The Dance of Time b-6 Read online

  Damodara had said nothing to him, of course. Neither had Narses, beyond the vaguest of hints. It didn't matter. Toramana, from his own analysis of the situation, was almost certain that Damodara had decided the time had come. The reason he was full of good cheer was because, if he was right, that meant both Damodara and Narses had great confidence in him. They were relying on Toramana to do what was necessary, without needing to be told anything.

  He'd know, of course, if his assessment was correct. There would be one sure and simple sign to come.

  So, he foresaw a great future for himself. Assuming he survived the next few months. But, if he did-yes, a great future.

  And an even greater future for his children.

  Of course, producing those children also depended on surviving the next few months. But Toramana was a confident man, and on no subject so much as his own prospects for survival.

  That led him to his other reason for remaining on the battlements, which was the need to make a final decision on the second most important issue he faced.

  He came to that decision quickly. More quickly than he had expected he would. Odd, perhaps. Toramana was not generally given to experimental whimsy. On the other hand, new times called for new measures.

  Odder still, though, was the sense of relief that decision brought also.

  Why? he wondered. Fearing, for a moment, that he might have been infected with the decadence he saw around him. But he soon decided that there was no infection. Simply. .

  And how odd that was! He was actually looking forward to it.

  New times, indeed.

  * * *

  That evening, as he had done every evening since she'd arrived in Bharakuccha, Toramana presented himself at the chambers where his intended had taken up residence in the great palace.

  Outside the chambers, of course. Betrothed or not, there would be no question of impropriety. Even after Indira appeared and they began their customary promenade through the gardens, she was followed by a small host of wizened old chaperones and three Rajput warriors. Clansmen of Rana Sanga's, naturally.

  For the first few minutes, their talk was idle. The usual meaningless chitchat. Meaningless, at least, in its content. The real purpose of these promenades was simply to allow a groom and his future bride to become at least somewhat acquainted with each other. As stiff as they were, even Rajputs understood that the necessary function of a wedding night was simplified and made easier if the spouses didn't have to grope at each other's voices as well as bodies.

  After a time, Toramana cleared his throat. "Can you read?"

  Indira's eyes widened. Toramana had expected that. He was pleased to see, however, that they didn't widen very much, and the face beneath remained quite composed. To anyone watching, she might have been mildly surprised by a comment he made concerning an unusual insect.

  His hopes for this wife, already high, rose a bit further. She would be a splendid asset.

  "No," she replied. "It is not the custom."

  Toramana nodded. "I can read, myself. But not well. That must change. And I will want you to become literate also. I will hire tutors for us."

  She gazed at a nearby vine. The slight widening of the girl's eyes was gone, now. "There will be some talk. My brother's wife can read, however, even if somewhat poorly. So probably not all that much talk."

  "Talk does not concern me," Toramana said stiffly. "The future concerns me. I do not think great families with illiterate women will do so well, in that future."

  The smile that spread across her face was a slow, cool thing. The very proper smile of a young Rajput princess hearing her betrothed make a pleasant comment regarding a pretty vine.

  "I agree," she said. "Though most others would not."

  "I am not concerned about 'most others.' Most others will obey or they will break."

  The smile spread just a bit further. "A few others will not break so easily."

  "Easily, no. Still, they will break."

  The smile now faded quickly, soon replaced by the solemn countenance with which she'd begun the promenade. As was proper. A princess should smile at the remarks of her betrothed, to be sure, but not too widely and not for too long. They were not married yet, after all.

  "I am looking forward to our wedding," Indira said softly. Too softly for the wizened little horde behind them to overhear. "To the marriage, even more."

  "I am pleased to hear it."

  "It is not the custom," she repeated.

  "Customs change. Or they break."

  * * *

  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 has 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.

  Chapter 17

  The Indus

  The attack came as a complete surprise. Not to Anna, who simply didn't know enough about war to understand what could be expected and what not, but to her military escort.

  "What in the name of God do they think they're doing?" demanded Menander angrily.

  He studied the fleet of small boats-skiffs, really-pushing out from the southern shore. The skiffs were loaded with Malwa soldiers, along with more than the usual complement of Mahaveda priests and their mahamimamsa "enforcers." The presence of the latter was a sure sign that the Malwa considered this project so near-suicidal that the soldiers needed to be held in a tight rein.

  "It's an ambush," explained his pilot, saying aloud the conclusion Menander had already reached. The man pointed to the thick reeds. "The Malwa must have hauled those boats across the desert, hidden them in the reeds, waited for us. We don't keep regular patrols on the south bank, since there's really nothing there to watch for."

  Menander's face was tight with exasperation. "But what's the point of it?" For a moment, his eyes moved forward, toward the heavily shielded bow of the ship where the Victrix's fire-cannon was situated. "We'll burn them up like so many piles of kindling."

  But even before he finished the last words, even before he saw the target of the oncoming boats, Menander understood the truth. The fact of it, at least, if not the reasoning.

  "Why? They're all dead men, no matter what happens. In the name of God, she's just a woman!"

  He didn't wait for an answer, however, before starting to issue his commands. The Victrix began shuddering to a halt. The skiffs were coming swiftly, driven by almost frenzied rowing. It would take the Victrix time to come to a halt and turn around; time to make its way back to protect the barge it was towing.

  Time, Menander feared, that he might not have.

  "What should we do?" asked Anna. For all the strain in her voice, she was relieved that her words came without stammering. A Melisseni girl could afford to scream with terror; she couldn't. Not any longer.

  Grim-faced, Illus glanced around the barge. Other than he and Cottomenes and Abdul, there were only five Roman soldiers on the barge-and only two of those were armed with muskets. Since Belisarius and Khusrau had driven the Malwa out of the Sind, and established Roman naval supremacy on the Indus with the new steam-powered gunboats, there had been no Malwa attempt to threaten shipping south of the Iron Triangle.

  Then his eyes came to rest on the vessel's new feature, and his tight lips creased into something like a smile.

  "God bless good officers," he muttered.

  He pointed to the top of the cabin amidships, where a shell of thin iron was perched. It was a turret, of sorts, for the odd and ungainly looking "Puckle gun" that Menander had insisted on adding to the barge. The helmeted face and upper body of the gunner was visible, and Illus could see the man beginning to train the weapon on the oncoming canoes.

  "Get up there-now. There's enough room in there for you, and it's the best armored place on the barge." He gave the oncoming Malwa a quick glance. "They've got a few muskets of their own. Won't be able to hit much, not shooting from skiffs moving that quickly-but keep your head down once you get there."

  It took Anna a great deal of effort, encumbered as she was by her heavy and severe gown, to clamber atop the cabin. She couldn't have made it at all, if Abdul hadn't boosted her. Climbing over the iron wall of the turret was a bit easier, but not much. Fortunately, the gunner lent her a hand.

  After she sprawled into the open interior of the turret, the hard edges of some kind of ammunition containers bruising her back, Anna had to struggle fiercely not to burst into shrill cursing.

  I have got to design a new costume. Propriety be damned!

  For a moment, her thoughts veered aside. She remembered that Irene Macrembolitissa, in her Observations of India, had mentioned-with some amusement-that Empress Shakuntala often wore pantaloons in public. Outrageous behavior, really, but. . when you're the one who owns the executioners, you can afford to outrage public opinion.

  The thought made her smile, and it was with that cheerful expression on her lips that she turned her face up to the gunner frowning down at her.

  "Is there anything I can do to help?"

  The man's face suddenly lightened, and he smiled himself.

  "Damn if you aren't a prize
!" he chuckled. Then, nodding his head. "Yes, ma'am. As a matter of fact, there is."

  He pointed to the odd-looking objects lying on the floor of the turret, which had bruised Anna when she landed on them. "Those are called cylinders." He patted the strange looking weapon behind which he was half-crouched. "This thing'll wreak havoc, sure enough, as long as I can keep it loaded. I'm supposed to have a loader, but since we added this just as an afterthought. ."

  He turned his head, studying the enemy vessels. "Better do it quick, ma'am. If those skiffs get alongside, your men and the other soldiers won't be enough to beat them back. And they'll have grenades anyway, they're bound to. If I can't keep them off, we're all dead."

  Anna scrambled around until she was on her knees, then seized one of the weird-looking metal contraptions. It was not as heavy as it looked. "What do you need me to do? Be precise!"

  "Just hand them to me, ma'am, that's all. I'll do the rest. And keep your head down-it's you they're after."

  Anna froze for a moment, dumbfounded. "Me? Why?"

  "Damned if I know. Doesn't make sense."

  But, in truth, the gunner did understand. Some part of it, at least, even if he lacked the sophistication to follow all of the reasoning of the inhuman monster who commanded the Malwa empire. The gunner had never heard-and never would-of a man named Napoleon. But he was an experienced soldier, and not stupid even if his formal education was rudimentary. The moral is to the material in war as three-to-one was not a phrase the man would have ever uttered himself, but he would have had no difficulty understanding it.

  Link, the emissary from the new gods of the future who ruled the Malwa in all but name and commanded its great army in the Punjab, had ordered this ambush. The "why" was self-evident to its superhuman intelligence. Spending the lives of a few soldiers and Mahaveda priests was well worth the price, if it would enable the monster to destroy the Wife whose exploits its spies reported. Exploits which, in their own peculiar way, had become important to Roman morale.