wagon he was now standing beside. The mahaveda was scowling, of course. But, if anything, had his attention more riveted in the distance than ever.
Oh, splendid.
As soon as Damodara drew alongside the Rajput king, he nodded toward Rao.
“You cannot survive this, Sanga,” he said softly. “When glory and honor and duty and necessity all clash together, on the same field, no man can survive. Not even the gods can do so.”
The Rajput’s dark eyes stared at him.
“Lord...” he said slowly.
“Yes, well.” Damodara cleared his throat. Awkward, that. But he did need to keep a straight face. Even if that maniac’s grin thirty yards away was infectious.
“Yes, well. That’s actually the point. You may recall that I once told you, on the banks of the Tigris, that the day might come when I would need to remind you of your oath.”
“Yes, Lord.” The eyes seemed darker yet. “I swore an oath—as did all Rajputs—to the Emperor of Malwa.”
“Indeed so. Well, I just discovered—”
He had to clear his throat again. No choice. Damn that Maratha rascal!
“Amazing news. Horrifying, actually. But Narses ferreted out the plot. It seems that—two generations ago, if you can believe it—”
Damodara had insisted on that, over-riding the eunuch’s protests, even though it made the forgeries far more difficult. He did not think it likely his father and mother would survive what was coming, despite Narses’ assurances. So be it. They were elderly, in any event. But he would not have them shamed also.
“—unscrupulous plotters in the dynasty substituted another baby for the rightful heir. Who was my grandfather, as it happens. The rightful heir to the throne, that is. Which means that Skandagupta is an impostor and a fraud, and his minion Nanda Lal is a traitor and a wretch. And, well, it seems that I am actually the Emperor of Malwa.”
By now, he wished he could strangle that still-grinning Maratha ape. Even though he’d gotten it all out without choking once.
Alas. The only man who could possibly manage that feat was Rana Sanga.
Who was still staring at him, with eyes that now seemed as dark as eternity.
Carefully keeping his gaze away from Rao and his blasted grin, Damodara spoke as sternly as he could manage.
“So, king of Rajputana. Will you honor your oath?”
It all fell into place for Sanga, then. As if the last shadow onion, hurled by his shadow wife, had struck him on the forehead and abruptly dispelled all illusions.
He looked away from Damodara and gazed upon Rao.
He always understood, Sanga realized. And, thus, understood me as well.
Sanga remembered the silvery moon over tortured Ranapur, that he had turned away from out of his duty. And knew, at last, that the duty has been illusion also. Already, then, nothing but illusion.
He remembered Belisarius holding a jewel in his hand, and asking the Rajput king if he would exchange his plain wife for a beautiful one. The answer to that question had been obvious to Sanga at the time. Why, he wondered now, had he not seen that the same answer applied to all things?
He remembered Belisarius’ exact words, speaking of the jewel in his hand. How stupid of Sanga, not to have understood then!
This, too, is a thing of pollution. A monster. An intelligent being created from disease. The worst disease which ever stalked the universe. And yet—
Is he not beautiful? Just like a diamond, forged out of rotting waste?
For years, Sanga had held tightly to the memory of his duel with Rao. Had held to that memory, as he’d seen the glory of his youth slide into what seemed an endless pit of vileness and corruption.
Looking upon Raghunath Rao today, standing almost naked before him—naked and unarmed—Sanga knew that he was already defeated. But also understood that, out of this defeat, would come the victory he had so desperately sought for so many years.
So stupid.
How could he have been so blind, not to have seen the truth? Not to have seen the way in which, out of the filth and evil of the Malwa dynasty, had emerged the true thing? There was no excuse, really, since Sanga had been there to bear witness, every step of the way. Had been there himself, and witnessed, as a short, fat—fat then, at least—and unassuming distant cousin of the Emperor had shown Sanga and all Rajputs that their sacred vows had not and would not be scorned by the gods of India.
An onion, peeled away by divine will to show the jewel at the center.
Even Narses had seen it. And if the Roman eunuch had chosen forgery and duplicity to peel away the illusion, Sanga had no need of such artificial devices.
The truth was what it was. The great land of India needed a great emperor. And now it had one, despite the schemes of an alien monster. No, not even despite the monster. Though never meaning to do so and never recognizing its own deed, the monster itself had created that true emperor, because it had created the need for him.
In a manner that the Roman traitor would never understand, his forgeries were simply a recognition of the truth.
“Of course, Emperor,” he said.
Damodara had seen Sanga smile before. Not often, true, by the standards of most men. Still, he’d seen him smile. Even grin, now and then.
Never, though, in a manner you might almost call sly.
“Of course,” Sanga repeated. “You forget that I am also a student of philosophy. If not”—he jerked his head toward Rao—“with the same extravagance as that one. But enough to understand that truth and illusion fade into each other, when the cycle comes. I remember pondering that matter, as I listened to the screams of dying Ranapur.”
There was no humor in the last sentence. Nor in the next.
“And did I not understand, my wife would explain it to me. If she could.”
“Oh.” Damodara felt like an idiot. “Sorry. I forgot. Narses uncovered another plot. It seems—”
“Please, Lord. She has been my life. She and my children.”
“Still is, still is. So are they.” Damodara drew the little knife from the pouch, and handed it to the Rajput. “She said—told Narses, through Ajatasutra—that you’d recognize this. Asked that you be given an onion, too.”
He drew that forth also, feeling like an idiot again. What sort of emperor serves up onions?
But since the answer was obvious, he didn’t feel like much of an idiot.
Successful emperors, that’s who.
Sanga stared down at the knife and the onion, though he made no attempt to take them. No way he could have, without relinquishing the bow and the arrow.
“Yes, I recognize it. And the message in the onion. I felt its shadow strike me, but a minute ago.”
For an instant, the Rajput’s eyes flicked toward the Malwa army. “Narses,” he hissed, sounding like a cobra. A very, very angry cobra.
That had to be deflected. “Later, Sanga. For the moment...”
Damodara’s jaws tightened. He was still quietly furious at Narses himself.
“He probably kept us all alive. And in the meantime, there are other matters to deal with.”
Sanga took a slow deep breath. “Yes.” Another such breath, by the end of which the tall and powerful figure on the horse next to Damodara seemed quite relaxed.
Poised rather, in the manner of a great warrior.
“What do you command, Emperor?”
“Let’s start by ridding ourselves of those pestiferous priests, shall we? Along with their pet torturers. I decree the Mahaveda cult an abomination. All the cult’s priests and mahamimansa are under immediate sentence of death. None will be spared.”
“My great pleasure, Lord of Malwa.”
And, so, India was given a new legend, after all. Whatever regrets the warriors who watched might have had, that the great duel between Sanga and Rao never happened, they were mollified by the bow shot.
The greatest ever, all would swear, since Krishna the charioteer drove Arjuna and his great bow onto the ancient battlefield of Kurukshetra. Hundreds of yards, that arrow flew, to strike like a thunderbolt.
For one of the few times in his life, Ajatasutra was quite amazed. The arrow went right through the chief priest, striking the perfect bowman’s target—just above the breastbone—and severing the great arteries as it passed. The chief priest collapsed on the wagon like a puppet with cut strings, blood gushing as if from a fountain. The arrow might even have severed the spine, from the way the priest was still thrashing.
“You see?” he demanded.
But the assassin was already onto the wagon, cutting the first mahamimansa.
Ajatasutra saw no reason to follow. The assassins he’d assembled, over the months, were very good. Not as good as he was, of course. But quite good enough—any one of them—to be more than a match for twice their number of torturers.
Besides, he had other duties. Sanga was coming, driving his horse like another thunderbolt, and with his lance in hand. The Ye-tai were paralyzed, for the moment, but the Rajputs were not hesitating at all.
There were twenty thousand Rajput cavalrymen on that field, now curling from the flanks onto the munitions train like two great waves. Even with the best of discipline, they were likely to shatter the wagons unless Ajatasutra had them clearly under control.
A small disaster, that. There was still a war to be fought and won.
He put away his dagger and drew the sword. If the scabbard that sword had been concealed in was shabby, the sword was that of a commander.
“Guard the wagons!” he shouted at the infantrymen, standing around, their mouths agape. “Swing them into a circle. Now, you idiots!”
They obeyed, almost instantly. Even those illiterate and provincial peasants could figure out the equation.
The mahaveda and mahamimansa were all dead or dying.
Ajatasutra seemed to know what he was doing.
Twenty thousand Rajputs were on the way. The hooves of their horses seem to make the very ground shake.
By the time the Rajputs arrived, Ajatasutra had the wagons in a rough circle. With, in a still wider circle around them, the corpses of priests and torturers tossed out. As if they were so many sacrificial offerings.
Which... they were. Even the Rajputs were satisfied.
Throughout, neither the Ye-tai nor the kshatriya artillerymen moved at all. This was Rajput business, even if Damodara had obviously given it his blessing.
Good enough. No doubt an explanation would be forthcoming. For the moment, wisdom and sagacity both called for the tactics of mice in the presence of predators.
Stillness and silence, lest one be noticed. Let the hawks feed on the priests and torturers. True, they were already carrion, but raptors are not fussy.
And who cared, anyway?
After the years of victory with Damodara, the years of battles and maneuvers in the course of which their commander had showed himself worthy of his men, who cared?
When the announcement was finally made to the entire army, the Ye-tai and kshatriya simply grunted their satisfaction.
Of course he was the emperor. Stupid of them, really, not to have realized it sooner. All that wasted time.
Still worse, the endless miles of pointless marching back and forth across central Asia—when Kausambi was so close.
That came later, however. For the moment, Damodara had more pressing business.
After Sanga was gone, thundering off, Damodara trotted over to Rao.
The grin was gone, at least.
“I am the new Emperor of Malwa. I did not start this war, I would now finish it.”
Rao nodded. “I want the border set on the crest of the Vindhyas. And we get the crest—with the right to build forts on it.”
Damodara thought about it, for a minute.
That was reasonable, he decided. In the nature of things, it would always be northern India with its teeming population in the Ganges valley that posed a threat to the realms of southern India. Forts along the crest of the Vindhyas in the hands of Marathas could serve to defend the Deccan. There was really no way they could ever serve as invasion routes onto the Gangetic plain.
“Agreed,” he said. “In return, I want Bharakuccha to be an open city. I will need a large seaport on the west coast.”
It was Rao’s turn to consider.
“The population is mostly Maratha,” he pointed out.
“It was once. Not any longer. It’s twice the size it was at the conquest, and as polyglot as any city in the world. No more than a third of the populace is Maratha, these days.”
Rao grunted. “Still.”
“I do not insist on a Malwa garrison. But I don’t want it garrisoned by Andhra, either. Or Persians.”
“On that last, we are agreed,” Rao said, scowling. “There’ll be no way to keep the greedy arrogant bastards out of the Sind, of course, thanks to you idiots. Not now. But that’s as close as I want them, and closer than I imagine you do.”
“Yes. And I don’t want Romans, either. They’re too powerful.”
Rao scratched his jaw. “Well, that’s true. Friends now—ours, if not yours—but who knows what the future will bring?”
Damodara made the final move. “An Axumite garrison, then, just big enough to maintain order. Axum is powerful at sea but too small to pose a military threat to any major realm of India. But not Axumite territory. An open city, with its own government—we’ll thrash that out later—and neutral to all parties.”
“You understand they’ll insist on the right to collect the tolls? To maintain the garrison.”
“For Axum, that matters. For us, it does not. Let them skim the trade. The trade itself flows in and out of India. North as well as south.”
Rao nodded. “Agreed, then. That leaves the Malwa armies in the Deccan outside of the Great Country. There’s still a huge garrison in Amaravati, and large ones elsewhere. Since you’re the Goptri of the Deccan, they’re officially under your command. What happens, now that you’re the Emperor?”
Damodara shrugged. “Ask me in a few months. If I take Kausambi and depose Skandagupta, they will obey me. I will then order them to come home. Until then, however, I’d just as soon they stayed where they are. I’ve never had much dealings with them, and I don’t know which way they’d go so long as things are unsettled.”
Rao studied the Malwa army. It was collapsing inward, leaving units of Ye-tai and kshatriya in place while the Rajputs came in to slaughter the priests. If they weren’t already slaughtered, which...
Rao now studied the new Malwa emperor.
They probably were. If Damodara had none of the overweening ambition of Malwa’s previous dynasts, Rao was quite sure he concentrated in his short person more capability than any of them—and at least as much in the way of ruthlessness.
But it was a very intelligent ruthlessness, the sort that didn’t confuse means with ends and didn’t prize ruthlessness for its own sake.
Rao could live with that. More importantly, his son—and his son, and his son—could live with it too. The Deccan could live with it. There would always be a great empire in northern India, that southern India would have to deal with. That being so, better to deal with an empire founded by such as Damodara.
“Done. It would take me two months anyway—at least—to march on Amaravati. But I warn you that I will, if you fail.”
“If I fail, what do I care? And if I don’t, it won’t be necessary.” Damodara smiled. “Or do you think that the garrison at Amaravati will suddenly get ambitious? With me above them, and you at the gates?”
Rao returned the smile. It would be pleasant, in the years to come, to deal with this man. Not easy, of course. But...
Yes, pleasant.
He nodded, and started to walk away.
Damodara called him back. “Rao—one thing more.”
“Yes?”
“If I succeed, I would like your sadhu to visit Kausambi.”
“Bindusara? Why?”
The new emperor seemed to shiver a little. “It is not enough to cut the throats of the mahaveda. For generations, now, they have been a poison in India. I think we need to consider an antidote.”
It was the only thing that happened that day that surprised Rao. He had never—not once—considered the possibility that the new emperor of Malwa might actually be wise.
“I have no objection. But I can’t speak for Bindusara. He’s a sadhu, you know. Stubborn, as the real ones always are.”
“Yes. Why I want him.”
Rao nodded, again, and walked away.
Much more than simply pleasant, then.
Of course, that would also make it less easy. But Rao had never expected the universe to be easy. In truth, he didn’t want it to be. With too much ease, came softness; and with softness, came rot.
It took him a while, to return. First, because he had to settle down some eager and jittery units of his own army. It was always hard for soldiers to restrain themselves, seeing what appeared to be an enemy in confusion.
That was accomplished easily enough. A few shouts and gestures did the trick. Rao’s position was unquestioned, after all.
It took longer to collect the weapons and armor he’d discarded. Nor was he tempted to ignore the business. In truth, he didn’t even think of doing so. Legend or not, consort of an empress or not, Raghunath Rao was Maratha born and bred. Like all hill people the world over, they were a thrifty lot.
Eventually, though, he made his way back to the howdah and looked up at his beloved wife.
“See?” he demanded.
“I never doubted you once, husband,” she lied.
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