In the Heart of Darkness

are aloof folk, you know. Very aloof. Have nothing to do with the routine of daily training.' He stopped, planted his hands on hips. 'No, no. That's trivial stuff. Always leave that sort of thing in the hands of lowly hecatontarchs.'

Grimly: 'That's me.'

The grenadiers eyed him warily. Eyed the grinning cataphracts who stood nearby. The announcement had just been made that they were to be the new trainers.

Maurice gestured in their direction.

'These are what we call-cadre.'

Very evil grins, those cataphracts possessed.

'Oh, yes,' murmured Maurice. 'Now your training begins in earnest. Forget all that silly showpiece stuff for the Empress.'

He resumed his pacing. 'I will begin by introducing you to the First Law of Battle. This law can be stated simply. Every battle plan gets fucked up as soon as the enemy arrives. That's why he's called the enemy.'

He stopped, turned, smiled cheerfully.

'Your own plans just got fucked up.'

Grinned ear to ear.

'I have arrived.'

Yes, the grins disappeared from their faces. But the smile in the hearts of those young peasants did not. Not ever, in the weeks which followed, for all the many curses which they bestowed upon Maurice. (Behind his back, needless to say.)

No, not once. The young Syrians were not foolish. Not even the men, and certainly not their wives. Uneducated and illiterate, yes. Stupid, no. For all their pleasure in their new-found status, they had never really thought it was anything but a serious business.

They were a practical folk. Serious business, they understood. And they had their own peasant estimate of serious folk.

Antonina was a joy; the Empress had been a pleasure. Sittas was a fine magnanimous lord; Cassian the very archetype of a true bishop.

And Michael, of course, a prophet on earth.

But it was time for serious business, now. Peasant work. And so, though they never grinned, Syrian peasants took no offense-and lost no heart-from the abuse of Thracians.

Farm boys, themselves, at bottom, those Thracian cataphracts. Peasants, nothing better.

Just very, very tough peasants.

And so, as summer became autumn, and as autumn turned to winter-

— a general and his allies fought to escape Malwa's talons,

— an Empress watched an empire unravel in Constantinople,

— conspirators plotted everywhere-

And a few hundred peasants and their wives toiled under the Syrian sun. Doing what peasants do best, from the experience of millenia.

Toughening.

Chapter 17

North India

Summer 530 AD

When they came upon the third massacre, Rana Sanga had had enough.

'This is madness,' he snarled. 'The Roman is doing it to us again.'

His chief lieutenant, Jaimal, tore his eyes away from the bloody corpses strewn on both sides of the road. There were seven bodies there, in addition to the three soldiers they had found lying in the guardhouse itself. All of them were common soldiers, and all of them had been slaughtered like so many sheep. Judging from the lack of blood on any of the weapons lying nearby, Jaimal did not think the soldiers had inflicted a single wound on their assailants. Most of them, he suspected, had not even tried. At least half had been slain while trying to flee.

'What are you talking about?' he asked.

'This-idiocy.' Sanga glared. 'No, I take that back. This is not idiocy. Not at all. This is pure deception.'

His lieutenant frowned. 'I don't understand-'

'It's obvious, Jaimal! The whole point of this massacre-like the first two, and the attack on the army camp-is simply to lead us in pursuit.'

Seeing the lack of comprehension on Jaimal's face, Sanga reined in his temper. He did not, however, manage to refrain from sighing with exasperation.

'Jaimal, ask yourself some simple questions. Why did the Romans kill these men? Why are they going out of their way to take roads which lead past guardhouses? Why, having done so, do they take the time to attack the guardhouses instead of sneaking around them? You know as well as I do that these'-he jabbed a finger at the corpses-'sorry sons-of-bitches wouldn't move out of their guardhouses unless they were forced to. Finally, why did they attack the army camp in Kausambi on the night they fled?'

Silence. Frown of incomprehension. Sanga finally exploded.

'You idiot! The Romans are doing everything possible to lead us in this direction? Why, damn you-why?'

Jaimal's gape would have been comical, if Sanga had been in a humorous mood.

'Belisarius-isn't-isn't with them,' he stammered. 'He fled a different way.'

'Congratulations,' growled Sanga. He reined his horse around.

'Gather up the men. We're going back.'

Jaimal frowned. 'But it's a three-day ride back to Kausambi. And we were ordered-'

'Damn the orders! I'll deal with Tathagata. And what if it is a three day ride? We've already lost four days on this fool's errand. By the time we get back-assuming I can talk sense into the Malwa-Belisarius will have at least a week's lead on us. Would you rather extend it further?'

He jabbed an angry finger to the south. 'How many more days do you want to chase after the Roman general's underlings? I doubt if we can catch them anyway. The Pathans say they've already gained a day on us. They're covering as much distance in three days as we can in four. And even have time for this'-another angry finger jabbed at the corpses-'along the way.'

Jaimal nodded. Large Rajput cavalry units such as their own always kept a handful of Pathan irregulars with them. The barbarians were an indisciplined nuisance, most of the time, but they were unexcelled trackers.

'How are they traveling so fast?' wondered Jaimal.

Sanga shrugged. 'They've got remounts, for one thing, which we don't. And they must have the best horses in creation. We may never know, but I'd be willing to wager a year's income that Belisarius managed to buy the best horses he could find, in the months he's been in India. And hide them away somewhere.'

Then, with a tone like steel:

'And now, Jaimal, do as I command. Gather up the men. We're heading back.'

Beyond a point, none of Sanga's subordinates would argue with him. That point had been reached, Jaimal knew, and he immediately obeyed his instructions.

His chief subordinates, Udai and Pratap, privately expressed their reservations to him. Those reservations, in the main, centered around their fear of the Malwa reaction when they returned to Kausambi. But, now that their course was set, Jaimal would no more tolerate dissent than would Sanga himself.

'And besides,' he growled, 'no one will miss us here anyway. There must be forty thousand troops beating these plains. A third of them Rajput cavalry, and another third Ye-tai horsemen. Five hundred of us will make no difference.'

'True enough,' grunted Udai. 'As good as the Roman horses are-and with remounts-only royal couriers could