Fortune's stroke

objects of great fascination.

'I urged her to accept,' he said forcefully. 'The Cholas are the most powerful independent kingdom of south India. Their proposal was full of quibbles, of course, but they are still offering a genuine alliance. A marriage between Shakuntala and the Cholas would strengthen us like no other. I am in full agreement with Dadaji Holkar on that matter, and I told her so very clearly.'

Maloji looked away. 'That must have been a difficult letter for you to write,' he said softly.

Rao's eyes widened. 'Why?'

Maloji snorted. A moment later, he brought his gaze back to Rao. It was a sad gaze.

'Old friend, you cannot fool me. Others, perhaps. But not me.'

He said nothing else. For a moment, Rao tried to meet Maloji's level gaze with one of his own. But only for a moment.

'It is dharma, Maloji,' he murmured, studying his flexing fingers. 'I have lived my life by duty, and discipline. And so has-'

He took a deep, almost shuddering breath. A faint sheen of moisture came to his eyes.

'And so has she.' Another breath-he made no attempt to control the shudder, now-and he finally, to another man, spoke the words. 'She is the treasure of my soul, Maloji. But I have my duty, and she has hers. We will both be faithful to our dharma.'

His fingers became fists. 'That is the way it must be. Will be.'

Maloji hesitated. He was perhaps Rao's closest friend, but this was a subject they had never discussed. With a little shrug, he decided to widen the crack.

'Have you ever spoken to her?'

Rao's back stiffened. 'Never!' he exclaimed. 'That, alone, would be a betrayal of my trust. She was given into my care by the Emperor of Andhra himself, to safeguard the dynasty. It would be the foulest treason for me to betray that trust.'

Maloji shook his head. 'You are not her father, Rao. Much older than she, true. So what? If I remember right, the oldest son of Chola is no younger than you.'

Rao made a short, chopping motion. 'That has nothing to do with anything. She is the purest blood of India. The heir of ancient Satavahana. I am a Maratha chieftain.' For a moment, he managed a grin. 'It is true, I am considered kshatriya-by Marathas, at least. But my mother's father was a peasant, and no one even knows the name of my paternal grandfather, although he is reputed to have been a tinker.'

His powerful hands relaxed. A great sigh loosened his muscular body. 'The world is what it is, Maloji. We must be true to our dharma, or we lose our souls.'

His whole body seemed to ooze against the stones of the wall, as if he were seeking to find oneness with the universe.

'We must accept, that is all.' Rao turned his eyes to his friend. The moisture was gone, along with any outward sign of pain. Suddenly, he grinned.

'It has been difficult, I admit. I remember, the first time-' He chuckled wryly. 'She was thirteen, perhaps fourteen years old. She had done especially well in one of the exercises I set her to, and I praised her. She laughed and embraced me, pressing herself close. Suddenly-it struck me like a bolt of lighting, I will never forget the moment-I realized she was a woman now. And not just any woman, but-'

He groped for words. Maloji provided them: 'She has been called the Black-Eyed Pearl of the Satavahanas since she was twelve. There is a reason for it, which goes far beyond her eyes. I have not seen her since Amaravati, but even then she was beautiful.'

Rao closed his eyes again. 'I try not to think about it,' he whispered. 'It is difficult, but I manage. Since that day, years ago, I have kept myself from looking at the beauty of her body. Other men may do so, but not I.' His eyes reopened. 'But I cannot blind myself to the real beauty. I have tried-so very hard-but I cannot. I simply try not to think about it.' He smiled. 'Perhaps that is why I meditate so often.'

Abruptly, he rose. 'Enough. We will not speak of this again, Maloji, though I thank you for your words.' He stared at the Malwa enemy over the battlements. 'We have a war to fight and win. A dynasty to return to its rightful place. An empress to shield and protect-and cherish. That is our dharma.'

He pushed himself away from the stones and turned toward the stairs leading to the city below. 'And now, I must be about my tasks. I have my duty, she has hers. She will marry Chola, and I will dance at her wedding. The best dance I ever danced.'

Seconds later, he was gone. Maloji, watching him go, bowed his head. 'Not even you, Raghunath Rao,' he whispered. 'Not even you-the Great Country's best dancer as well as its soul-can dance that well.'

Chapter 11

Persia

Spring, 532 A.D.

The first Malwa barrage came as an unpleasant surprise to the Roman troops dug in on the crest of the saddle pass. Instead of sailing all over the landscape, a majority of the Malwa rockets landed uncomfortably near their entrenchments. And the fire from the small battery of field guns which Damodara had placed on a nearby hilltop was fiendishly accurate. The Roman fieldworks were partially obscured by small clouds of dust and flying dirt.

There was not much actual damage, however. Two cannon balls landed in trenches, but they caused only one fatality. Solid cannon shot was designed for field battles, where a ball could bounce through the packed ranks of advancing infantry. Even when such a solid shot struck a trench directly, it usually did nothing more than bury itself in the loosened dirt. The man killed just had the misfortune of standing on the wrong patch of soil. His death was almost silent, marked only by a sodden thud; and then, by the soft and awful sounds of blood and intestines spilling from a corpse severed at the waist.

Worse casualties were created by the single rocket which hit directly in a trench. Rocket warheads were packed with gunpowder and iron pellets. When such a warhead exploded in a crowded trench, the result was horrendous.

'Damn,' hissed Maurice, watching the survivors in the trench frantically trying to save the wounded. The shouts of the rescuers were drowned beneath the shrieks of dying and injured men. 'They've got impact fuses.'

Belisarius nodded. 'And they've refitted their rockets with proper venturi,' he added. 'You can tell the difference in the sound alone, leaving aside the fact they're ten times more accurate.'

Frowning, he swiveled his telescope to point at Damodara's pavilion, erected just a few hundred yards behind the front lines of the Ye-tai who were massing for a charge.

Through the telescope, Belisarius could see Damodara standing on a platform which had been erected in front of the pavilion. The platform was just a sturdy framework of small logs, but it was enough to give the Malwa commander a good field of view. It was typical of Damodara, thought Belisarius, that he had not even bothered to have the logs planed. Most anvaya-prapta sachivya would have insisted on polished planks, covered with rugs.

'How did he do it?' the Roman general muttered. 'I knew the Malwa would come up with impact fuses and venturi soon enough. But I didn't expect to see them appear in Damodara's army, as isolated as they are from the manufactories in India.'

Belisarius lowered the telescope, still frowning.

'They must have hauled them here,' said Maurice. The gray-haired veteran frowned as well. 'Hell of a logistics route! I'd hate to be relying on supplies that have to be moved through the Hindu Kush and-all that.'

The last two words were accompanied by a vague little wave of Maurice's hand, indicating the entire broken and arid terrain between the lush plains of north India and the Zagros range. Mountains, hills, deserts-some of the roughest country in the world, that was. More suited for mountain goats than supply trains.

'It could be done,' mused Belisarius. 'Trade caravans have made it all the way to China, when you think about it. But not often, and not carrying anything more cumbersome than luxury goods.'