Fortune's stroke b-4 Page 35

  The first wave of Ye-tai was already clambering over the rubbled wall. Volleys of grenades were sailing over their heads, clearing the way.

  There was no way to be cleared, however. As soon as the siege guns began firing, Maurice had pulled back the troops on the wall. Those soldiers had long since taken up new positions.

  "When?" asked Maurice.

  Belisarius studied the assault through the slit window. What had been the northern wall was now an ant heap, swarming with Ye-tai. The soldiers were making slow progress, stumbling over the broken stones, but at least five hundred were now into the level ground inside the city.

  If the Ye-tai hadn't been seized by the fury of their charge, they might have wondered about that level ground. An area fifty yards wide, just within the northern wall, had been cleared by Belisarius' troops. "Cleared," in the sense that the buildings had been hastily knocked apart. The sun-dried bricks hadn't been hauled away, simply spread around. The end result was a field of stones and wall stumps, interspersed with small mounds of mud brick.

  They might have wondered about those mounds, too. But they would have no time to do so.

  There were now at least a thousand Ye-tai packed into the level ground, along with perhaps two hundred Kushans and kshatriyas. The Malwa soldiers were advancing toward the first line of still-intact buildings. They were moving more slowly now, alert for ambush. Kshatriya grenadiers began tossing grenades into the first buildings.

  "Now," said Belisarius. Maurice whistled. A moment later, the small squad of cornicenes in a lower level of the tower began blowing their horns. The sound, confined within the stone walls of the tower, had an odd timbre. But the soldiers waiting understood the signal.

  Dozens of fuses were lit. Fast-burning fuses, these. Three seconds later, the holocaust began.

  The mud brick mounds scattered everywhere erupted, as the huge amphorae buried within them were shattered by explosive charges. The amphorae-great two-handled jugs-had been designed to haul grain. But they held naphtha just as nicely.

  Some of the jugs were set afire by the explosions. Mud brick mounds became blooming balls of flame and fury, incinerating the soldiers crowded around them.

  Most of the jugs did nothing more than shatter, spilling their contents. The naphtha they contained was crude stuff. Undistilled, and thick with impurities. Explosive charges alone were not usually enough to set it aflame. But the charges did send clouds of vapor and streams of smelly naphtha spewing in all directions. Within seconds, most of the Malwa soldiers packing the level ground were coated with the substance.

  The next round of charges went off. Mines, disguised with rubble, had been laid against the walls of the nearest tenement buildings. They had been manufactured over the past few days by Roman troops working in the harbor's warehouses, smithies and repair shops.

  The mines, too, were crude. Not much more than buckets, really, packed with explosives and laid on their sides. Some were copper kettles, but most were simply amphorae reinforced with iron hoops. Wooden lids held the charges from spilling out.

  These mines were designed for incendiary purposes. As soon as the charges in the bases of the buckets were fired, combustible materials saturated with distilled naphtha spewed forth. Hundreds-thousands-of burning objects rained all over the ground before them, igniting the crude naphtha which already saturated the area.

  Within seconds, hundreds of Malwa troops had been turned into human torches. All other sounds were submerged under a giant's scream.

  "Jesus," whispered Maurice, peering through the slit. "Jesus, forgive us our sins."

  Belisarius, after a few seconds, turned away. His face seemed set in stone.

  "That should stop the charge," he said. "From now on, they'll advance like snails."

  Maurice's gaze was still fixed on the human conflagration below. It could not be said that he turned pale, but his cheeks were drawn. He hissed a slow breath between clenched teeth.

  Then, with a quick, harsh shake of the head, he too turned away.

  He glanced at Belisarius. "Snails? They'll advance like trees growing roots, more like." Again, hissing: "Jesus."

  * * *

  Musketeers began to clamber onto the tower platform and take their places at the arrow slits. Belisarius and Maurice edged through the soldiers and started descending the stairs. Both men were silent.

  Vocally, at least. Trying to shake off the horror, Belisarius spoke to Aide.

  That was what you meant, isn't it?

  Aide understood the question. His mind and Belisarius', over the years, had entwined their own roots.

  Yes. Wars of the future will not really be civilized, even when the Geneva Convention is followed. More antiseptic, perhaps, in the sense that men can murder each other at a distance, where they can't see the face of the enemy. But, if anything, I think that makes war even more inhumane.

  It did not seem strange-neither to the man nor the crystal-that Aide should use the word "inhumane" as he did. From the "inside," so to speak. Nor did it seem strange that, having used the word, Aide should also accept the consequence. If there had been any accusation in the word, it had been aimed as much at himself as the men who fired the naphtha. Had it not been Aide, after all, who showed Belisarius the claymore mines of the future?

  The question of Aide's own humanity had been settled. The Great Ones had created Aide and his folk, and given them the name of "people." But, as always, that was a name which had to be established in struggle. Aide had claimed his humanity, and that of his crystal clan in the human tribe, in the surest and most ancient manner.

  He had fought for it.

  Chapter 35

  Deogiri

  Autumn, 532 A.D.

  Irene chuckled sarcastically. "Well, Dadaji, what do you think they're saying now?" She draped her right elbow over the side of the howdah, leaned back, and looked at the elephants trailing them in the procession. The Keralan delegation was riding in the next howdah. The sight of Ganapati's face was enough to cause her to laugh outright.

  Holkar did not bother to turn his head. He simply gazed upon the cheering crowds lining the road and smiled beatifically. "No doubt they are recognizing their error, and vowing to reapply themselves to their philosophical studies."

  Irene, her eyes still to the rear, shook her head in wonder. "If Ganapati doesn't close his mouth a little, the first strong breeze that comes along will sweep him right out of his howdah."

  She craned her neck a bit, trying to get a better glimpse of the elephants plodding up the road behind the Keralans. "Same goes for the Cholan envoys. And the Funanese, from what I can see." Again, she shook her head-not in wonder, this time, but cheerful condemnation. "O ye of little faith," she murmured.

  She removed her elbow and turned back into her own howdah. For a moment, Irene's eyes met those of the woman sitting across from her, nestled into Holkar's arm. Dadaji's wife smiled at her. The expression was so shy-timid, really-that it was almost painful to see.

  Irene immediately responded with her own smile, putting as much reassurance into the expression as she possibly could. Dadaji's wife lowered her gaze almost instantly.

  Poor Gautami! She's still in shock. But at least I finally got a smile from her.

  Irene moved her eyes away from the small, gray-haired woman tucked under Holkar's shoulder. She felt a deep sympathy for her, but knew that any further scrutiny would just make Holkar's wife even more withdrawn. The problem was not that Gautami was still suffering any symptoms from her long captivity. Quite the opposite, in truth. Gautami had gone from being the spouse of a modest scribe in a Maratha town to a Malwa kitchen slave, and then from a slave to the wife of ancient Satavahana's peshwa. The latter leap, Irene thought, had been in some ways even more stressful than the first plunge. The poor woman, suddenly discovering herself in India's most rarified heights, was still gasping for breath.

  Looking away, Irene caught sight of yet another column of Marathas approaching the road along which Shakuntala was
making her triumphant procession toward Deogiri. The gentle smile she had bestowed on Gautami was transformed into something vastly more sanguine-a grin that bordered on pure savagery.

  "Column," actually, was an inappropriate word. "Motley horde" better caught the reality. At the forefront, whooping and hollering, came perhaps two dozen young men. Five of them were on horseback, prancing forward and then back again-the self-appointed "cavalry" of whatever village had produced them. The rest were marching-half-charging, say better-on foot. All of them were bearing weapons; although, in most cases, the martial implements still bore the signs of recent conversion. Hoes, mostly, hammered into makeshift polearms by the local blacksmith. But Irene could see, here and there, a handful of real spears and swords.

  Coming behind the rambunctious young men were other, older men-ranging through late middle age. They, too, were all carrying weapons of one sort or another. Some among them, astride horses, even had armor and well-made bows and swords. Those would be what passed for kshatriyas in that village, nestled somewhere in the Great Country's volcanic reaches. Behind them, marching more slowly, came perhaps two or three hundred people. Women, children, graybeards, the sick and infirm, priests-Irene did not doubt for an instant that the mob comprised every person in that village, wherever it was, who could move on their feet.

  The column reached the road and began merging into the throng spilling along both sides, as far as the eye could see. Irene did not look back again, but she knew that many of those people, once Shakuntala's procession had passed, would join the enormous crowd following the empress toward Deogiri. The Greek noblewoman had stopped even trying to estimate their numbers.

  I had no idea the Great Country held this many people. It seems like such a barren land.

  Dadaji must have sensed something of her thoughts. "Many of us, aren't there?" he remarked. Holkar swiveled his head, examining the scene. "I had not realized, myself. Nor, I think, had anyone. And that too will give them courage, when they go back to their villages."

  A sudden roar drifted back from the crowd ahead. Moments later, the procession staggered to a halt. Dadaji leaned over the side of the howdah and peered forward.

  "She's giving a speech again." He shook his head, smiling. "If she keeps this up-"

  A huge roar drowned his words; then, like an undulating wave, it rolled through the crowd lining the road. In seconds, as the people near the howdah joined in, the noise became half-deafening. Most of those people could not possibly have heard any of Shakuntala's words, but it mattered not in the least. They knew what she had said.

  For days, as her expedition to Deogiri moved through southern Majarashtra, the Empress of Andhra had given a single short, simple, succinct speech. By now, every Maratha within a week's horseback ride-a fast, galloping ride-knew its content.

  Andhra is Majarashtra's bride.

  My army is my dowry.

  My husband will break Malwa's spine.

  My sons will grind Malwa's bones.

  It was not even a speech, any longer. Simply a chant, every one of whose words was known by heart and repeated by untold thousands-untold tens of thousands-of Marathas. By them-and by many others. The Great Country, for centuries, had served as a haven for people fleeing tyranny and oppression. The Marathas, as a people, were the mongrel product of generations past who had found a sanctuary in its hills and badlands. The new refugees who had poured in since the Malwa Empire began its conquest of India simply continued the process. Many of the voices chanting Shakuntala's phrases did so, not in Marathi, but in dozens of India's many tongues.

  The roar faded. The procession lurched back into motion. Irene cocked an eye at Holkar. "You were saying, Dadaji?"

  The peshwa shook his head, still smiling. "If she keeps this up, she'll be so hoarse by the time she gets to Deogiri that she won't be able to propose to Rao at all." His smile widened, became quite impish. "He still hasn't said `yes,' you know? And he's hardly the kind of man who can be browbeaten-not even by her."

  Irene grinned in return. "You don't seem greatly concerned. Good God! What if he says `no'? Disaster!"

  Holkar made no verbal response. The expression on his face was quite enough.

  Irene laughed. "You should model for sculptors, Dadaji-the next time they need to carve a Buddha."

  Holkar squeezed his wife close. "So I keep telling Gautami." He chuckled. "Stubborn woman! She persists in denying my sainthood."

  "Of course I do," came the instant response. Irene almost gasped, seeing the woman's eyes. Still shy, still half-downcast, but-yes! Twinkling!

  "What kind of a saint snores?" demanded Gautami.

  My God-she told a joke!

  "The girl has gone mad, Maloji," growled Rao, glaring down at the elephant leading the enormous-and utterly bizarre-"relief column" which was almost at the huge gate in Deogiri's southern wall. From his perch atop that wall, Rao could see Shakuntala clearly. The empress was riding alone on the lead elephant, standing completely erect in full imperial regalia.

  "Look!" he cried, pointing an accusing finger. "She does not even have a bodyguard in her howdah!"

  Serenely, Maloji examined the army of polearm-wielding Maratha peasants who flanked the howdah, just beyond the stiff ranks of Kushans who marched directly alongside the empress. His gaze moved to the ostrich-plumed black soldiers who came behind her elephant.

  Then, scanning slowly, Maloji studied the various military units which trotted all over the landscape south of the walled city, alertly watching for Malwa enemies. He recognized the Cholan and Keralan troops, but could only guess at the exact identity of the others. There were perhaps three thousand of them in all, he thought. It was difficult to make a good estimate, however, because of the huge crowd of Marathas which seemed to fill the landscape.

  Rao started pounding the top of the wall with his hands. "What is Kungas thinking?" he demanded.

  Maloji leaned back, sighing satisfaction. "I never realized how many nations there are in this world," he murmured. Then, casting his glance sideways at the fretful man by his side, he chuckled.

  "Relax, Rao!" Another chuckle. "I really don't think she's in any danger from the Vile One's army."

  Now, an outright laugh. Maloji jerked his head back and to the north. "Ha! The Vile One has all his troops surrounding his camp, while he cowers in his pavilion. For all intents and purposes, he is the one besieged this day."

  Rao was still slapping the wall. Maloji snorted.

  "Stop this, old friend!" He reached over and pinned Rao's hands to the stones. "You are being foolish, and you know it. Another report came in from Bharakuccha just this morning. More Malwa troops are stumbling into the city, seeking a haven. Entire garrisons, as often as not, from some of the smaller towns. The whole land is seething rebellion. The Great Country is coming to a boil. There is no chance in the world that Malwa will strike at the empress. Not today, for a certainty."

  Rao stared at him. For a moment, he tried to pry his hands from under Maloji's. But there was no great conviction in that effort.

  "She is still insane," he muttered stubbornly. "This whole scheme of hers is insane. It. . it. ." He took a breath. "She is endangering her purity-her sacred lineage-for the sake of mere statecraft."

  For a moment, Rao's usual wit returned. "A masterstroke, I admit, from the standpoint of gaining Maratha allegiance." Wit vanished with the wind; the deep scowl returned. "But it is still-"

  "Stop it!" commanded Maloji. Suddenly, almost angrily, he seized Rao's wrists and jerked the man away from the wall.

  Startled, Rao's eyes went to his. Maloji shook his head.

  "You do not believe any of this, Rao. You are simply afraid, that is all. Afraid that what you say is true. Afraid that the girl who comes to you today is not the girl you longed for, but simply an empress waging war."

  After a moment, Rao's eyes dropped. He said nothing. There was no need for words.

  Maloji smiled. "So I thought." He released Rao's wrists, but only to seize t
he man's shoulders and turn him toward the stairs leading down to the city below. Already, they could hear the sound of the great gates opening.

  "Go, go! It's long past time the two of you spoke." He began pushing Rao ahead of him. Majarashtra's greatest dancer seemed to be dragging his feet.

  "And let me make a suggestion." Maloji chortled. "I think you'd better stop thinking of her as a `girl.' "

  They were alone, now. Even Kungas had left the room, secure in the knowledge that his empress was in the care of a man who was, among many other things, one of India's greatest assassins.

  Rao stared at Shakuntala. It had been three years since he saw her last. And then only for two hours.

  "You have changed," he said. "Greatly."

  Shakuntala's eyes began to shy away, but came back firmly.

  "How so?" she asked, straightening her back. Shakuntala's normal posture was so erect that she always looked taller than she was. Now, she was standing like an empress. Her black eyes held the same imperial aura.

  Rao shook his head. It was the slow gesture of a man in a daze, trying to match reality to vision.

  "You seem-much older. Much-" He waved his hand. The gesture, like the headshake, was vague and hesitant. He took a breath. "You were a beautiful girl. You are so much more beautiful, now that you are a woman. I do not understand how that is possible."

  There was perhaps a hint of moisture in Shakuntala's eyes. But her only expression was a sly smile.

  "You have not changed much, Rao. Except there is some gray in your beard."

  Rao stood as erect as the empress. Harshly: "That is only one of the reasons-"

  "Be quiet."

  Rao's mouth snapped shut. For a moment, his jaw almost sagged. He had never heard Shakuntala speak that way. The Panther of Majarashtra was as stunned as any of the pampered brahmin envoys who had also been silenced by that ancient voice of great Satavahana.