In the Heart of Darkness

welcome.

Mary, Mother of God.

'The Panther of Majarashtra,' Valentinian had heard Rao called. He had dismissed the phrase, in the way veterans dismiss all such romantic clap-trap.

'Be polite, Valentinian,' he heard Anastasius mutter. 'Please. Be polite to that man.'

The bodies had been rotting for days, with only two small windows to let air through the thick mudbrick walls. The stench was incredible.

'He's a demon,' snarled Udai. 'Only a soulless asura would-'

'Would what, Udai?' demanded Sanga.

The Rajput kinglet gestured to the pile of festering corpses.

'Kill enemies? You've done as much yourself.'

Udai glared. 'Not like this. Not-'

'Not what? Not from ambush? I can remember at least five ambushes which you laid which were every bit as savage as this one.'

Udai clamped his lips shut. But he was still glaring furiously.

Sanga restrained his own temper.

'Listen to me, Udai,' he grated. Then, his hard eyes sweeping the other Rajputs in the room:

'All of you. Listen. It is time you put this-this Malwa superstition- out of your minds. Or you will never understand the nature of this enemy.'

He paused. When he was certain that he had their undivided attention-not easy, that; not in a charnelhouse- he continued. His voice was low and cold.

'Some of you were there, in the Emperor's pavilion, when Belisarius ordered his cataphract to execute the prisoners. Do you remember?'

Jaimal and Pratap nodded. The other four Rajputs, after a moment, nodded also. They had not seen, themselves, but they had heard.

Sanga waved at the bodies heaped in a corner of the relay station.

'This is the same man. The Malwa think-did think, at least-that he was a weakling. Full of foolish soft notions. Not ruthless, like them. Not hard.'

A soft chuckle came from the Pathan tracker kneeling by the bodies. 'Did really?' he asked. Then rose, his examination complete.

'Well?' demanded Sanga.

'Soldiers all kill same time.' The tracker pointed to a crude table collapsed against one of the relay station's mudbrick walls. One of the table's legs was broken off cleanly; another was splintered. Stools were scattered nearby on the packed-earth floor.

'Come through door. Think at night. Quick, quick, quick. Soldiers eat. Surprise them at sitting.'

He pointed to the blackened, dried bloodstains on the floor, the wall, the table, the stools. Scattered pieces of food, now moldy.

'That was battle.' Indifferent shrug. 'Not much. Think two soldiers draw weapon before die. Maybe three. Do no good. Sheep. Butchered.'

He paced back to the pile of bodies.

'Then wait for couriers. Eat soldier food while wait. Pack away other food. Round up horses in corral. Make ready.'

The Pathan bent over and seized one of the corpses. With a casual jerk, he spilled the rotting horror onto the floor. The impact, slight as it was, ruptured the stomach wall. Half-liquid intestines spilled out, writhing with maggots. The Pathan stepped back a pace, but showed no other reaction.

'First courier. Tortured.'

He leaned over the putrid mess, picked up a wrist, waved the hand. The thumb fell off. The index and middle fingers were already missing.

'Two finger cut off. Want information. How many courier come after?'

He dropped the hand, straightened.

'Good method. Cut one, say: `Tell, or cut two.' Cut two, say: `tell, or cut three.' That mostly enough. Good method. Very good. Quick, quick. Have use myself.'

The Pathan turned away. To those who did not know him, his callous attitude was appalling. To those who did know him, it was considerably worse.

'Wait again. Next courier.' He pointed to one of the bodies in the livery of the royal courier service.

'No torture. No need. He tell, die.'

He pointed to the third courier.

'Last one. No torture. No need. He tell, die.'

The Pathan glanced at the far door, which led to the corral where the spare horses were kept. Had been kept.

'Then put courier horses to corral. Tired horses. No good. Take all other horses. Fed, rested. Five horses. Good horses. Leave.'

Finished with his report, the tracker planted his hands on hips and surveyed the entire scene.

'Very fine man!' grunted the tracker. 'Quick, quick. No stupidityness. Would adopt into own clan.'

Sanga allowed his subordinates to digest the information a moment, before continuing.

'Never make that mistake again,' he growled. 'That Malwa mistake. He is not a cruel man, Belisarius. Of that I am quite certain. But no mahamimamsa who ever lived can match him for ruthlessness when he needs to be. The man is as quick and shrewd as a mongoose. And just as deadly. How much mercy does a mongoose give a cobra?'

Jaimal grunted. Sanga drove on:

'There's another lesson. He is not a devil, but he has a devil's way of thinking. Consider how bold and cunning this move was. After his men created a diversion and led all of us on a wild goose chase, Belisarius marched out of Kausambi-openly-disguised as a Ye-tai.' He cast a cold eye sideways. 'Three guesses how he got the Ye-tai's uniform, Udai?'

His lieutenant winced, looked away. Sanga grated on:

'Then he came as fast as possible to the first relay station. He was out-thinking us every step of the way. He had two problems: first, no horses; second, he knew couriers would be sent to alert the garrisons on the coast. He solved both problems at one stroke.'

'Killed the soldiers, ambushed the couriers, stole their horses,' muttered Jaimal. 'The best horses in India.'

'Five of them,' added Pratap. 'He has remounts, as many as he needs. He can drive the horses for as long as he can stay in the saddle. Switch whenever his mount gets tired.'

'How could he be sure the bodies wouldn't be found soon?' complained Udai. 'Then the hunt would be up.'

Sanga frowned. 'I don't know. The man's intelligence is uncanny-in the military sense of the term, as well. He seems to know everything about us. Outside of the Ganges plain, this trick wouldn't have worked. Because of banditry, all relay stations in the western provinces are manned by full platoons and checked by patrol. But here-'

'These aren't even regular army troops,' snorted Pratap. 'Provincial soldiers. Unmarried men. They're stationed here for two year stretches. Even grow their own food.'

The Rajput stared down at the hideous mound.

'Poor bastards,' he said softly. 'I stopped at one of these relay stations, once. The men-boys-were so ecstatic to see a new face they kept me talking all night.' He glanced at the Pathan. 'Like he says, sheep to the slaughter.' Then, hissing fury: 'Roman butcher.'

Sanga said nothing. He felt that rage himself. But, unlike Pratap, did not let the rage blind his memory. He had seen other men lying in such heaps. Men just like these-young, lonely, inattentive. Soldiers in name only. They, too, had been like sheep at the hands of a butcher.

A butcher named Rana Sanga. Against whose experienced cunning and lightning sword they had stood no