Kungas made a very slight bow to the dead crone. He thought it was the least he could do. By the time the villagers would be allowed to remove her body, there would not be much left. The priests would refuse, of course, to do the rituals. So, the poor wretch was at least owed that much from her killer.
It was not, in any real sense, a religious gesture. Like most of his people, Kungas still retained traces of the Buddhist faith which the Kushans had adopted after conquering Bactria and north India. Adopted, and then championed. In its heyday, Peshawar, the capital of the Kushan Empire, had been the great world center of Buddhist worship and scholarship. But the glory days of the Kushan empire were gone. The stupas lay in ruins; the monks and scholars dead or scattered to the wind. The Ye-tai, on their own, had persecuted Buddhism savagely. And after the barbarians were absorbed into the rising Malwa power, the persecution had simply intensified. To the brutality of the Ye-tai had been added the calculating ruthlessness of the Malwa. They intended their Mahaveda cult to stamp out all rival tendencies within the great umbrella of Hinduism. Needless to say, they had absolutely no ruth toward Buddhists or Jains.
Between the persecution and his own harsh life, therefore, Kungas retained very little of any religious sentiment. So, his slight bow to the dead crone was more in the way of a warrior’s nod to a courageous soul. Perhaps that recognition would comfort her soul, a bit, waiting for its new life. (If there was a new life. Or such a thing as a soul. Kungas was skeptical.)
Not that her soul probably needs much comfort, he thought wryly as he walked away. She seemed to enjoy the Ye-tai squawling even more than we did. Maybe we did her a disservice, poisoning her.
He rubbed the new wound on his face, briefly. It was scabbed over now, and would heal soon enough. The pain was irrelevant. Kungas did not think the scar would even last beyond a few months. The man who put it there was a weak man, for all that he’d been in a rage. And a quirt is not, all things considered, the best weapon to use, if you want to scar up an old veteran.
And I’d much rather carry around a quirt-scar than be stuck on a stake.
The thought made him pause, brought another impulse. A very wry sense of humor, Kungas had. He stopped and turned back again; again examined the courtyard to make sure no spies were about; again bowed slightly. This time to the Ye-tai.
I thank you, O mighty Ye-tai. You saved my life. And probably that of all the Kushans.
As he walked out of the courtyard, he thought back on the episode.
Leave it to Venandakatra-the great warrior, the brilliant tactician. What a genius. As soon as he got the news, he rushed here ahead of his little army. Accompanied only by a few priests and that handful of foreigners. Within the hour, he was in a full rage. He ordered all the Ye-tai guards of the palace impaled-in public, right in front of them-and then noticed that the only soldiers he had to enforce the order were a Rajput cavalry troop. Leaving aside a hundred or so Malwa infantry, who ran like rabbits as soon as the Ye-tai went berserk.
Oh, what a fray that was! And after it was over, of course, he could hardly impale us next to them. Who’d do it? Not the Rajputs! Those snotty pricks suffered most of the casualties, except a handful of common soldiers who didn’t run fast enough. We were unarmed, at the beginning-at the genius’ own command-so the Ye-tai ignored us. By the time we could collect our weapons, it was almost over.
Grudgingly:
I’ll give that much to the Rajputs. They fought well, as always.
But it still would have been touch and go, if the foreigners hadn’t waded in. Lethal, they were. Absolutely murderous.
He pondered that last thought.
Why, I wonder? The Rajputs were happy enough, of course, to chop up Ye-tai dogs. So were we, once we got our weapons. But why should foreigners care? I can understand why they’d side with Venandakatra-they’re his guests, after all. By why do it with such avid enthusiasm? You’d think they’d had some quarrel of their own with the Ye-tai.
With his usual quick pace, Kungas was soon well down the tiled entryway to the courtyard. He was now beyond sight of anyone watching him from the palace. For the first time, the amusement in his mind surfaced on Kungas’ face. Barely, of course. Only someone who knew the man intimately would have interpreted that faint, hairline curve in his lips as a smile.
Oh, yes, they were beautiful. I think they butchered almost as many Ye-tai as the Rajputs did. And didn’t suffer anything more than scratches, except for that kid. Too bad about him. But he’ll recover, eventually.
The thought brought him back to his current assignment.
Yes, I think a courtesy call is quite the right thing to do. A very courteous courtesy call.
I definitely want to be on civil terms with those men. Oh, yes. Very civil. This assignment’s a bit like escorting a group of tigers.
Then:
Now that I think about it, I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather have tigers.
It took Kungas a while to find the party he was looking for. To his surprise, he discovered that the foreigners had been assigned a position at the very tail end of the huge caravan. After the supply train, right in the middle of the horde of camp followers.
Odd place for honored guests.
As he walked down the line of the caravan, Kungas puzzled over the matter.
Now that I think about it, our great lord did seem a bit peeved with them. Their leader, especially. I noticed Venandakatra casting quite a few glares in his direction. Didn’t think much of it, at the time. I assumed it was just the great lord’s mood, being spread around as usual. He has no reason to be pissed off at the foreigners, that I can see. Did him a service, they did. Without them, a few of the Ye-tai might have gotten to the bastard and carved him up.
Odd.
Eventually, Kungas found his party. The leader was standing off to the side of the road, watching the progress in loading the howdahs on the two elephants assigned to the foreigners. He and the two men with him were apparently seeking relief from the midday heat in the shade of the trees. That alone marked them for foreigners, leaving aside their pale skins and outlandish costumes. Shade brought little relief from the humid swelter. The trees simply cut down the slight breeze and provided a haven for insects.
Looking at him, Kungas was struck again by the disparity between the man and his position.
Weirdest general I ever saw. Too young by half, and twice as deadly as any general I ever met. That man is pure murder with a sword.
Thoughts of deadliness drew Kungas’ eyes to the general’s companions. They were standing a few feet away from their leader, in the posture of guards.
Kungas examined the one on the left first-the smaller one.
I do believe that is the wickedest-looking man I ever saw in my life. Like the world’s meanest mongoose.
He transferred his gaze to the one on the right-the huge one.
Legends live. The great ogre of the Himalayas walks among us. With a face carved out of the very stone of the great mountains.
The general caught sight of him. He seemed to stiffen a bit, but Kungas wasn’t certain. The general had one of those expressionless faces which are almost impossible to read. Kungas marched up to him. Summoned up his poor Greek.
“You is General Belisarius? Envoy for-from Rome?”
The general nodded.
“I is name Kungas. Commander for-of Lord Venandakatra’s Kushan-ah, group? Force. Lord Venandakatra has-ah, what is word?-”
“I speak Kushan,” said the general.
Kungas sighed inward relief.
“Thank you. I fear my Greek is wretched. We have been assigned to serve as your escort during the trip to Ranapur.”
Again, Kungas found it almost impossible to read the man’s expression. But, yes, he did seem a bit stiff. As if he were unhappy to see the Kushan. Kungas couldn’t think of a reason why that would be true, but he was almost sure he was correct.
