the rim of the flaming vat. The Ye-tai gaped, to see an old man spring so. So like a young panther.
Time to flay the flayers.
Oh, well he did flay them, the slave. Taunting them, first, with the bitterness of their eternally-lost trophies. No skin nor bone of great Romans would hang on Malwa’s walls, no Roman treasure fill its coffers!
And then, with himself. Not once in thirty years had the old slave used his true name. But he spoke it now, and it thundered in the cathedral.
“Raghunath Rao is my name. I am he. I am the Panther of Maharashtra. I slew your fathers by the thousands. I am the Wind of the Great Country. I reaped their souls like a scythe. I am the Shield of the Deccan. My piss was their funeral pyre.
“Raghunath Rao am I! Raghunath Rao!
“The Bane of False Gupta, and the Mirror of Rajputana’s Shame.
“Raghunath Rao! I am he!”
Well did they know that name, even after all these years, and they drew back. Incredulous, at first. But then, watching the old man dancing on the rim of goldfire, they knew he spoke the truth. For Raghunath Rao had been many things, and great in all of them, but greatest of all as a dancer. Great when he danced the death of Majarashtra’s enemies, and great now, when he danced the death of the Great Country itself.
And finally, he flayed them with God.
Oh yes, the old slave had been a great dancer, in his day, among many other things. And now, by the edge of Rome’s molten treasure, in the skin-smoke of Rome’s molten glory, he danced the dance. The great dance, the terrible dance, the now-forbidden but never-forgotten dance. The dance of creation. The dance of destruction. The wheeling, whirling, dervish dance of time.
As he danced, the Mahaveda priests hissed their futile fury. Futile, because they did not dare approach him, for they feared the terror in his soul; and the Ye-tai would not, for they feared the terror in his limbs; and the Rajputs could not, for they were on their knees, weeping for Rajputana’s honor.
Yes, he had been a great dancer, in his day. But never as great, he knew, as he was on this last day. And as he danced and whirled the turns of time, he forgot his enemies. For they were, in the end, nothing. He remembered only those he loved, and was astonished to see how many he had loved, in his long and pain-filled life.
He would see them again, perhaps, some day. When, no man could know. But see them he would, he thought.
And perhaps, in some other turn of the wheel, he would watch the treasure of his soul dance her wedding dance, her bare quicksilver feet flashing in the wine of her beloved’s heart.
And perhaps, in some other turn of the wheel, he would see emperors bend intelligence to wisdom, and the faithful bend creed to devotion.
And perhaps, in some other turn of the wheel, he would see Rajputana regain its honor, that his combat with the ancient enemy might again be a dance of glory.
And perhaps, in that other turn of the wheel, he would find Kalkin had come indeed, to slay the asura’s minions and bind the demon itself.
What man can know?
Finally, feeling his strength begin to fade, the old slave drew his dagger. There was no need for it, really, but he thought it fitting that such an excellent gift be used. So he opened his veins and incorporated the spurting blood into his dance, and watched his life hiss into the golden moltenness. Nothing of his, no skin nor bone, would he leave to the asura. He would join the impure emperor and the pure general, and the purest of wives.
He made his last swirling, capering leap. Oh, so high was that leap! So high that he had time, before he plunged to his death, to cry out a great peal of laughter.
“Oh, grim Belisarius! Can you not see that God is a dancer, and creation his dance of joy?”
Chapter 3
When he opened his eyes, Belisarius found himself kneeling, staring at the tiles of the floor. The thing was resting in his loosely clenched fist, but it was quiescent now, a shimmer.
Without looking up, he croaked: “How long?”
Cassian chuckled. “Seems like forever, doesn’t it? Minutes, Belisarius. Minutes only.”
Antonina knelt by his side and placed her arm over his shoulders. Her face was full of concern.
“Are you all right, love?”
He turned his head slowly and looked into her eyes. She was shocked to see the pain and anger there.
“Why?” he whispered. “What I have ever done or said to you that you would distrust me so?”
She leaned back, startled.
“What are you talking about?”
“Photius. Your son. My son.”
She collapsed back on to her heels. Her arm fell away to her side. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with shock.
“How did you-when-?” She gaped like a fish.
“Where is he?”
Antonina shook her head. Her hand groped at her throat.
“Where is he?”
She gestured vaguely. “In Antioch,” she said very softly.
“ How could you deprive me of my son? ” Belisarius’ voice, though soft, was filled with fury. His wife shook her head again. Her eyes roamed the room. She seemed almost dazed.
“He’s not your son,” she whispered. “You don’t even know heHow did you know?”
Before he could speak again, Cassian seized Belisarius by the shoulders and shook him violently.
“Belisarius-stop this! Whatever-whoever-this Photius is, he’s something from your vision. Clear your mind, man!”
Belisarius tore his eyes away from Antonina and stared up at the bishop. Not two seconds later, clarity came. The hurt and rage in his eyes retreated, replaced by a sudden fear. He looked back at Antonina.
“But he does exist? I did not simply imagine him?”
She shook her head. “No, no. He exists.” She straightened up. And, although her eyes shied away from her husband’s, her back stiffened with determination. “He is well. At least, he was three months ago, when I saw him last.”
The quick thoughts in Belisarius’ eyes were obvious to all. He nodded slightly.
“Yes. That’s when you said you were visiting your sister. The mysterious sister, whom for some reason I have never met.” Hotly, bitterly: “Do you even have a sister?”
His wife’s voice was equally bitter, but hers was a bitterness cold with ancient knowledge, not hot with new discovery.
“No. Not of blood. Only a sister in sin, who agreed to take care of my boy when-”
“When I asked you to marry me,” concluded Belisarius. “Damn you!” His tone was scorching.
But it was like the pale shadow of moonlight compared to the searing fury of the monk’s voice.
“Damn you!”
The eyes of both husband and wife were instantly drawn to Michael, like hares to the talons of a hawk. And, indeed, the Macedonian perched on his seat like a falcon perches on a tree limb.
At first, the eyes of Belisarius were startled; those of his wife, angry. Until, in a moment, they each realized they had mistaken the object of the curse.
Not often did Belisarius flinch from another man’s gaze, but he did so now.
“By what right do you reproach your wife, hypocrite?” demanded the monk. “ By what right? ”
Belisarius was mute. Michael slumped back in his seat.
“Verily, men are foul. Even so does the churchman who sells his soul damn the harlot who sells her body. Even so does the magistrate in robes of bribery condemn the thief in stolen rags.”
Belisarius opened his mouth. Closed it.
