In the Heart of Darkness Read online

  "It's our fault," whispered Menander.

  Belisarius placed a gentle hand on the cataphract's shoulder.

  "Yes and no, Menander. Even if the rebels had killed the Emperor, Ranapur would still have fallen. A few weeks later, perhaps, but Skandagupta's successor would have seen to it."

  His words obviously brought no relief. Sighing faintly, Belisarius turned the young cataphract to face him. The boy's eyes were downcast.

  "Look at me, Menander," he commanded. Reluctantly, the cataphract raised his head. Belisarius found it hard not to flinch from the bitter, unspoken reproach in those young eyes.

  "If there is fault here, Menander, it is mine, not yours. I am your general, and I gave the command."

  Menander tightened his jaw, looked aside.

  From behind, Valentinian interjected himself harshly.

  "That's pure bullshit, sir, if you'll pardon my saying so. You didn't order this."

  The veteran started to add something, but Belisarius waved him down.

  "That's not the point, Valentinian. I knew this would happen, when I gave the orders I did. Just as I've done before, ordering that a city which won't surrender be stormed by my troops."

  "It's still not the same, sir," rumbled Anastasius. "Sure, there've been times you lost control of your troops during a sack. I don't know a general who hasn't. But you did everything you could to restore discipline, as fast as possible. Including the execution of soldiers proven guilty of atrocities."

  The huge Thracian spat on the ground. "These Malwa troops aren't out of control. They were ordered to commit atrocities. The Emperor's personal bodyguards have been setting the example." Another spit. "Ye-tai dogs."

  Menander shuddered. The gesture seemed to bring some relief. The boy rubbed his face and said quietly, "At least the Rajputs haven't been part of it. I've come to like those men, in a way, these past weeks. I'd have hated it if—"

  Valentinian laughed. "Part of it? Mother of God, I thought there was going to be a civil war yesterday!"

  Belisarius and Anastasius chuckled. Menander's color suddenly returned. The boy's grin was harsh beyond his years.

  "That was something, wasn't it? When the Ye-tai offered them what was left of the noblewomen. If Rana Sanga hadn't restrained them, I swear the stinking Emperor would have needed a new bodyguard."

  He straightened up, squared his shoulders. A quick, final glance at Ranapur; then:

  "I'm all right, general."

  Behind them, from within the Emperor's pavilion, came rolling percussion. Where Romans used cornicens to blare for attention, the Malwa used huge kettledrums.

  "That's our cue," said Belisarius. "Follow me. And remember: whatever the Malwa do, we're Romans."

  The interior of the pavilion was crowded, but the Romans had no difficulty making their way through the mob. The Malwa nobles and officials parted before them courteously. Even the Ye-tai bodyguards did so, although not without bestowing savage, knowing grins upon them.

  "They've got something planned for us, I warrant," muttered Anastasius.

  At the center of the pavilion, the Romans found that a special place of honor had been reserved by the Malwa for their foreign guests. A roughly circular space had been cleared, approximately forty feet in diameter. The space was encircled by soldiers, keeping the general mass of officials, nobles, and bureaucrats at a slight distance. Most of the soldiers consisted of the Emperor's Ye-tai bodyguards, but there was a small group of some fifteen Rajputs included in that select company. They stood by themselves, erect and dignified, giving the Ye-tai to either side not so much as a glance.

  The Emperor himself sat on a throne made of some unfamiliar, beautifully grained hardwood. The carving of the wood was exquisite, what little of it could be seen. Most of the wood was covered with silk upholstering, the rest inlaid with gold, gems and ivory. Seated around him, on chairs which were less magnificent but still very fine, were his immediate entourage of kinsmen. Venandakatra was prominent among them.

  Diagonally, before him and to his right, sat the Emperor's chief military officers. There were eight of them, arranged in two rows. All of them were sitting on luxurious cushions, in that odd cross-legged position which Indians called the "lotus."

  Belisarius was interested to note that Rana Sanga was now among that group. Lord Harsha was not. Belisarius had heard that the former high commander had been banished to his estate in disgrace. Had he not been related to the Emperor by blood, he would probably have been executed. His place had been taken by another of Skandagupta's many cousins, Lord Tathagata.

  Belisarius subjected the new Malwa high commander to a quick scrutiny. Average height, stout, middle-aged. Beyond that, there was little to discern in the man's lidded eyes and heavy features. He gave Rana Sanga a glance. The Rajput was seated in the second row of officers. He sat erect, his head rising well above those of his fellows. His eyes met those of Belisarius. They seemed like agates: blank, flat, unreadable.

  To the Emperor's left, also diagonally before him, was a place for the foreign emissaries. The Ethiopians were already there. Plush stools, upholstered in silk, had been provided for the high-ranking outlanders. Prince Eon and Garmat sat on two such stools, with Ousanas and the sarwen standing respectfully behind them. A third stool was there for Belisarius. He took his seat, and his cataphracts ranged themselves behind him.

  "Isn't this fun?" muttered Garmat, after Belisarius sat next to him. Eon said nothing. The young Prince had obviously been coached by Garmat, and so he managed to keep his face expressionless. But Belisarius, from long acquaintance, could read the anger in those tense, massive shoulders.

  "What's the purpose of this little assembly?" asked Belisarius. "Do you know why we were summoned?"

  As Garmat had, he spoke softly, so that his words would be lost in the general hubbub which filled the pavilion. And, again like Garmat, he spoke in Ge'ez. He and Garmat had long since agreed that the language of the Ethiopians was unfamiliar to the Malwa.

  Garmat gave his head a little shake. "No. Something unpleasant, however. Of that you may be certain."

  Another drum roll. The crowd in the pavilion began to fall silent.

  Garmat's lips tightened. "Whatever it is," he whispered, "at least we won't have to sit through an endless reception. Look at Venandakatra."

  Belisarius glanced at the Malwa lord, and met Venandakatra's gaze. The Vile One nodded slightly, very politely. His eyes gleamed.

  Silence fell over the pavilion. Venandakatra arose and stepped forward, until he was standing in the little space between the Emperor's entourage and his most honored officers and guests.

  Almost as soon as he began to speak, Belisarius knew that Garmat was right. At least there was not going to be a long wait. Venandakatra sped right through the obligatory fawning on the Emperor, which normally required a full hour.

  True, he spent a minute reminding his audience that Skandagupta was "a very moon among kings, beloved of the gods, and the sun of valor."

  Then, another minute, pointing out that the Emperor's stride "was beautiful like the gait of a choice elephant," and that he "displayed the strength and prowess of a tiger of irresistible valor."

  Moving on to the Emperor's more spiritual side, Venandakatra spent another minute dwelling on "the reverberations of the kettle-drums which have become the reverberation of the Law of Piety" and similar descriptions of Skandagupta's justice and devotion.

  Now, alas, he veered for several minutes onto the field of the Emperor's prodigious intellect, during which time the awestruck audience discovered that Skandagupta "puts to shame all others by his sharp and polished intellect and choral skill and musical accomplishments. He alone is worthy of the thoughts of the learned. His is the poetic style which is worthy of study."

  Fortunately, he did not quote the poetry.

  Venandakatra's peroration, now coming to a close, ascended rapidly toward the heavens. The Emperor, he reminded everyone, was:

  Adhiraja, super-king
.

  Rajatiraja, supreme king of kings.

  Devaputra, son of heaven.

  Mahati devata, great divinity in human shape.

  Then, casting all false modesty aside:

  Achintya Purusha, the Incomprehensible Being.

  Paramadaivata, the supreme deity.

  "All that," mused Garmat, peering at the Emperor on his throne, "in such a fat little package. Who would have guessed?"

  Belisarius managed not to smile. His struggle was made easier by Venandakatra's ensuing words, which focussed on the subject of Ranapur. Soon enough, it became apparent that this was the real point of his peroration. The actual siege itself, the Vile One dispatched with a few sentences, which, by Malwa standards, was a studied insult to the military officers. The focus of Venandakatra's treatment, however, was on Ranapur's punishment.

  Belisarius listened for a few minutes, fascinated despite himself. Not so much by the speech itself, which consisted of an interminable, protracted, loving description of the tortures inflicted on Ranapur's residents, but by the fact that the Malwa would boast of them so publicly. Even the most vicious Roman emperors had always drawn a veil over the details of their crimes.

  After a time, he blanked the words from his mind. He had already heard a description of the Malwa atrocities—not from the smiling lips of the Vile One, but from the pale, tight-jawed mouth of Menander. He knew of the impalings, the burnings; the people ripped apart by yoked oxen, fed to tigers, trampled under elephants; and the Emperor's particular delight, the men and women whose arms and legs had been torn off by a specially trained war elephant. That elephant, he had heard, had been a personal gift to the Emperor from Venandakatra himself.

  He focussed inward, summoned Aide.

  Is such incredible cruelty the doing of this thing you call Link?

  The answer was immediate, and contained none of the uncertain fumbling which so often characterized Aide's replies.

  No. Link is not cruel. Link is a machine. Cruelty means nothing to it. Only results.

  Do the "new gods" demand it, then?

  A bit of hesitation. Just a bit.

  We—do not think so. They are—too cold. They, also, seek only results. But—

  The thought faceted, broke into fragments. Belisarius caught enough of a glimpse to understand.

  Yes. They seek only results, and take no personal pleasure in cruelty. But results can be achieved through many different means. And this is the means they will naturally take. Their instinctive response to resistance: kill, butcher, rule by terror.

  Yes.

  And the "Great Ones"? What is their instinctive response, when they seek results and others resist their goals?

  Silence. Then, much more uncertainly:

  Hard to explain. They are even colder, in their way. They simply accept resistance, and seek to channel it. That is why they created us, perhaps, who are the coldest of all beings. We are intelligent, unlike computers. But, like computers, we are not alive.

  Very uncertainly:

  At least, we do not think we are alive. We are not sure.

  Aide fell silent. Belisarius knew he would get nothing more, for the moment. He pondered the exchange, until Garmat drew him back into the present.

  "He's wrapping it up," whispered the Axumite.

  "In this divine work," cried out Venandakatra, "the great God-on-Earth drew to his side all the powers of the Universe. Even at the moment when the forces of evil thought to triumph, he caused to fall upon them the wrath of foreign allies. And so was demonic rebellion shattered!"

  Venandakatra made a small motion with his hand. Four burly officials staggered forward, carrying a chest. They set the chest before Belisarius. Three of them stepped away.

  Venandakatra pointed to the chest dramatically.

  "Great is the reward for those who please the God-on-Earth!"

  The fourth official grasped the lid of the chest and swung it open, exposing its contents for all to see. Then he too stepped aside.

  A gasp rose from the guards and officials close enough to see. The chest was filled to the brim with gold coins, pearls, diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and beautifully carved jade.

  Belisarius found it hard not to gasp himself. He had never suffered the vice of greed, though he was practical enough to prefer wealth to poverty. But he was still stunned by the gift. The contents of that chest were, quite literally, a king's ransom.

  A king's bribe, rather.

  For an instant, he struggled, though not with greed. Until he was certain he had vanquished that rush of anger, he kept his head down; staring blindly into the chest, as if dazzled by his sudden fortune.

  As so often, in such battles, humor was his chosen weapon. Belisarius reminded himself that, if greed had never been his vice, he was given to a different mortal sin. A sense of honor, in itself, was not a sin. But vanity about that honor was.

  He remembered the flushed and angry faces of Couzes and Boutzes, two young generals whose courage had been insulted by a Persian nobleman. At the time, he had wondered why any sane man would care what a Persian peacock—an enemy, to boot—thought of his courage.

  So why should I care what a Malwa peacock thinks of my honor?

  He raised his head, smiling broadly. He rose, bowed to Venandakatra, and prostrated himself before the Emperor. By the time he resumed his seat, the pavilion was buzzing with gratified noise from the assembled Malwa elite.

  "There's going to be something else," murmured Garmat, his lips barely moving.

  Belisarius' nod was hardly more than a twitch.

  "Of course," he murmured back. "First the bribe. Then—the test."

  He sensed a stirring in the back of the crowd. A little eddying motion, as if people were forcing their way forward. Or being forced forward.

  He knew the nature of the test, then, even before Venandakatra spoke. A new fury threatened to overwhelm him, but he crushed it at once. The only sign of his rage was that the next words he spoke to Garmat were spoken in Arabic instead of Ge'ez.

  "Why is it, I wonder, that cruel people always think they have a monopoly on ruthlessness?"

  For a moment, he and his friend Garmat gazed at each other. Garmat said nothing, but Belisarius recognized that slight curl in his lips. Garmat, too, had a sense of humor, as did most Axumites. But he also had that fine appreciation of poetry which was such a gift of his mother's people. He knew why Belisarius had spoken in Arabic. Though it was a language known by some Malwa, they would not understand the meaning of those words. Only a half-Arab, half-Ethiopian brigand would understand them. A cutthroat from the desert, who had chosen to serve the foreign black King who conquered southern Arabia. Not from cowardice, or greed, but from the cold knowledge that it was the best road forward for his people. Both of his peoples.

  The bodyguards ringing the center of the pavilion parted. A small group of prisoners was pushed into the center. Roughly, quickly, the prisoners were lined up facing Venandakatra and forced down onto their knees. Six people: a middle-aged man, a middle-aged woman, three young men, and a girl not more than fifteen. They were dressed in crude tunics, and had their arms bound tightly behind them. All of them were dazed, from the look in their downcast eyes, but none of them seemed to have been physically abused.

  Venandakatra's voice grew shrill.

  "The rebel of Ranapur himself! And his family! They alone have survived the God-on-Earth's wrath! The great Skandagupta chose to save them—

  He gestured dramatically, pointing to Belisarius:

  "—as a gift to the blessed foreigners!"

  A roar of approval swept the pavilion. Belisarius felt the glittering eyes of the assembled Malwa upon him. He sensed, behind him, Menander's slight movement. Instantly stilled by Anastasius' low growl:

  "Nothing, boy. It's a trap."

  Venandakatra smiled down at Belisarius. His eyes were like bright stones. Again, with a grand flourish, he gestured to the prisoners.

  "Do with them as you wish, B
elisarius! Show us the Roman way with rebellion!" With a smirk: "The girl is even still a virgin."

  Belisarius spoke instantly:

  "Valentinian."

  The cataphract stepped forward. He gave the prisoners a quick glance, then turned to the nearest Ye-tai officer and extended his left hand. The officer was grinning like a wolf.

  "Silk."

  The grin faded, replaced by a puzzled frown. But, feeling the Malwa eyes upon him, the officer hastily removed his scarf. The little piece of silk, dyed with the red and gold colors of the dynasty, was the coveted badge of his position in the imperial bodyguard.

  As soon as the scarf was in Valentinian's left hand, his spatha appeared in the right. As if by magic, to those who had never seen him move. The cataphract wheeled, coiled, struck.

  Struck. Struck. Struck. Struck. Struck.

  Venandakatra squawled, staggering back from the fountaining blood that soaked him from six severed necks. His foot fell on one of the heads rolling across the floor. He lost his balance and stumbled onto the lap of another of the Emperor's kinsmen. With a cry of surprise and anger, the nobleman pushed him off his lap. Then, like all the other Malwa seated by the Emperor—as well as the Emperor himself—hastily drew up his slippered feet, to save the expensive finery from the small lake of blood spreading across the floor. To save himself from the horrible pollution which had saturated Venandakatra.

  The pavilion was silent. Calmly, Valentinian cleaned the blood from his sword with the silk scarf. He did not linger over the task, any more than a farmer lingers when he feeds slops to his hogs. The work done, Valentinian extended his hand, offering the scarf back to its owner. The Ye-tai officer clenched his teeth with rage, grasped the handle of his own sword, glared at Valentinian.

  He froze, then, meeting those cold, empty eyes. The cataphract's narrow face held no expression at all. But the Ye-tai saw the sword in his right hand. Lowered, not raised; held casually, not gripped; but still in hand. That lean, sinewy, weasel-quick hand.

  The Ye-tai snatched back the scarf. Valentinian bowed to him, in a very shallow sort of way. Then, circling slowly, bestowed the bow on all of the Ye-tai bodyguards in the circle. They answered the bow with hot eyes and tight jaws.