In the Heart of Darkness

graces.' '

The Malwa lord, Sanga noted, was courteous enough not to add: any more than we have ever allowed Rajput generals to learn the secrets.

Now it was Sanga's turn to hesitate, tug his beard.

'I understand your words, Lord. I have given some thought to the matter, myself. I do not understand what Belisarius is doing, but I do know the man is incredibly shrewd. And that he sees opportunities where others do not.'

Damodara frowned. 'I have not seen any- Explain.'

Sanga smiled grimly. 'Yes, you have seen, Lord Damodara. You simply did not notice-as I did not myself, at the time.'

Sanga pointed down the slope upon which the pavilion rested. To that same battlefield which had seen Ranapur's final charge. 'I am a good general,' he stated.

'You are a great general,' countered Damodara.

Sanga grimaced. 'So I had thought, once. But let me ask you, Lord Damodara-why didn't I think to rally the soldiers on that battleground? It would have been far easier for me, with five hundred Rajputs at my disposal, than for a foreigner with only three men. But I did not think of it, then. I took the direct course, the simple course. The obvious course.'

Damodara stared down at the battlefield. Even now, days later, the grisly signs of death were everywhere apparent.

'I-begin to understand your point. You are saying that he is a man who will, almost automatically, approach his task from the side. From an angle, so to speak.'

Sanga nodded. Then, made a small gesture toward the pavilion.

'In there, Lord Damodara, I likened Belisarius to a tiger. And I suggested the use of a long stick.'

Damodara nodded, smiling.

'It is a poor analogy, the more I think about it. A tiger, you can bait with a long stick. But ask yourself this, Lord Damodara: how long a stick must you use if you seek to bait a mongoose?'

Later, when the assembly reconvened, Lord Damodara demanded that only the innermost circle of Malwa advisers be allowed to remain. The Emperor agreed, readily enough, and the pavilion was cleared of all others. Even the Ye-tai bodyguards stood far back, well out of hearing range.

When he rose to speak, Lord Damodara repeated nothing of his conversation with Rana Sanga. The Rajput sense of honor was foreign to him, but he understood it. It was that understanding, perhaps, which caused him to shield Sanga from retribution.

Instead, he simply exercised-for the first time ever-his sacred right as a kinsman of the highest Malwa. He demanded that the problem of Belisarius be placed before the highest authority.

The demand would have astonished anyone other than the men in that pavilion. All the world knew-all of India, at least-that Emperor Skandagupta was the very God-on-Earth. The highest of all authority.

But the men in that room knew otherwise. Great as Skandagupta was, another was greater still. Above the God-on-Earth, after all, are the heavens.

His demand was agreed to. Grudgingly, to be sure-angrily, on the part of Venandakatra. But agreed to it was, for they had no choice.

The question of Belisarius would be taken to the very soul of the dynasty. To the great mind of Malwa's destiny. To the divine being called Link.

Link. A strange name, but appropriate. For, as the divine being had often explained, it was simply the face shown to humanity of the great, new, Gods-in-Heaven.

Later that night, long after all his other Rajputs were asleep, Rana Sanga stood in the entrance of his own tent. He had stood there for hours, almost motionless, simply staring. Staring at the moon, for a time. Staring, for a longer time, at the flickering fires which still burned, here and there, in the rubble which had once been called Ranapur. Staring, and lost in thought.

Ranapur was silent, now, so Sanga's thoughts were not interrupted by noise. True, the stench of Ranapur's death penetrated his nostrils. But the Rajput had long been familiar with that particular odor. His mind automatically blocked it out.

Finally, Sanga turned away. One last glance at the moon, high and silvery, before he entered his tent.

His last thought, before he stooped into the darkness, was the same thought which he had clung to throughout those long hours.

I swore an oath.

The next morning, imperial heralds spread throughout the gigantic encampment, carrying the announcement that the emperor was returning to Kausambi. The announcement came much sooner than anyone had expected, and so the preparations for departure were ragged and disorganized.

The foreigners in the encampment, from long and ingrained habit, made their preparations within an hour. Their obvious, simple, direct preparations, at least. Their other preparations took much longer, more than a day, but they had plenty of time. Plenty of time to see to the movement of many excellent, high-spirited horses and a few small, docile elephants. Plenty of time, even, to see to it that those movements had no apparent connection to them.

Plenty of time. Not for three days more did the first departure take place from the encampment. A small army-a large army, actually, by any but Malwa standards-began its long march southward. The army which had been assigned to Lord Venandakatra, in his new manifestation as the Goptri of the Deccan. It was a glorious manifestation, even by Venandakatra's standards, and so the great Lord was mollified for the unseemly haste with which he made his departure.

Of the various types of Malwa governorships, none was so prestigious as 'Goptri.' (The term, as closely as possible, could have been translated in the western lands as: Warden of the Marches.) No ordinary governor, Venandakatra, to be assigned to a small and placid province. Not even an ordinary satrap, Venandakatra, assigned to a large and placid region. No, Venandakatra, blessed by his Emperor, had been given the entire Deccan, and, trusted by his Emperor, had been charged with bringing that fractious land to heel.

As much as they detested him, many Malwa officials, watching him go, almost felt sorry for the man.

Three days later, the Emperor's own army began its march. (Stately progress, it might be better to say.) A march which was much shorter, and to the east, and-for the Emperor and his immediate entourage-no march at all. The Emperor and the high Malwa rode down the Jamuna in the comfort of the world's most luxurious barges, escorted by a fleet of slim war galleys.

Most of the Emperor's army, however, marched. As did the horde of camp followers who surrounded the army. And a small band of foreigners, like a chip in a slow moving ocean of humanity.

Chapter 9

Daras

Summer 530 AD

The first day, after her return to Daras, Antonina spent with her son. Photius was ecstatic to see his mother, after a separation of several months-the more so when he saw the small mountain of gifts which she had brought back for him from fabled Constantinople. Yet, for all that the boy kept one eager, impatient eye upon his fascinating new toys, he spent the first day cuddling with his mother.

The seven-year-old's delight in the reunion was the product of simple joy, not relief. He had obviously been well treated during her absence. Indeed, suspected Antonina, hefting his weight, he had been spoiled outright.

By the second day, of course, the imperative demand of new toys overwhelmed all filial devotion. At the crack of dawn, Photius was at his play. When his mother appeared, an hour or so later, the boy gave her no more than perfunctory words of greeting. Mothers, after all is said and done, are mothers. As cherishable as the sunrise, to be sure, but equally certain. Toys, now-who knows when they might vanish, into whatever magic realm brought them forth?