own little trap. The Kushan commander was obviously a seasoned veteran. He would have known, full well, that any other answer would be either a lie or the words of a cocksure and foolhardy man.
'Agreed,' said Vasudeva.
Belisarius waited.
Finally, the word came: 'Swear.'
Belisarius gave his oath. Gave it twice, in fact. Once in the name of his own Christian god. And then, to the Kushans' great surprise, on the name of the Buddha to whom they swore in private, when there were no Mahaveda priests to hear the heresy.
That evening, late at night, Belisarius began his negotiations with the Persians-seated, now, amidst the splendid wreckage of what had once been an emperor's favorite hunting villa.
Here, too, he found the task much easier than anticipated.
Kurush, in the event, was not baying for Kushan blood. After the young sahrdaran heard what Belisarius had to say, he simply poured himself some wine. A noble vintage, this, poured from a sahrdaran's jug into a sahrdaran's gorgeous goblet.
He drank half the goblet in one gulp. Then said, 'All right.'
Belisarius eyed him. Kurush scowled.
'I'm not saying I like it,' he grumbled, 'but you gave your word. We Aryans, you know, understand the meaning of vows.'
He emptied the goblet in another single gulp. Then, he gestured toward his blood-soaked garments and armor. 'Charax has been well enough avenged, for one day.'
Growl: 'I suppose.'
Belisarius let it be. He saw no reason to press Kurush for anything beyond his grudging acceptance.
He did cast a questioning glance at Baresmanas. The older sahrdaran had said nothing, thus far, and it was obvious that he intended to maintain his silence. He simply returned Belisarius' gaze with his own fair imitation of a mask.
No, Baresmanas would say nothing. But Belisarius suspected that the Persian nobleman had already had his say-earlier, to his young and vigorous nephew. Reminding him of a Roman general's mercy at a place called Mindouos. And teaching him-or trying, at least-that mercy can have its own sharp point. Keener than any lance or blade, and even deadlier to the foe.
Chapter 21
The Malabar coast
The refugee camps in Muziris swarmed like anthills. Families gathered up their few belongings and awaited the voyage to the island of Tamraparni. Maratha cavalrymen and Kushan soldiers readied their gear. The great fleet of ships assembling in the harbor cleared their holds. Keralan officials presented chests full of gold and silver, to fund the migration. An empress and her advisers schemed.
And old friends arrived.
In midafternoon of a sunny day-a rarity, that, in southwest India during the monsoon season-five Axumite warships entered the harbor at Muziris.
They were not hailed by Keralan guard vessels. There was no pretense, any longer, that the port of Muziris was under anyone's control but Shakuntala's. The Ethiopian vessels were met by a warship 'requi-sitioned' from Kerala but manned by Maratha sailors.
Once their identity was established, the Ethiopians were immediately escorted into the presence of the Empress. There were four hundred of the Axumite soldiers, along with four other men. Shakuntala, forewarned, greeted them with a full imperial ceremony before the great mansion she had taken for her palace.
The three Ethiopians who led that march were deeply impressed by what they saw-as were the four men walking with them who were not African. The seven men at the front were familiar with India, and with Shakuntala's situation. They had been expecting something patchwork and ragged. A rebel empress-a hunted young girl-hiding in a precarious refuge, with nothing but the handful of Kushan soldiers who had spirited her out of the Malwa empire.
Instead-
The street down which they were escorted, by hundreds of Maratha cavalrymen, was lined with thousands of cheering people. Most were refugees, from Andhra and other Malwa-conquered lands of India. But there were many dark-skinned Keralans among that crowd, as well. Her own grandfather might have disowned her, and Malwa provocateurs might have stirred up much animosity toward the refugees who had poured into the kingdom, but many of her mother's people had not forgotten that Shakuntala was a daughter of Kerala herself. So they too cheered, and loudly, at this further evidence that the Empress-in-exile of Andhra was a force to be reckoned with. Allies-from far off Africa! And such splendid-looking soldiers!
Which, indeed, they were. The sarwen rose to the occasion, abandoning their usual Axumite informality. In stiff lines they marched, their great spears held high, ostrich-plume headdresses bobbing proudly.
As they approached the Empress' palace, kettledrums began beating. At the steps leading up to the palace doors, the march halted. The doors swung wide, and dozens-then hundreds-of Kushan soldiers trotted out and took positions on the palace steps. The last Kushans to emerge were Shakuntala's personal bodyguard, the small band of men who had been with her since she inherited her throne. Since the very day, in fact. For these were the men who had taken her out of her father's palace in Amaravati, on the day her family was slaughtered, as a Malwa captive. And then, months later, had spit in Malwa's face and taken her to freedom.
Finally, Shakuntala herself emerged, with Dadaji Holkar at her side. Four imperial ladies-in-waiting came behind them.
She stepped-say better, pranced-down the stairs to greet her visitors.
For all the pomp and splendor, the dignity of the occasion was threadbare. Genuine joy has a way of undermining formality.
Among the Ethiopians who stood before the palace were four Kushans-the squad, led by Kujulo, who had assisted Prince Eon in his escape from India the year before. As soon as Shakuntala's bodyguard spotted their long- lost brethren, their discipline frayed considerably. They did not break formation, of course. But the grins on their faces went poorly with the solemnity of the occasion.
It hardly mattered, since their own Empress was grinning just as widely. Partly, at the sight of Kujulo and his men. Mostly, at the familiar faces of the three Ethiopians at the front.
Garmat, Ezana and Wahsi. Three of that small band of men who had rescued her from Malwa captivity.
Seeing an absent face, her grin faded.
Garmat shook his head.
'No, Shakuntala, he did not come with us. The negusa nagast sent Eon on a different mission. But the Prince asked me to convey his greetings and his best wishes.'
Shakuntala nodded. 'We will speak of it later. For the moment, let me thank you for returning my Kushan bodyguards.'
Smiling, she turned and beckoned one of her ladies-in-waiting forward.
'And I have no doubt you will want to take Tarabai back with you. As I promised Eon.'
The Maratha woman stepped forward. Although she was trying to maintain her composure, Tarabai's expression was a jumbled combination of happiness and anxiety. Happiness, at the prospect of being reunited with her Prince. Anxiety, that he might have lost interest in her after their long separation. During the course of Prince Eon's adventures in India the year before, he and Tarabai had become almost inseparable. Before they went their separate ways in escaping the Malwa, Eon had asked her to become his concubine, and she had accepted. But-that was then, and princes are notoriously fickle and short of memory.
Garmat immediately allayed her anxiety.
'Eon may not be in Axum upon your arrival, Tarabai. He is occupied elsewhere, at the moment. But he hopes
