In the Heart of Darkness

those men myself. You have my word on it.'

'Excellent!' exclaimed Jivita.

'I'm off, then.' Sanga began to turn away. Nanda Lal called him back.

'A moment, Rana Sanga. I want your opinion.'

'Yes?'

The spymaster's broken face was ugly, with frustration as much as rage.

'We are still missing something. I can feel it in my bones,' he growled. 'It's clear enough that the Romans and Ethiopians who fled south-after killing the guards at the barge and blowing up the armory-were simply a diversion. Belisarius, himself, went west. But-there's something else. I can smell it. More duplicity.'

Sanga paused, thinking.

'I don't have much time now, Nanda Lal,' he mused. 'But several questions come to my mind. I suggest you think on them.'

'Yes?'

'First. What happened to the treasure? Belisarius had two great chests full of gold and jewels. It's not the kind of thing any man wants to leave behind. But how did he get it away? He himself-a single Ye-tai on foot-could have only been carrying a pittance. Nor could his underlings have carried more than a portion of it. Not maintaining their incredible pace, weighted down with all that treasure.'

Nanda Lal tugged at the bandage.

'What else?'

'There were too many Ye-tai running around that night. The soldiers at the army camp insisted that they saw Belisarius himself. But when I questioned some of them, they could only say that `the Ye-tai' told them so. Which Ye-tai?'

'I will find out. What else?'

'Too many Ye-tai-and not enough Kushans. What happened to Belisarius' Kushan escort? I have heard nothing of them since that night. What happened to them? Did the Romans and Ethiopians kill them all? I doubt it- not those Kushans. I know their commander. Not well, but well enough. His name is Kungas, and he would not have been taken by surprise. What happened to him and his men?'

Glaring, now, and tugging fiercely on his bandage:

'And what else?'

Sanga shrugged. 'With Belisarius, who knows? I would trace everything back to the beginning, from the day he arrived in India. I can see no connection, but-I always wondered, Nanda Lal. Exactly how did Shakuntala escape from Venandakatra's palace?'

Jivita interrupted, his voice full of irritation:

'What is the point of this, Rana Sanga? Everybody knows how she escaped. That fiend Rao butchered her guards and took her away.'

Rana Sanga stared at him. He managed to keep any trace of contempt out of his face.

'So? Have you ever spoken-personally-to the Pathan trackers who were with the Rajputs who tried to recapture Rao and the princess?'

Jivita drew back haughtily.

'That is hardly my-'

'No, he didn't,' interrupted Nanda Lal. 'Neither did I. Should I have?'

Sanga shrugged. 'Every Pathan tracker claimed there was only one set of footprints to be found, not two. A man's footprints. No trace of a woman at all.' Sanga stroked his beard. 'And that's not the only peculiar thing about that escape. I know none of the details, but-again, I have wondered. How did one man kill all those guards? Excellent guards, I would assume?'

He caught the odd look in Nanda Lal's eyes.

'Tell me,' he commanded.

'She was being guarded by priests and mahamimamsa,' muttered Nanda Lal.

'What?' erupted Sanga. 'Who in their right mind would set any but the finest soldiers to guard someone-from Rao?' For the second time that day, Sanga lost his temper. 'Are you Malwa all mad?' he roared. 'I have fought Raghunath Rao in single combat! He was the most terrifying warrior I ever encountered!'

The Malwa in the room, for all their rank, almost cringed. They knew the story. All of India knew that story.

'From Raghunath Rao? You-you-imbeciles-thought to guard Shakuntala from Rao-with priests? Stinking torturers?'

Jivita tried to rally his Malwa outrage, but the attempt collapsed under the sheer fury of the Rajput's glare. Lord Damodara coughed apologetically.

'Please, Rana Sanga! It was Lord Venandakatra's decision, not ours. He was concerned about the girl's purity, it seems. So he put her in the custody of sworn celibates instead of-'

It was almost comical, the way Damodara and Nanda Lal's jaws dropped in unison.

'— instead of an elite Kushan unit,' finished Nanda Lal, hoarsely.

'Commanded by a man named Kungas, as I recall,' croaked Damodara. 'I am not certain.'

Sanga snorted. 'You can be certain of it now, Lord Damodara. Investigate! You will find, I imagine, that these Kushans were removed just before Shakuntala escaped. And just before Belisarius himself arrived at the palace, if memory serves me correctly.'

'It does,' hissed Nanda Lal. The spymaster almost staggered.

'Gods in heaven,' he whispered. 'Is it possible? How-there was no connection, I am certain of it. But the- coincidence.' He looked to the Rajput, appeal in his eyes. 'How could any man be so cunning as to manage that?' he demanded.

Sanga made a chopping gesture with his hand. 'If any man could, it is Belisarius. Investigate, Nanda Lal. For the first time, assume nothing. Look for treasure, and mysterious Ye-tai and Kushans who appear and disappear. And, most of all-look for the Princess Shakuntala.' He turned away, growling: 'But that is your job, not mine. I have a Roman to catch.'

'A fiend!' cried Nanda Lal.

'No,' murmured Sanga, leaving the room. 'A fiendish mind, yes. But not a fiend. Never that.'

Nanda Lal did investigate, thoroughly and relentlessly. He was an immensely capable man, for all his Malwa arrogance. And his natural tenacity was fueled by a burning hatred for all things remotely connected to Belisarius. Once Nanda Lal set himself to the task-and, for the first time, without careless prior assumptions-he solved the riddle within two days. Most of it, at least. All of it, he thought.

Some weeks later, an inn beside the Ganges was blessed beyond measure. It was a poor inn, owned by a poor Bengali family. Their only treasure, the innkeeper liked to say, was the sight of the mighty Ganges itself, pouring its inexorable way south to the Bay of Bengal.

(The sacred Ganges, he would say, in the presence of his immediate family, as he led them in secret prayers. He and his family still held to the old faith, and gave the Mahaveda no more than public obeisance.)

That poor family was rich tonight, as northern Bengali measured such things. The nobleman was most generous, and his wife even more so.

She spoke little, the noblewoman-properly, especially for a wife so much younger than her husband-but her few words were very kind. The innkeeper and his family were quite taken by her. The nobleman, for all his cordiality and good manners, frightened them a bit. He had that pale, western look to his features. That Malwa look. (They did not think he was Malwa himself, but-high in their ranks. And from western India, for certain. That cruel, pitiless west.)

But his wife-no, she was no Malwa. No western Indian. She was as small as a Bengali, and even darker. Keralan, perhaps, or Cholan. Whatever. One of them, in some sense. Bengalis, of course, were not Dravidians, as she obviously was. More of the ancient Vedic blood flowed in their veins than in the peoples of the southern Deccan. But not all that much more; and they, too, had felt the lash of purity.