The Dance of Time

* * *

'It's not much,' said one of their kidnappers apologetically. 'The problem isn't even money, since we were given plenty. But Ajat-ah, our chief-told us to remain inconspicuous.'

Damodara's father finished his inspection of the room. That hadn't taken long, as sparsely furnished as it was. It would be one of many such rooms in many such buildings in Ajmer. The city was a center for trade routes, and needed to provide simple accommodations for passing merchants, traders and tinkers.

He spent more time examining the man who had spoken. An assassin, obviously. Lord Damodara recognized the type, from his adventurous youth.

A very polite assassin, however, as all of them had been since they seized Damodara's parents from the bedroom of their palace and smuggled them into the night.

Better to think of them as bodyguards, he decided wryly.

'I'm exhausted,' his wife said. She gazed longingly at the one bed in the room. It had been a long trip, especially for people of their advanced years.

'Yes, we need sleep,' her husband agreed. He nodded to the assassin. 'Thank you.'

The man gave a bow in return. 'We will be in the next room, should you need anything.'

After he was gone, closing the door behind him, Damodara's mother half-collapsed on the bed. She winced, then, feeling the thin pallet.

'Not much!' she exclaimed, half-laughing and half-sobbing.

Her husband made a face. 'A year from now we will either be skin-sacks hanging from Emperor Skandagupta's rafters or be sleeping in one of the finest chambers in his palace.'

The noise his wife emitted was, again, half a sob and half a laugh. 'Your son! I told you-years ago! — that you were letting him think too much.'

* * *

There were times-not many-that Agathius was thankful he'd lost his legs at the Battle of the Dam.

This was one of them. Being an obvious cripple might deflect some of the Persian fury being heaped upon his unoffending person, where the strength of Samson unchained would have been pointless.

'— not be cheated, I say it again!'

Khusrau punctuated the bellow with a glare ferocious enough to be worthy of. .

Well, an emperor, actually. Which he was.

The mass of Persian noblemen packed into Khusrau's audience chamber at Sukkur growled their approval. They sounded like so many hungry tigers.

Not a dehgan in the lot, either, so far as Agathius could tell. That broad, lowest class of the Iranian azadan-'men of noble birth'-hadn't been invited to send representatives to this enclave. The only men in the room were sahrdaran and vurzurgan.

Agathius shifted his weight on his crutches. 'Your Majesty,' he said mildly, 'I just arrived here from Barbaricum. I have no idea beyond the sketchiest telegraph messages-which certainly didn't mention these issues-what the general has planned in terms of a postwar distribution of the spoils. But I'm quite sure he has no intention of denying the Iranians their just due.'

Another surge of muttered growls came. The phrase he'd better not! seemed to be the gist of most of them.

'He'd better not!' roared Khusrau. His clenched fist pounded the heavy armrest of his throne. Three times, synchronized with bet-ter-not.

'I'm sure the thought has never crossed his mind,' said Agathius firmly. He contemplated a sudden collapse on the floor, but decided that would be histrionic. He wasn't that crippled, after all. Besides, he'd said the words with such complete conviction that even the angry and suspicious Persians seemed a bit mollified.

And why not? The statement was quite true. Agathius was as certain as he was of the sunrise that the thought of swindling the Persians out of their rightful share of the postwar spoils had not, in fact, 'crossed' Belisarius' mind.

Been planted there like a sapling, yes. Been studied and examined from every angle, to be sure. Weighed, pondered, appraised, considered, measured, gauged, adjudged, evaluated, assessed-for a certainty.

Crossed, no.

* * *

Belisarius studied the telegram.

'Pretty blistering language, sir,' Calopodius said apologetically, as if he were somehow responsible for the intemperate tone of the message.

'Um.' Belisarius scanned over it quickly again. 'Well, I agree that the verbs 'cheat' and 'rob' are excessive. And there was certainly no need to bring up my ancestry. Still and all, it could be worse. If you look at it closely- well, squint-this is really more in the way of a protest than a threat.'

He dropped the Persian emperor's message onto the table. 'And, as it happens, all quite unnecessary. I have no intentions of 'cheating' the Persians out of their fair share of the spoils.'

He turned to Maurice, smiling. 'Be sure to tell Khusrau that, when he arrives.'

Maurice scowled back at him. 'You'll be gone, naturally.'

'Of course!' said Belisarius gaily. 'Before dawn, tomorrow, I'm off across the Thar.'

* * *

Before Maurice could respond, Anna stalked into the headquarters bunker.

She spoke with no preamble. 'Your own latrines and medical facilities are adequate, General. But those of the Punjabi natives are atrocious. I insist that something be done about it.'

Belisarius bestowed the same gleeful smile on her. 'Absolutely! I place you in charge. What's a good title, Maurice?'

The chiliarch's scowl darkened. 'Who cares? How about 'Mistress of the Wogs'?'

Anna hissed.

Belisarius clucked his tongue. 'Thracian peasant. No, that won't do at all.'

He turned to Calopodius. 'Exercise your talent for rhetoric here, youngster.'

Calopodius scratched his chin. 'Well. . I can think of several appropriate technical titles, but the subtleties of the Greek language involved wouldn't mean anything to the natives. So why not just call her the Governess?'

'That's silly,' said Maurice.

'My husband,' said Anna.

'Done,' said Belisarius.

* * *

A full hour before sunrise, Belisarius and his expedition left the Triangle. To maintain the secrecy of the operation, they were ferried south for several miles before being set ashore. By now, Roman patrols had scoured both banks of the Indus so thoroughly that no enemy spies could be hidden anywhere.

As always with water transport, the horses were the biggest problem. The rest was easy enough, since Belisarius was bringing no artillery beyond mortars and half a dozen of the rocket chariots.

By mid-morning, they were completely out of sight of the river, heading east into the wasteland.

* * *

At approximately the same time, Sati started her own procession out of the Malwa camp to the north. There was no attempt at secrecy here, of course. What can be done-even then, with difficulty-by less than a thousand men, cannot possibly be done by thirty thousand. So huge was that mass of men, in fact, that it took the rest of the day before all of them had filed from the camps and started up the road.

Preceded only by a cavalry screen and one Ye-tai battalion, the Great Lady herself led the way. Since the infantry would set the pace of the march, she would ride in the comfort of a large howdah suspended between two elephants.

The 'howdah' was really more in the way of a caravan or a large sedan than the relatively small conveyance the word normally denoted. The chaundoli, as it was called, was carried on heavy poles suspended between two elephants, much the way a litter is carried between two men. Its walls and roof were made of thin wood, with three small windows on each side. The walls and roof were covered with grass woven onto canes and lashed to the exterior. The grass would be periodically soaked with water during the course of the