Fortune's stroke

He had known it would. Anastasius was the only Roman who matched the size of Link's special guards. But the others matched them in strength, if not in sheer bulk. And they, unlike the guards, were not a pampered 'elite.' They were the real thing. Swords and maces, wielded on battlefields and the cruel streets of Charax, went through the tulwars like fangs through soft flesh.

Silence, except for the ringing gong held in an assassin's hands. Then, silence, as Matthew's sword decapitated the gong holder.

Belisarius stepped into the room, staring at Link.

The monster was dying, now. With its inhuman intelligence, Link had already assessed the new reality. There would be no rockets coming through the floor, killing its great enemy. No grenades, to obliterate what might be left.

Link had been prepared for that possibility. So it had taken its last, pitiful revenge.

A jeweled cup slid out of the monster's hand. The body of an old woman-the monster's sheath-was already slumping in the ornate, bejeweled chair. An old woman's head lolled to the side.

It was a quick-acting poison. But there was still a gleam in those wizened eyes. A small gleam of triumph, perhaps. If nothing else, the monster's great enemy would not take its life.

Antonina shoved Belisarius aside. She sprang forward, raising her ugly and ungainly and detested handcannon.

Trusted weapon, now.

'Fuck you!' she screamed. Left hammer; rear trigger; fire. The first shot blew the monster's heart through its spine, spinning Antonina half-around. She spun back in an instant.

'Fuck you!' Right hammer; front trigger; fire. The second shot splattered the monster's brains against the far wall.

Antonina landed on her butt, driven down by the cuirass.

Her ass hurt. Her hands hurt. Her arms hurt. Her shoulders hurt. Her breasts hurt.

She raised her head, grinning up at her husband. 'God, that feels great!'

Belisarius beamed proudly at his cataphracts. 'That's my lady,' he announced. 'That's my lady!'

Epilogue

An interruption and a conclusion

The monster came to life. As the soul which had once inhabited a young woman's body was obliterated, the monster groped for consciousness.

The moment of confusion was brief.

Disaster was the first thought. There has been a disaster.

The monster examined its memory, with lightning speed. Nothing. All was going well. What could have happened?

There came an interruption.

'Are you all right, Lady Sati?'

A woman-plump, young, rather pretty-was staring at the monster, her face full of concern. 'You seem-ill, perhaps. Your eyes-'

The monster's thoughts, as always, raced with inhuman speed. In an instant, she had the interruption categorized. One of Lady Sati's maids. Indira was her name. She had developed a certain closeness with her mistress.

That could be inconvenient. More interruptions might occur.

The monster swiveled its head. Yes. The assassins were at their post.

Kill her.

By the time the knives ceased their flashing work, the monster's thoughts had reached a preliminary conclusion.

Belisarius. No other explanation seems possible.

There was no anger in the thought. There was nothing in the thought.

A command and a choice

'Are you insane?' demanded Nanda Lal, the moment he strode into Venandakatra's pavilion. 'Why have you not already begun the withdrawal?'

The Vile One clenched his jaws. Any other man but Nanda Lal-and the emperor, of course-would be caned for using that tone of voice to the Goptri of the Deccan. Caned, if he were lucky.

But-

Venandakatra controlled his rage. Barely. He thrust a finger at the ramparts of Deogiri. 'I will have that city!' he screeched. 'Whatever else, I will take it!'

Nanda Lal seized the Vile One by a shoulder and spun him around. Venandakatra was so astonished- no one may touch me! — that he stumbled, almost sprawling on the carpet. Then, he did sprawl. Nanda Lal's slap across the face did for that. Physical power, partly-the Malwa Empire's spymaster was a strong man, thick with muscle. But, mostly, Venandakatra's collapse was due to sheer, utter shock. No one had ever laid hands on Lord Venandakatra. He was the emperor's first cousin!

But, so was Nanda Lal. And the spymaster was in plain and simple fury.

'You idiot,' hissed Nanda Lal. 'You couldn't take Deogiri even when it was possible. Today? '

Angrily, the spymaster pointed through the open flap of the pavilion. Beyond lay the road to Bharakuccha. 'I had to fight my way here, you imbecile! With a small army of Rajputs!'

He reached down, seized Venandakatra by his rich robes, and hauled him to his feet. There came another buffet; hard open palm across flabby cheek.

'If you move now-fool! — we can still extract your army with light casualties. By next week-the week after, for a certainty-half your soldiers will be dead by the time you reach Bharakuccha.'

Contemptuously, Nanda Lal released his grip. Again, Venandakatra collapsed to the carpet. His mouth was agape, his eyes unfocused.

Nanda Lal turned away, clasping his hands behind his back. 'We can hope to hold Bharakuccha, and the line of the Narmada. The large towns in the north Deccan. That is all, for the moment. But we must hold Bharakuccha. If it is lost, our army in Mesopotamia will starve.'

His heavy jaws tightened. Nanda Lal opened his mouth, as if to speak further, but simply shook his head. The spymaster was not prepared to share his still-tentative analysis of the likely situation in Mesopotamia. His fears about Mesopotamia. Certainly not with Venandakatra.

'Do it,' he commanded. He tapped the sash holding his own robes in place. An imperial scroll was thrust into that sash. 'I have the full authority here to do anything I wish. That includes ordering your execution, Venandakatra.'

He turned his head, glowering down at the sprawled man at his feet. 'The scroll is not signed by the emperor alone, by the way. It also bears Great Lady Sati's signature.'

Venandakatra's shock and outrage vanished instantly. His face, already pale, became ashen.

'Yes,' grated Nanda Lal. 'Great Lady Sati.'

The spymaster looked to the northwest, through the open flap.

Quietly: 'The siege of Deogiri is over, Venandakatra. By tomorrow morning, this army will be on the road to Bharakuccha. That is a given. The only choice you have is whether you will lead it. Or simply your head, stuck on a pike.'

A desire and a decision