Fortune's stroke

Belisarius leaned forward, preparing to discuss the future. Because Lord Damodara is a man. The best man of the Malwa, because he's the only one who doesn't dream of being a god. He follows the Malwa gods, true. But he is beginning to wonder, I think, how well his feet of clay will stand the march.

'Lord Damodara-' began Belisarius. The general reached up and began unlacing his tunic. Beneath the cloth, nestled in a leather pouch, the future lay waiting. Like a tiger, hidden in ambush.

You're on, Aide.

There was no uncertainty in the response. Neither doubt, nor puzzlement.

I'll clean their clocks. Scornfully: Polish their sundials, rather.

Damodara-almost-took Aide in his hand when Belisarius made the offer. But, at the end, the Malwa lord shied away from the glittering splendor. Partly, his refusal was based on simple, automatic distrust. But not much. He didn't really think Belisarius was trying to poison him with some mysterious magical jewel. He believed, in his heart of hearts, that Belisarius was telling the truth about the incredible-gem? — nestled in his hand.

No, the real reason Damodara could not bring himself to take the thing, was that he finally realized that he did not want to know the future. He would rather make it himself. Poorly, perhaps; blindly, perhaps; but in his own hands. Pudgy, unprepossessing hands, to be sure. Nothing like the well-formed sinewy hands of a Roman general or a Rajput king. But they were his hands, and he was sure of them.

Sanga was not even tempted.

'I have seen the future, Belisarius,' he stated solemnly. 'Link has shown it to me.' The Rajput pointed to Aide. 'Will that show me anything different?'

Belisarius shook his head. 'Not at all. The future-unless Link and the new gods change it, with Malwa as their instrument-is just as I'm sure Link showed it to you. A place of chaos and disorder. A world where men are no longer men, but monsters. A universe where nothing is pure, and everything polluted.'

Belisarius lifted his hand, his fingers spread wide. Aide glistened and coruscated, like the world's most perfect jewel.

'This, too, is a thing of pollution. A monster. An intelligent being created from disease. The worst disease which ever stalked the universe. And yet-'

Belisarius gazed down at Aide. 'Is he not beautiful? Just like a diamond, forged out of rotting waste.'

Belisarius closed his fingers. Aide's glowing light no longer illuminated the pavilion. And a Roman general, watching the faces of his enemies, knew that he was not the only one who missed the splendor.

He turned to Damodara. 'Do you have children?'

The Malwa lord nodded. 'Three. Two boys and a girl.'

'Were they born perfectly? Or were they born in blood, and your wife's pain and sweat, and your own fear?'

A shadow crossed the Roman's face. 'I have no children of my own. My wife Antonina can bear them no longer. In her days as a courtesan, after she bore one son, she was cut by a man seeking to become her pimp.'

Those coarse truths, spoken by a man about his own wife, did not seem odd to his enemies in the pavilion. They knew the story-Narses had told them what few details the Malwa espionage service had not already ferreted out. Yet they knew as well, as surely as they knew the sunrise, that the Roman was oblivious to any shame or disgrace. Not because he was ignorant of his wife's past, but simply because he didn't care. Any more than a diamond, nestled with a pearl, cares that the pearl was also shaped from waste.

The shadow passed, and sunlight returned. 'Yet that boy-that bastard, sired by a prostitute's customer-has become my own son in truth. As dear to me as if he were born of my own flesh. Why is that, do you think?'

Belisarius stared down at the beauty hidden in his fist. 'This too-this monster-has become like a son to me. And why is that, do you think?' When he raised his head, the face of the Roman general was as serene as the moon. 'The reason, Lord of Malwa and King of Rajputana, was explained to me by Raghunath Rao. In a vision I had of him, once, dancing to the glory of time. Only the soul matters, in the end. All else is dross.'

Belisarius turned to Rana Sanga. 'My wife is a very beautiful woman. Is yours, King of Rajputana?'

Sanga stared at the Roman. Belisarius had never met Sanga's wife. For a moment, angrily, Sanga wondered if Rome's spies had-

He shook off the suspicion. Belisarius, he realized, was simply making a shrewd guess. Looking for any angle from which to drive home the lance.

'She is plump and plain-faced,' he said harshly. 'Her hair was already gray by the time she was thirty.'

Belisarius nodded. He opened his hand. Beauty reentered the pavilion.

'Would you trade her, then, for my own?'

Sanga's powerful fingers closed around the hilt of his sword. But, after an instant, the gesture of anger became a simple caress. A man comforted by the feel of an old, familiar, trusted thing. The finest steel in the world was made in India. That steel had saved him, times beyond counting.

'She is my life,' he said softly. 'The mother of my children. The joy of my youth and the certainty of my manhood. Just as she will be the comfort of my old age.'

Sanga's left hand reached up, gingerly stroking the new scar which Valentinian had put on his cheek. The scar was still angry-looking, in its freshness, but even after it faded Sanga's face would remain disfigured. He had been a handsome man, once. No longer.

'Assuming, of course, that I reach old age,' he said, smiling ruefully. 'And that my wife doesn't flee in terror, when she sees the ogre coming through her door.'

Again, for a moment, the fingers of his right hand clenched the sword hilt. Powerful fingers. Sanga's smile vanished.

'I would not trade her for a goddess.' The words were as steely as his blade.

'I didn't think so,' murmured Belisarius. He slipped Aide back into his pouch, and refastened the tunic.

'I didn't think so,' he repeated. He rose, and bowed to Damodara. 'Our business is finished, I believe.'

Belisarius was a tall man. Not as tall as Sanga, but tall enough to loom over Damodara like a giant. He was a big man, too. Not as powerful as Sanga, to be sure, but a far more impressive figure than the short and pudgy Malwa lord sitting on a cushion before him.

It mattered not at all. Lord Damodara returned the Roman general's gaze with the placidity of a Buddha.

'Yes, I believe it is,' he agreed pleasantly. Damodara now rose himself, and bowed to Belisarius. Then, he turned slightly and pointed to Narses. 'Except-'

Damodara smiled. The very image of a Buddha.

'You requested that Narses be present. I assume there was a reason.'

Belisarius examined the eunuch. Throughout the parley, Narses had been silent. He remained silent, although he returned Belisarius' calm gaze with the same glare with which he had first greeted him.

'I would like to speak to Narses alone,' said Belisarius. 'With your permission.'

Seeing the distrust in Damodara's eyes, Belisarius shook his head.

'I assure you, Lord Damodara, that nothing I will discuss with Narses will cause any harm to you.'

He waited, while Damodara gauged the thing. Measured the angles, so to speak.

That was a beautifully parsed sentence, said Aide admiringly.

I had an excellent grammarian. My father spared no expense on my education.

Damodara was still hesitating. Looking for the oblique approach, wherever the damn thing was. That it was there, Damodara didn't doubt for an instant.

'I will give you my oath on it, if you wish,' added Belisarius.

Oh, that's good. You're smart, grandpa. Don't let anybody tell you different.

Belisarius almost made a modest shrug. But long experience had taught him to keep his conversations with Aide a secret from those around him.

I am a man of honor. But I've never seen where that prevents me from using my honor practically. We Romans are even more practical than the Malwa. Way more, when push comes to