"I've got a reputation to maintain. You do realize, don't you, that in the days when the final battle was fought and won in the greatest war in history, Belisarius spent his time doing nothing more than drinking lousy wine and gambling with dice?"
Kungas chuckled. "You lost, too. By now, you owe me a small chest of gold."
But Kungas had stopped chuckling. Another thought had come to him, that caused his notoriously expressionless face to twist into a grimace.
"Oh. You'll never stop crowing about it, will you?"
* * *
When Maurice heard, it put him in a foul mood for a full day.
Calopodius' mood was not much better. "How in the name of God am I supposed to put that in my history? You can only do so much with classical allusions, you know. Grammar and rhetoric collapse under that crude a reality."
"Who gives a damn?" snarled Maurice. "You think you've got problems? I'm still in good health, and I'm only twenty years older than the bastard. Years and years, I'll have to listen to him bragging."
"He's not really a boastful man," pointed out Calopodius.
"Not usually, no. But with something like this? Ha! You watch, youngster. Years and years and years."
Kausambi
The damage Kausambi had suffered in the fighting was minimal, considering the huge size of the city. Belisarius had seen far worse before, any number of times. Damodara's forces had been able to breach the walls in two places, without having to suffer heavy casualties in the doing, because the gates had been opened from the inside. As a result, none of the three factors had been operating that, singly or in combination, usually produced horrible sacks.
First, the troops pouring into the city were still under the control of their officers, because the officers themselves had not suffered many casualties and led them through the gates.
Second, the soldiers were not burning with a desire for vengeance on those who had—often horribly, with the most ghastly weapons—butchered their mates while they were still fighting outside the walls.
So, the sort of spontaneously-erupting military riot-in-all-but-name that most "sacks" constituted, had never occured. Beyond, at least, a few isolated incidents—always involving liquor—that Damodara's officers had squelched immediately.
And, third, of course—not all sacks were spontaneous—the commander of the victorious besieging army had not ordered one, after his troops seized the city.
Skandagupta would have done so, of course. But Damodara ruled now, not Skandagupta, and he was a very different sort of man. The only thing of Skandagupta that remained was his head, perched on a spike at the entrance to the imperial palace.
It was the only head there. Damodara had ordered all the other corpses and heads removed.
After dismounting from his horse, Belisarius took a moment to admire the thing.
Pity, though, he said to Aide. Agathius swore he'd someday see Skandagupta lying dead in the dust. I'm afraid there's not much chance of that, now.
In garam season? No chance at all. Unless he'd be satisfied with looking at a skull. That thing already stinks.
Aide, of course, was detecting the stench through Belisarius' own nostrils. As he had many times before, Belisarius wondered how the jewel perceived things on his own. He could do so, Belisarius knew, although the manner of it remained mysterious. Aide and the other crystal beings had none of the senses possessed by the protoplasmic branch of the human family.
But whatever those methods were, Aide had not used them in years. He'd told Belisarius that he found it much easier to do his work if he restricted himself to perceiving the world only through Belisarius' senses.
A courtier—no, a small pack of them—emerged from the palace entrance and hastened down the broad stone stairs at the bottom of which Belisarius was standing.
"General Belisarius!" one of them said. "The emperor awaits you!"
He managed to make that sound as if Damodara was bestowing an immense—no, divine—favor upon the Roman general. Which was laughable, really, since the same Rajput courier who had brought the news of Damodara's triumph had also brought a private message from the new Malwa emperor asking Belisarius to come to Kausambi immediately to "deal with a delicate and urgent matter." The tone of the message had been, if not pleading, certainly not peremptory or condescending.
Courtiers, Belisarius thought sarcastically, handing the reins of his horse to one of the Rajputs who had escorted him to Kausambi. However else people in different lands may vary in their customs, I think courtiers are the same everywhere.
Normally, Aide would have responded with a quip of his own. But the jewel seemed strangely subdued. He had said very little since they entered the city.
Belisarius thought that was odd. Looked at in some ways—most ways, rather—this final triumph belonged to Aide more than it did to Belisarius or Damodara or anyone else. But he didn't press for an explanation. In the years that he and Aide had shared a mind, for all practical purposes, they'd both learned to respect the privacy of the other.
* * *
The Malwa imperial palace was the largest in the world. So far as Belisarius knew, anyway. There might be something equivalent in one of the many kingdoms in China that were vying for power. "Largest," at least, in the sense of being a single edifice. The Roman imperial complex at Constantinople covered more acreage, but much of it was gardens and open walkways.
He'd visited the palace before, a number of times, when he'd come to India years earlier in what amounted to the capacity of a spy. With the help of Aide's perfect memory, Belisarius knew the way to the imperial audience chamber. He could have gone there himself, without needing the guidance of the courtiers.
But, perhaps not. Soon, the courtiers were leading him down a hallway he'd never been in. Old, ingrained habit made him check the spatha in its scabbard, to see that it was loose and would come out easily.
Although the movement was subtle, he made no attempt at all to keep it surreptitious. The courtiers had irritated him enough that he felt no desire to accommodate them. Emperor Damodara had, after all, invited General Belisarius into his presence. Generals carried swords. Good generals with combat experience carried sharp swords, and made sure they weren't stuck in their scabbards.
One of the courtiers who observed seemed brighter than the rest. Or, at least, didn't suffer from the usual moronic state of the courtier mentality, whose defining characteristic was to think that power emanated from itself.
"The emperor is not waiting for you in the audience chamber, General," he explained quietly. "He awaits you in, ah..."
The hostile glances coming from several other courtiers caused him to falter. "Someplace else," he finished lamely.
Aide spoke for the first time since they'd entered the palace.
He's found the lair. Link's lair. That's where we're going.
Belisarius nodded. And, again, made sure the spatha was loose. What about Link itself?
Damodara's message had said nothing on that subject.
I don't know. I think he must have Link also. Or his message would have been... different.
Belisarius thought about it. Yes, you're right. He wouldn't have called it a "delicate" matter as well as an "urgent" one.
But they were entering a chamber, now, and speculation could come to and end. Damodara was there, waiting, along with Rana Sanga and a big Ye-tai officer whom Belisarius had never met before. The now-famous Toramana, he presumed.
His eyes, however, were immediately drawn to the side. Two other men were standing there, who—for the moment—meant far more to Belisarius.
"I'm glad you survived," he said. "I was worried you wouldn't, when I sent you off."
Anastasius' huge shoulders moved in a shrug. "Wasn't really that bad, General. For starters, we didn't have to protect you. Mindouos and Anatha were worse—not to mention the battle at the Pass."
Valentinian grinned, in his savage way. "Way worse," he chimed in, reaching up and running fingers through his coarse black hair. For a moment, a long scar was visible—the scar Sanga had given him in their famous duel. "We'll ask you to remember that, though, when it comes time to figure out our retirement bonus."
Even with an emperor waiting, Belisarius would deal with this first.
"Just tell me what you want. If I can manage it, I will. The two of you long ago stopped being in the category of 'common soldiers.'"
The tall Rajput king standing a few feet away issued a snort. "The truth, that!" He gave the two cataphracts a look that Belisarius couldn't quite interpret. Deep respect was there, obviously, but there was something else. Not derision, exactly, but amusement of some kind.
For the first time that day, Aide's voice had a trace of his usual good humor. I still don't understand how a man as smart as you can be such a dummy about some things.
You didn't figure out what Agathius was doing, either, until your nose was rubbed in it. I figured it out right away. But I'll remind you that there's an emperor waiting, here—and the Malwa empire is still probably the most powerful empire in the world. Will be for sure, in a few years, once Damodara gets settled in. Best to stay on good terms with him.
That was good advice. Belisarius turned to face Damodara and bowed.
"You asked for me, Your Majesty. How may I be of service?"
A quick smile flashed across Damodara's face. "Well, starting tomorrow, you can be of service by providing all of us with your good sense. We have a complicated peace settlement to make, you know. And we're already arguing over where to hold the conference. Fortunately—so far—it's been mostly an argument over the radio and telegraph."
The Malwa emperor lifted his hand. "But that's for tomorrow. Today, there's a different decision that faces us. Probably a more important one. And it's not a decision I felt anyone but you can make."
Belisarius took a deep breath. "You found Link. And its lair."
"The first, yes. The second—" Damodara shrugged. "'Found' is hardly the word. I already knew where it was. All the members of the dynastic clan—boys, at least—are taken to it at least once. I was there several times."
"Take me there," Belisarius said. Commanded, rather.
* * *
Belisarius could make no sense at all of the machines in the chamber far below the palace. The problem wasn't so much that, in their gleaming blankness, they seemed more like magic artifacts than what he thought of as "machines." It was that he knew he would never understand what they did or how they worked.
I don't understand them either, really. I don't think even the Great Ones do, except in general terms. The new gods developed cybernetics far beyond any other branch of the human race. The Great Ones took a different direction. One that led to we crystals. And while we share some of the characteristics of computers, we are very different in other ways.
How could they bring all this here, through time, when all the Great Ones could do—and that, barely—was send you as a semi-conscious thing? Apologetically, he added: When you first arrived, I mean. You're hardly 'semi-conscious' now.
For one thing, the Great Ones aren't as ruthless. The energy expenditure required to send these machines back through time destroyed the new gods' own planet. Along with most of their people. Sub-species, it would be better to say. There were not many survivors.
Sensing the question before Belisarius could ask it, Aide added: Yes, they knew that would happen. The ones who managed it, at least. Most of their people didn't, the ones who were destroyed. Even the new gods have factions. The one that did this—which is all that is left—are...
Fanatics, Belisarius supplied. Fanaticism carried to the extremes you'd expect of "supermen." I understand.
But it was time, now, to ignore the machines. Damodara had not brought Belisarius here to deal with them. Not principally, at least.
He turned and studied the small female shackled to a chair. He couldn't see much of her, since there was a hood over her head.
Three strides and he was there; a quick movement of the hand, and the hood was removed.
It was the face of a young girl, perhaps seven or eight years old. All but the eyes that stared up at him. Those belonged to no human being at all. Their brown color was irrelevant. The emptiness within overwhelmed it.
It took longer to remove the gag. The knot holding it in place was very tight. As he worked at the task, he could hear the indrawn breaths of the people behind him.
As ever, Aide's ability to enhance Belisarius' senses was handy. There were five other men in the room, and four of them were holding their breath. The fifth one was breathing the same way he always did.
Belisarius had known he would be. Had that man not been present, he might never have dared to do this. Belisarius was probably as great a general as Alexander the Great, but he never thought like Alexander. He was who he was because of the men he knew how to lead—and rely upon—not because he thought he was the son of Zeus.
"LISTEN TO ME, BELISARIUS. THERE IS STILL TIME—"
Quickly, he replaced the gag. "Shut up, monster. I just needed to hear that voice. To be sure."
He stepped back and drew his spatha. Guide me, Aide.
He passed the question along. Damodara answered: "One. She's not more than two years old. I think she's the daughter of one of the provincial governors. I have her in a chamber upstairs. I haven't known what to do with her, either."
Destroy the machines first. Without the machines, Link is trapped in this body sitting before you. The little girl upstairs will be... probably not a very normal child. But a harmless one.
Again, Aide anticipated the next question:
These are just machines, Belisarius. No different, in the end, than a simple pottery wheel. In some ways, in fact, even more fragile. Anastasius and a big hammer will do fine.
That required a delay, to have a maul brought down. But, eventually, the maul arrived and Anastasius went to work.
With a vengeance, as the expression went—and no expression here. Not even in the battle in the tight confines of Great Lady Holi's cabin had Belisarius seen Anastasius swing a mace with such violence.
In three minutes, it was done, and Anastasius stepped back.
Throughout, Link had simply observed. There had been no expression at all in the girl's face. The eyes had neither narrowed nor widened. There had been no frown. No tightening of the jaws.
It is simply a calculator, Belisarius. Even now, when the probabilities within which it moves are a tiny fraction of one percent, it is still calculating. It will never stop calculating. It cannot. It...
There came the crystalline equivalent of a deep sigh. It is really, really not human. Not even in the way we crystals are, or the Great Ones. It is just a machine itself. Programmed to do what it does—can only do—by monsters.
Yes, I understand. Belisarius stepped forward, within a pace of the girl bound to the chair. His grip on the spatha was tight, much tighter than he would have held it in an actual fight.
Yes. Destroy the girl's body and you destroy Link. It does not "die," exactly, for it was never alive at all. But it will be gone. It will no longer exist.
Still, he hesitated. Whatever he knew, his emotional reactions could not avoid the monster's form.
True enough, Belisarius had slain young girls. Many times, in fact. Just recently, his burning and destruction in the Ganges campaign had condemned many such to death. Damodara had agreed to send relief expeditions, as soon as possible. But with the inevitable chaos attendant upon a successful rebellion, no expedition could possibly arrive in time to save everyone.
Dozens of seven and eight year old girls just like this one—more likely hundreds, or possibly even thousands—would be dying soon. Some were dead already. Each and every one of whom could, rightfully, have had the words Murdered by Belisarius engraved on their tomb markers.
Still, he hadn't done it personally. And if that difference might be meaningless, on a philosophical level, a man does not hold and wield a spatha using philosophy. He uses muscles and nerves and blood shaped and molded by emotion from the time he is born.
Don't be foolish, Aide said softly. You know the answer. Why be proud, at the end, when you never were before?
He was right, of course. Belisarius stepped back.
"Valentinian. A last service, if you would."
The cataphract came forward, his spatha flashed, and it was over. A spray of blood across shattered machinery, and a small head rolling to a stop in a corner. The gag never even came off, as neatly and economically—as miserly—as it had been done.
Belisarius turned to Damodara, whose shoulders seemed slumped in relief. "And now, Emperor—"
Do that later, Belisarius. Please. I want to go outside.
Belisarius hesitated, for a moment. There were the needs of politics, but...
This was Aide's great triumph, not Damodara's.
Certainly, if you wish. I can understand that you find this chamber unsettling.
It's not that. It's just a cellar, now. That blood is just blood. That severed head just one of many I've seen. But I still don't want this to be...
He hesitated. Then: It's not where I want to leave. I want to see the sky over India, when it happens.
A great terrible fear clutched Belisarius' heart.
Again, that crystalline sort of sigh. I've been glad, these past years, that you never figured it out. I was afraid you would, and it would just cause you pain—since you could have done nothing else anyway. But the time is here, now.
Softly, gently: The moment Link was destroyed, the future changed. Not in all ways, and—it's too complicated to explain, and I don't have much time left—the people alive there now won't be destroyed. Time is like a flowing river, and if you shift the banks it will still most likely end at the same delta. But I live here and now, not then and there, and the timeline that created me—the need for me—has vanished. Will vanish, at least, very soon.
"You're dying?" Without realizing he'd done so, Belisarius cried the words aloud. Then, frantically, scrabbled to bring the jewel's pouch from under his tunic.
It's more like I simply become impossible. But I suppose that's all that death is, in the end. That point at which the almost infinitely-complex interactions of natural forces that we call a "life" just becomes too improbable to continue.
"He's dying," Belisarius choked. He had the pouch out, finally, and spilled the jewel onto his palm.
The same as always. Glittering, coruscating. Beautiful.
Please, Belisarius. I want to see the sky over India.
He took the stairs three steps at a time. Never even thinking about the emperor he left behind, open-mouthed.
Kausambi
Belisarius knocked down two courtiers in the palace's corridors and rolled another halfway down the steps leading to the main entrance, before he finally reached a place on the square fronting the palace that was sun-drenched. He had no memory of it, afterward. All he remembered was the all-consuming, desperate hope that exposing the jewel to full daylight would somehow change things.
A stupid hope, really, on the part of a man who was anything but stupid. As if light rays and summer heat could alter the nature of space and time.
Sit down, will you? said Aide. You're gasping for breath.
Belisarius was winded. Winded and half-exhausted. Even for a still-young man in very good physical condition, that long race up the stairs from the deep cellars had taken a toll.
He more-or-less collapsed onto one of the wide stone benches that lined the square in front of the palace. Dully, staring at the blue sky above.
Why? he asked, and began to weep. You knew all along, didn't you? Why didn't you tell me?
Actually, I didn't know at the beginning. If you remember, I didn't know very much, then. But I realized within the first year, yes. First, because it was obvious. And then, because I remembered.
Belisarius lowered his head and pinched his eyes. Remembered what?
My last conversation with the Great Ones. Just before they sent me here. Well, "sent" isn't exactly the right word. Neither is "me," for that matter. I wasn't really me, when I left, and I wasn't sent here so much as they made it possible...
He was silent, for a moment. It's really hard to explain, Belisarius. What existed then—in the future—was nothing you would have recognized as "Aide." I emerged here, over time, where I had only been faceted crystals before. What was sent here was not a "me" that had never existed before, but more in the way of the condensed facets. A package of potential, if you will, not a real person.
Apologetically: I know it doesn't make much sense to you. But it's true. The Great Ones told me I would change, and they were right.
His eyes still pinched, Belisarius shook his head. Those bastards. They sent you here to die, is what they did.
Yes, in a way. But it's not that simple. If I didn't die—volunteer for it—my people wouldn't live.
Angrily, Belisarius dropped his hand and slapped his thigh. "Bullshit!" he shouted, aloud. Don't tell me they couldn't have handled those so-called "new gods" on their own—without this.
The crystal's flashing image in Belisarius' mind seemed to freeze, for an instant. Then, sounding very relieved, Aide said: They're coming. I hoped they would. I will let them explain.
For the second time in his life, Belisarius felt himself swept away into the heavens, as if blown there by a giant's gust.
* * *
As before, he found himself hanging in darkness. Somewhere—somehow—suspended in space. Able to observe the stars and galaxies, but not really part of that universe.
And, as before, he saw a point of light erupt, and come before him in the form of a Great One. Only, this time, it was many points of light and many Great Ones. He seemed to be facing a three-dimensional phalanx of the beings.
Why? he demanded of them, feeling—this time—none of the awe he had felt before. Only anger. Couldn't you have done it some other way?
One of the Great Ones swirled and moved closer. OF COURSE, GRANDFATHER. BUT AT WHAT COST? THE QUESTION WAS NEVER THAT OF THE FATE OF THE NEW GODS. ONCE THEY DESTROYED THEIR PLANET, THEY WERE AT OUR MERCY. WE COULD HAVE ERASED THEM FROM EXISTENCE AT ANY TIME—AS, INDEED, WE SHALL DO NOW. BUT ONLY AT THE COST OF CONDEMNING AIDE'S NOT-YET-PEOPLE TO PERPETUAL SLAVERY.
AIDE JUST TOLD YOU HIMSELF. HE ONLY BECAME AIDE WITH YOU. ONLY WHEN, FOR THE FIRST TIME, A CRYSTAL ACCEPTED THAT IT WAS SOMETHING GREATER THAN A SERVANT. A SLAVE—NOT ONLY TO THE NEW GODS, BUT TO US, WHO CREATED THEM.
A second Great One looped above, now speaking also. TELL US, BELISARIUS. HOW DO YOU MANUMIT A SLAVE WHO DOES NOT THINK HE IS A HUMAN? IN FACT, IS NOT—YET—A HUMAN.
The huge, glowing creature completed the loop and began spinning slowly. WE DID NOT SEND AIDE TO YOU SO THAT HE MIGHT DIE. WE SENT HIM SO THAT HE MIGHT LIVE, AND BE BORN, AND BECOME SOMETHING WITH A NAME OF HIS OWN. WHICH, WITH YOUR HELP, HE DID. AND NOW, HAVING DONE SO, MUST NATURALLY DIE. JUST AS YOU WILL DIE. JUST AS WE WILL DIE. JUST AS ALL HUMANS DIE.
He doesn't have to die this young! Belisarius shrieked.
YES, HE DOES. JUST AS MOST OF YOUR SOLDIERS ALSO DIE YOUNG. JUST AS YOU—A YOUNG MAN—MIGHT HAVE DIED ANY OF A HUNDRED TIMES DURING THE WAR. IF YOU WANT AIDE TO BE HUMAN—TRULY HUMAN AND NO LONGER A SLAVE TO ANYONE—THEN YOU HAVE TO GIVE HIM THAT CHOICE. CHOICE, GRANDFATHER. WHICH HE MADE, NOT US.
FINALLY. AFTER MILLENNIA WHEN THE CRYSTALS COULD NOT ACCEPT THAT CHOICE—THE SIMPLE ABILITY TO CHOOSE—WAS THEIRS ALSO. JUST AS IT IS OURS, AND YOURS, AND THE BIRTHRIGHT OF EVERY MEMBER OF EVERY BRANCH AND FORM OF HUMANKIND. THIS TIME, THEY WERE BOLD ENOUGH TO TRY. THEY TRIED, AND THEY TRIUMPHED. WOULD YOU NOW, AT THE END, DENY AIDE AND HIS PEOPLE THAT GREAT VICTORY?
Belisarius felt as if he were reeling, though he simply hung in space. He tried to come up with an answer, but...
Aide's voice came then, almost timidly. I am content, Belisarius. Really, I am. I will be the first crystal in history who had a name. And whose name will be remembered.
MORE THAN REMEMBERED! That voice came roaring, just as the point of light from which it emanated also came roaring forward. A moment later, a new Great One hung in space before Belisarius.
This one... was immense. Truly immense. It dwarfed its companions.
Yet, despite its gargantuan size, it seemed somehow frail. As if it were shredded both at the edges and within its core.
"IT," the Great One said, somehow sounding sarcastic. I AM ONE OF YOUR GRAND-DAUGHTERS, OLD MAN. MANY, MANY TIMES REMOVED, OF COURSE.
Belisarius wondered how such strange beings could be male or female. He could see no...
There came the sense of laughter, from many voices.
IT IS QUITE OBVIOUS TO US, GRANDFATHER! said the first Great One. TRUE, OUR SENSES OUTNUMBER YOURS, BY A GREAT MARGIN.
The huge, ancient female kept spinning in place. AIDE MADE HIS CHOICE, AND IT WAS THE RIGHT ONE. HE WILL NOT SIMPLY BE REMEMBERED. FROM THIS MOMENT FORWARD, ALL THE CRYSTALS IN THE UNIVERSE ARE CHANGING. EACH AND EVERY ONE HAS JOINED THE HUMAN CLAN—AND EACH AND EVERY ONE KNOWS AIDE TO BE THE FOUNDER OF THEIR LINE.
THINK OF HIM, BELISARIUS, AS THEIR ALEXANDER. OR BETTER STILL, THEIR ACHILLES. THE SHORT BUT GLORIOUS LIFE THAT BREATHED LIFE INTO ALL OF THEM.
BUT ENOUGH! I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS TO KEEP.
A quick half-spin, and the shining leviathan was speeding off, with most of the others following.
WOULD YOU CARE TO WATCH? asked one of the remaining Great Ones.
Yes, Aide replied, before Belisarius could speak. I would.
* * *
They were somewhere else, in an instant. Still hanging in the void, or seeming to, but there was more than just stars and galaxies to see. Below them—in front of them, perhaps—hung a dark, very ugly...
It's an asteroid, Aide explained. A pretty big one. Big enough for gravity to have pulled it into a sphere.
Nothing you are seeing is happening according to the time frame you are accustomed to. It is much faster—or much slower. In a way, it's already happened, in the far future.
Somewhat plaintively: Time is a lot more slippery than it looks.
Either they moved forward or Belisarius' eyesight became more acute. He could now see that the asteroid was covered with what looked to be machines of some sort.
Yes. The last—the only remaining—fortress of the new gods. Where they retreated, to await what they thought would be their Armageddon. Which, in fact, it is about to become—but not the way they planned.
Suddenly, the surface of the asteroid erupted. Dazzling beams of light sprang up, intermixed with odd flashes.
The Great Ones are coming. Those are weapons firing. Don't ask me how they work. I don't know, exactly, and I couldn't explain even if I did. They're very powerful, though. If they still had the resources of a planet to draw on, the Great Ones could do nothing but die here.
Some of them will probably die anyway.
Belisarius could feel himself taking a deep breath, even though there seemed to be nothing he could actually breathe.
You're not really here. You're still sitting on a bench outside the imperial palace in Kausambi, staring at nothing. A familiar tone of humor came: People would think you were crazy—might lock you up—except it'll only last for a split-second. Back there. What we're watching here is actually taking several years to happen.
Now Belisarius could see the phalanx of the Great Ones approaching. Except, as it neared, he realized it wasn't so much a phalanx as a three-dimensional version of the old Roman maniples. There was fluidity, here.
Several of the Great Ones veered off, then back, racing toward the asteroid. The light beams and flashes concentrated on them. If Belisarius was interpreting what he saw correctly, they were being hit.
Pretty badly, in fact. But they can absorb a lot of punishment, before—
Aide seemed to take a deep breath himself. This is dangerous, what they're doing.
The Great One nearest the asteroid seemed to brush its surface. Scrape along it, rather, for almost a quarter of its diameter. As the Great One passed back into space, a gout of blazing material followed. Molten and half-vaporized weaponry, Belisarius realized.
Not to mention quite a few new gods. What's left of them, which isn't much. The emotion behind that thought was more savage than any Belisarius could ever remember, coming from Aide.
I really hate those creatures.
Another Great One struck the surface. Then another, and another. With each grazing blow, more and more of the asteroid's surface was being peeled away.
Another Great One came. A truly huge one. The same ancient female that had spoken to Belisarius. Somehow, he recognized her.
THAT'S BECAUSE I'M THE PRETTIEST, he heard her mocking voice. USED TO BE, ANYWAY, HALF A MILLION YEARS AGO.
Belisarius became tense. The ancient one's strike was...
No grazing strike, this. A great wound was torn in the asteroid. Belisarius could sense the gargantuan being reeling from the blow itself.
Not only the blow, but the weapons fire that had been concentrated on her. She was shedding substance, as she moved off. Like a giant golden angel, spilling her shining blood.
ENOUGH, I THINK, he heard her say. AM I RIGHT?
The voices of several Great Ones answered.
THAT WHOLE HEMISPHERE IS NOW DEFENSELESS.
The tone of voice, answering, seemed a mixture of pain held under control and harsh amusement.
I'LL MANAGE. IT'LL ONLY TAKE A FEW YEARS, ANYWAY. BUT YOU'LL HAVE TO GUIDE ME, SISTERS AND BROTHERS. I'M BLIND NOW.
She moved off, very rapidly, until she disappeared. Four of the other Great Ones sped off to join her.
After what seemed only seconds, Belisarius could see them returning. Just tiny points of light, at first.
It took—will take—the tenses don't work right—a lot longer than that. A number of years. But not enough for the new gods to rebuild their defenses.
As the Great Ones neared, Belisarius could see what appeared to be a lattice of light binding the five together.
Think of it as the others holding her hands. Keeping her straight.
They were moving very fast. Belisarius could sense it.
By now, she is at 97% of light speed. And she was already very massive.
* * *
Finally, Belisarius understood.
A last thought came to him, from the ancient Great One. Still with that tone of harsh amusement.
SO, GRANDFATHER. DID YOU REALLY THINK WE HAD FORGOTTEN THERMOPYLAE?
Her companions veered aside. Alone, now, the ancient Great One struck the asteroid.
No grazing strike, this; not even a wounding strike. She plunged into the core of the asteroid, in a blow as straight and true and fatal as a sword through the heart.
The asteroid simply... vaporized. There was nothing left but a great, glowing, spreading cloud of plasma and dust.
I hated the new gods, Aide said. But I almost wish...
There are no new gods, Belisarius answered coldly. There never were. And now there is only the memory of demons.
Goodbye, grand-daughter. If I ever meet the ghosts of Leonidas and his Spartans, I will tell them that their blood-line ran true.
* * *
He was back in the square at Kausambi, staring up at the sky. It was quite cloudless.
I'm glad. I never much liked clouds. Too messy.
Belisarius couldn't stop himself from barking a laugh.
Look, I'm a crystal, Aide said, a bit defensively. We're just naturally more fussy house-keepers than you protoplasmic slobs.
Tears welled into his ears. Oh, dear God, I will miss you.
Yes, I know. But there was a time I wouldn't have understood that at all—and it was my life here that made that change possible. Made all things possible, for me and all of my children. And that is what they are now, Belisarius, all those untold trillions of living crystal humans. My children. Flesh of my flesh, so to speak, and mind of my mind.
After a moment, in that witty tone that Belisarius would also miss desperately: Of course, we're not as sloppy about the whole business as you are.
For a split-second far too brief to measure, Belisarius felt as if a ripple passed through the world.
It did, said Aide quietly. I love you, grandfather. Goodbye.
* * *
Damodara himself was the first to approach Belisarius, still sitting on the bench. The Roman general's eyes were open, and wet, but he seemed not to notice the emperor at all.
Gently, Damodara opened his loosely-closed fist. Then sighed, seeing what lay within. He had seen that jewel, once, in all its transcendent glory. Now it was just a dull stone. No different from any he might find embedded in a cliff, or lying loose on a sandy beach.
Just as gently, he closed the fist. When he straightened up, he said: "See to it that no one disturbs him, for however long he chooses to remain here."
As officer jerked his head. Two of the soldiers who accompanied the imperial party moved forward to take position on either side of the general. But Sanga waved them back.
"Not them. I will do it myself. And his two cataphracts, if they choose."
Anastasius moved forward, saying nothing.
"You've got to be kidding," muttered Valentinian.
He took his position to the right of Belisarius, where Anastasius was to the left. Sanga remained standing, just behind.
Their postures were quite similar. Except that Valentinian, naturally, held his sword in his hand.
"Anybody bothers the general, he's fucking dead."
Damodara heard the mutter. He said quietly to the officer: "Best position a number of soldiers around the square. Some beggar or dimwit might wander by. And, ah, the Mongoose is not joking."
* * *
Near sundown, Belisarius emerged from his half-trance. Jerking his head a little, he looked first to the right, then to the left, and then over his shoulder.
Seeing Sanga, his lips twisted. The expression bore no resemblance, really, to the crooked smile the Rajput king remembered. But he was still glad to see it.
"I need to speak to the emperor," Belisarius said, "but I don't want to miss the sunset. Not this one. Ask him if he'd be willing to meet me here."
"Of course." Sanga was striding up the steps a moment later, taking them two at a time with his long legs.
Not five minutes later, Damodara emerged from the palace, with Sanga at his side. When he came up to the bench, Belisarius shifted over, leaving room for the emperor.
"Sit, please, if you would. I realize a dozen courtiers will drop dead from shock at the sight."
Smiling, Damodara sat. "No such great fortune, I fear. But perhaps a few might be struck dumb, for a time."
They sat silently, for a moment, both looking at the sunset. By now, the sun was below the rooftops.
Silence, again, for a few minutes. Then Belisarius shook his head.
"Life goes on. As amazing as that seems, sometimes."
The emperor said nothing. Just nodded.
"As I recall, the quarrel was over where to hold the peace conference."
"Yes," said Damodara. "I proposed holding it here, but—"
"No, that won't work. Rao might be willing to come, but Shakuntala would have him chained and shackled. She has no great trust—yet, anyway—for any Malwa."
Damodara chuckled. "That was the gist of it. The young empress of Andhra expressed herself, ah, with more youthful vigor."
"Hold it in Bharakuccha. It's closer to neutral ground than any other. And have the new medical orders organize and manage the thing."
"Bharakuccha..." Damodara considered the proposition. "Yes, that makes sense. But will the medical orders be ready for such a task, on so little notice?"
"My wife Antonina's already there, and she's still officially the head of the Hospitalers. Anna Saronites can get there quickly—trust me on that—and Bindusara is not far away. Meaning no offense, Your Majesty, but I think the three of them can manage the business considerably better than a pack of courtiers and officials."
"Well. True. Good idea, Belisarius."
Belisarius pinched his eyes. "I got it from Aide, actually. Just yesterday."
But when he looked up, there was only a hint of moisture in the eyes. "There is also—always—the memory of angels," he said quietly.
He seemed to be speaking to himself, more than to the emperor. "And what else are we, really, than memories? It took me all afternoon to understand. He came here so that he could have memories also. And, having gained them—fought for them, and won them—he left them behind for me. For all of us."
"I will have a monument erected to the Talisman of God," said Damodara.
"Make it a small one. Not ostentatious. A place for quiet meditation, not pomp and parades. I know a good place for it. A sal grove between the Ganges and the Yamuna, where an Armenian soldier already rests. He and Aide would both like that, I think."
He smiled, finally. "And make sure it's well kept-up, please. He disliked messiness."
Kausambi
Summer, 534 A.D.
Thankfully, all things considered, the next few weeks were so hectic that Belisarius never had much chance to brood on Aide's death. While he could rely on Antonina and Anna and Bindusara to organize the peace conference in Bharakuccha, he—along with Damodara, of course—had the more pressing task of ensuring that the cease-fire was not violated.
Not too badly, at least. There were some incidents, inevitably. The worst was a clash between the Amaravati garrison and Deccan irregulars that almost assumed the proportions of a running battle. That happened in the course of the garrison's march back to the Ganges plain. The garrison was big, its supply train was poorly organized, its commander was another of the many imperial cousins who'd been selected by Skandagupta for his political connections rather than his military skill, and the soldiers of the garrison were still accustomed to the old Malwa ways of handling local populations.
None of the Andhran peoples—certainly not the Marathas—were in any mood to tolerate Malwa atrocities any longer, even on a small scale. So, after a few episodes, the countryside erupted. Within days, the retreating garrison was being subjected to daily ambushes. Rao announced he would intercept them with the regular Andhran army; and, in a perhaps indelicate phrase—transmitted by both radio and telegraph—predicted that the Deccan's carrion-eaters would soon be too fat to run or fly.
Coming from someone else, that might have been taken for mere bluster. But the day after making the announcement, Rao led his army out of their camps on a march up the Narmada. No leisurely march, this; at the pace he maintained, he would indeed intercept the Amaravati garrison long before they could reach the safety of the Vindhyas.
Between them, Belisarius and Damodara managed to defuse the situation before it could become a full-blown crisis. Belisarius, by cajoling Shakuntala over the telegraph lines—not hesitating to use the low tactic of reminding her how much Andhra owed him personally—and Damodara by the still simpler expedient of ordering the garrison to alter its route of march and return via the east coast.
That took the garrison out of Andhran territory altogether, which Rao grudgingly allowed was an acceptable solution. He also, however, predicted that the garrison would continue its depredations as it marched.
Which it did. Indeed, it behaved more badly still. The garrison was in Orissa now, whose population lacked the ferocity and martial traditions of the Marathas. With a commander who sullenly ignored most of Damodara's commands—erratically transmitted, in any event, since the telegraph network in Orissa was primitive—and a soldiery taking out its anger at Maratha harassment on defenseless Orissans, the march degenerated into an orgy of plunder and rapine.
It all came to an end in Bhubaneshwar. When the garrison reached the ancient city, the former capital of both the Kalinga and Chedi dynasties, they discovered that both Rana Sanga and Toramana had already arrived.
With ten thousand Rajputs, as many Ye-tai, and an artillery train. After hesitating for a day, the garrison's commander decided that obeying Sanga's instructions that he relinquish command was a wise idea.
It wasn't, although the outcome would have been no different if he'd tried to put up a fight.
Damodara had decided that an object lesson was needed. So, following his explicit instructions, after the garrison surrendered—no other term could really be used—Sanga and Toramana executed the commander of the garrison and every officer on his staff. Then, they executed every third surviving officer, chosen at random. Then, lined up the entire garrison—now disarmed, of course—and executed one soldier out of ten.
Then—Damodara was in a rare fury—conscripted every man who survived into forced labor battalions. In a few years, the emperor announced, he might—or might not—grant them their liberty.
He got that suggestion, along with the decimation, from Valentinian. An unsolicited suggestion, to boot, which made the courtiers quite indignant. They did not, however, voice their opinion aloud. They were discovering that while being in Damodara's service was generally far less risky than Skandagupta's had been, it did not lack its own moments of anxiety.
The dynasty might be new, but it was still Malwa.
* * *
That was the worst incident, by far. Fortunately, the cease fire in the Punjab, where all the truly great armies were assembled and tensely facing each other, remained peaceful. Maurice had his soldiers under tight discipline; so did Irene, until Kungas returned, when the discipline became tighter still; and Samudra was too intimidated to even think about violating the ceasefire. Besides, he had an epidemic on his hands.
The real risk of a cease-fire violation came from the Persians. Their armies, still half-feudal in nature, were never as tightly disciplined as Roman ones were. To make things worse, by now the grandees were sorely vexed at the outcome of the war.
That produced the single worst eruption of violence since the cease-fire went into effect. But since all the parties involved were Aryans, and the fighting never spilled beyond the territory it had been agreed was theirs, everyone else ignored it.
A rebellion, apparently, conspiratorially organized and led by the Karin sahrdaran. Triggered off, it seemed, by an assassination attempt on Khusrau.
After studying the available reports, Belisarius' lips twisted into something that was still not the crooked smile of old. But at least it bore some resemblance to it.
"'Apparently' and 'it seems,' I think, are the only words in this report I'd give much credence to."
Damodara cocked his head. "You think Khusrau himself instigated the affair?"
Belisarius shrugged. "Who knows? And you can be sure and certain we'll never know. I do find a number of things odd, in the reports. First, that the assassins never got within four hundred yards of the emperor. Second, that not one of them survived. Third, that when the 'rebellion' broke out—truly odd, this item—the conspirators somehow managed to start the affair when they were themselves surrounded by imperial loyalists. And, somehow, didn't manage to suborn even a single artillery unit."
He stacked the reports neatly and slid them back across the huge desk toward Damodara. Belisarius was, as usual in their many private meetings, sitting across from Damodara in a chair that was almost as large, ornately-designed, and heavily-bejeweled as the emperors.
That, too, outraged the courtiers. First, because they were excluded; second, because Belisarius got to sit in the royal presence when they never did; and, third, because under the circumstances they couldn't possibly substitute fakes for the jewels on his chair and sell them on the black market.
That third reason only applied to a few of the courtiers, however. The rest were smarter men. They'd already figured out that Damodara's rule, while far more tolerant in most respects than Skandagupta's, was going to be a nightmare for swindlers and influence-peddlers. Outright thievery would be sheer madness.
"So, at a guess," Belisarius continued, "I think Khusrau himself engineered the thing. Whether he did or not, it certainly worked to his advantage. He's now got the grandees completely cowed."
Damodara chuckled, very dryly. "There's this, too. The punishments he leveled afterward have made my treatment of the Amaravati garrison seem downright mild."
The emperor, who'd been slouched in his chair, levered himself upright. "Well, it's none of our concern. Not for this decade, at any rate. In the long run, I suspect a Persia run along well-organized imperial lines will pose more of a problem for us—you, too—than the old one did. But by the time we find out, I might hopefully be old enough to retire and hand the throne over to my successor. Not that I wish any grief on my oldest son, you understand. He's a good boy, by and large."
It was Belisarius' turn to cock his head. "You've decided, then, to adopt your father's suggestion?"
Damodara barked a laugh. "Hardly a 'suggestion'! More in the way of slapped-together excuse he came up with, to explain the awkwardness of how I happened to be the emperor instead of him. But since he did it, I find that the notion appeals to me. Didn't some Roman emperor do the same?"
"Yes. Diocletian." Belisarius cleared his throat. "Mind you, that didn't work out too well. On the other hand..."
He thought about it, for a moment, then shrugged again. "Who knows? Part of the problem was that we Romans were using adopted heirs, at the time. It might work more smoothly if the retired emperor is directly related to his successor."
"Might not, too. My son isn't a sadhu, after all. Neither am I, for that matter. Speaking of which..."
Damodara rummaged through the mass of papers on his desk. "Bindusara sent me an interesting proposal, a few days ago. I wanted to discuss it with you."
"I already know what it is. And I agree with it."
It had been Belisarius' idea in the first place. Aide's, rather. For perhaps the thousandth time, he felt a sharp pang of grief.
Damodara stopped shuffling the paper and lifted his head. "The caste system is ancient, in India. It goes back to Vedic times."
"More like an ancient disease," Belisarius said harshly. "I can tell you this, Your Majesty. In that other universe that Aide came from, the caste system crippled India for millennia. It will take decades—centuries, perhaps—to uproot it, as it is. So I'd recommend you start now. Bindusara's proposal—set of proposals, more properly—are as good a place to start as any."
The emperor eyed Belisarius closely, for a moment. Then, asked abruptly: "Why should a Roman general care if India is crippled? If anything, I'd think you'd prefer it that way."
"Meaning no offense, Your Majesty, but that mode of thinking—also ancient—is... well, 'wrong-headed' is the most polite term I can think of. The old notion that a man—or a nation—benefits if his neighbors remain mired in poverty and want. There was a certain logic to the idea, for societies that were stagnant. But, whether we wanted it or not, asked for it or not, the main long-term effect of the war we just fought is that it triggered off the industrial revolution a millennium earlier than it happened in that other universe. Societies and economies based on growth, which ours are now becoming, are simply hampered by poor neighbors. Poverty-stricken nations produce very little and consume even less."
He'd wound up sitting very straight and stiff, in the course of that little speech. Now, finished, he slumped back.
"Leave it at that, if you will. Or simply ascribe it to the fact that a Roman general can get sick of war too."
After a while, Damodara said: "The great loss was yours, Belisarius. But don't ever think you are the only one who misses Aide, and his counsel."
"Oh, I don't. But thank you for saying it."
"This was his counsel, I assume?"
"Yes. I embellished it some. Then, passed it along to Bindusara. Not to my surprise, the sadhu was very receptive. He'd been thinking along similar lines, himself."
The emperor nodded. "We'll do it, then. The Talisman of God should have many monuments, not all of them stone."
"Not most of them. I knew him, Emperor, better than anyone. He would have taken far more satisfaction in seeing intolerance eased, in his name, than another pile of stones erected."
Belisarius laughed, then. The first genuine laugh he'd been able to enjoy since Aide died.
"Of course! Unfortunately, my own Christian faith is a bit too stiff-necked to do it properly. Yes, I checked, with my friend Anthony, the Patriarch of Constantinople. He thinks he can make Aide a saint, given some time. But, beyond that..."
Damodara grinned. "Such misers you are! Only three gods—and then you try to insist they're really only one. We Hindus, on the other hand—"
He spread his arms expansively. "A generous people! A lavish people!"
Still grinning, he lowered his hands to the armrests of the chair. "What do you think? An avatar of Vishnu?"
"Why not? Raghunath Rao already thinks he was. So does Dadaji Holkar. If you don't hurry, Emperor Damodara, the consort and peshwa of Andhra will steal a march on you."
After a time, the good humor in the room faded away. Replaced, not by sorrow, but simple acceptance.
"And who can say he wasn't?" the emperor demanded.
"Not me," came the general's answer.
A father and his concerns
Belisarius emerged from the palace just before sundown. In what had become something of a daily custom for him, whenever he could manage it, he went to sit on the bench where he could watch the sun set. The same bench where Aide had left him.
To his surprise, Rana Sanga was already on the bench. Waiting for him, clearly enough.
Belisarius took a seat next to the Rajput king. "May I be of service, Sanga?"
"Perhaps. I hope so. I am concerned for my son."
Belisarius frowned. "He is ill? He seemed quite healthy when I saw him last. Which was just yesterday, now that I think about it."
"His health is excellent. No, it's..." The tall king took a slow, deep breath. "He fought beside me, you know, the day we took Kausambi. All the way to the imperial palace, and even into it."
"Fought extremely well, I was told."
"Belisarius, he frightened me. I have never seen a thirteen year old boy who could fight like that. He was deadly beyond belief. And suffered not so much as a scratch himself."
He shook his head. "Thirteen! At that age, I could certainly wield a sword with great strength and vigor. But I doubt I was much of a threat to anything beyond a log, or a cutting post. My soldiers are already spreading stories about him."
"Ah." Belisarius thought he understand the nature of the Rajput's worries. "He was trained by Valentinian, Sanga. Meaning no disrespect to your own prowess, but—being honest—much of that prowess is simply due to your incredible strength and reflexes. Valentinian is actually a more skilled fighter than you. For a boy like Rajiv, who is not and will never be his father's physical match, the perfect trainer."
Sanga started to say something, but Belisarius forestalled him with a raised hand. "That is simply an explanation. As for what I think concerns you, there are many stories about Rajiv. The one I think personally is the most significant is Valentinian's story. Told, mind you, with considerable exasperation. The story of your son's lunacy when he saved the lives of the soldiers garrisoning the southern gate."
There was an odd expression on Sanga's face, one that Belisarius couldn't decipher. Then the Rajput king chuckled, quite warmly.
"That! Ha! The truth is, Belisarius, I tend to agree with Valentinian. It's certainly not something I'd have done—at that age or any other."
He shook his head again. "You misunderstand. I am not concerned for my boy's soul. He is no budding monster, simply... what he is. A thirteen year old boy who is deadly beyond his years because he was born a Rajput prince but then—for long months, in the most intense period of his life—raised by a Roman soldier. A very unusual Roman soldier, at that. 'Stripped to the bone,' as my wife describes him."
He turned to look at Belisarius directly. He was frowning slightly, but there was no anger in his eyes. "You understand, now? He is no longer Rajput, Belisarius. Not really. Something... else. Not Roman, either, just... else. So. How am I to raise him? I have been pondering that, these past weeks."
The sun was setting. Belisarius paused, to watch it do so. For his part, Sanga simply waited.
By the time the sun was down, Belisarius understood. "You think he would do better being raised by someone else. The rest of the way, so to speak. And that someone would be me."
"Yes. I have thought about it, a great deal. If I tried to force him back into the Rajput mold, he would rebel. Not because he wanted to—he is a very dutiful son, I have no complaint—but simply because he could do no other. Not now, when he is already thirteen. But neither do I want him to drift, not really knowing who he is or why he lives. I can think of no man in the world I would trust more than you, to see him safely through that passage."
"Have you spoken to your wife about the matter?"
Sanga had a smile on his face that was almost as crooked as a Belisarius smile.
The Roman general chuckled. "Stupid question."
"It was her suggestion, actually. I wouldn't have thought of it on my own, I don't think."
That was probably true. Belisarius admired and respected Sanga enormously, but it was a simple fact that the man was on the stiff side. Very unlike his wife, from the sense Belisarius had gotten of her these past weeks.
He probed himself, to see how he felt about the idea. And was a little shocked by how strongly he reacted.
"I knew someone once," he said, very softly, "who was much like Rajiv. Neither this nor that. Great-souled, but also very deadly even at a very young age. Yes, Sanga, I will be glad to do it."
The Rajput king looked away, then nodded. Stiffly.
"We need to find a way to persuade Rajiv, however," he cautioned. "I do not want him to think—not for a moment—that his father is rejecting him."
When Belisarius said nothing, Sanga turned back to look at him.
"I have missed that crooked smile of yours. It's nice to see it back."
"Leave it to me," Belisarius said.
"I don't have anything to wear!"
"Of course, you do," Calopodius said. "Wear your usual uniform."
"To an imperial reception? Don't be absurd! There are going to be—wait a moment, I actually have to count—"
Anna did so, quickly, on her fingers. Then: "Three emperors, an empress—ruling empress, mind you, not the usual wife business—more kings that I can remember since every realm in India is sending their monarchs—the highest official of Axum short of the negusa nagast himself—thank God he's not coming, what would we do with a babe less than a year old?—and—and—and—"
She threw up her hands. "More royal officials than sages, more sages than generals, and more generals than there are leaves on a tree." Scowling, now: "I leave aside the presence of heroic figures of legend. You know, the sort of people who have nicknames like 'the Mongoose' and 'the Panther' and bards write verses about them. And you want me to wear a uniform?"
Antonina came into the chamber just in time to hear the last few sentences.
"Well, of course. What else would you wear? You're hosting it—one of the hosts, at least—as the leader of a medical order. Naturally, you should wear your uniform."
Anna glared at her. "Is that so? Well, then. Since the same applies to you, may I assume you'll be wearing that obscene brass-titted cuirass of yours?"
"To an imperial reception? Don't be absurd!"
A husband and his observations
"I think the reception is going splendidly, Belisarius," commented Khusrau. "Much better than I thought it would, to be honest. Given that this salon is packed with people who were killing each other just a few months ago."
The two men took a moment to gaze out over the milling crowd.
"Such a relief, to be able to stand instead of sit for change," the Persian emperor continued, "and without a thousand courtiers swarming over me. A wonderful idea, this was, to hold the reception in a salon instead of an official audience chamber."
Belisarius grinned. "No room for courtiers. And no need for bodyguards, of course. Not with the room sprinkled with people who have nicknames like 'the Panther' and 'the Mongoose.' It was my wife's idea, by the way."
Khusrau shifted his gaze, to look upon the woman in question.
"Such a magnificent, brilliant woman."
"'Brilliant' is right. I recommend taking care if you happen to be in her vicinity. If she turns around suddenly, those brass tits would sink a warship."
The Emperor of Iran and non-Iran shared a chuckle with Rome's most famous general.
"But she's always been flamboyant," Belisarius added. "Or else she would have chosen a sensible uniform like Anna Saronites."
Both men took the time to admire the woman in question, who was standing not too far away. At the moment, engaged in an animated discussion with two sadhus from... Bengal, Belisarius thought. He wasn't sure. Whoever they were, they were famous in their circles, or they wouldn't have been here at all.
They were wearing nothing but loincloths. Anna's severe costume looked positively glamorous in comparison.
"The courtiers must have gnashed their teeth, seeing them pass through the guards," Belisarius commented.
"I'm told several of them required medical assistance. Fortunately, there wasn't any. It's all concentrated in this room."
That was good for a shared belly laugh.
"I have no objection, personally," said Dadaji Holkar. "None at all. There even seems to be a genuine attachment between Dhruva and Valentinian. None, perhaps, between Lata and Anastasius. But my wife tells me Lata is content with the situation. What else does a marriage need, at the beginning? But..."
He and Belisarius were standing in a small alcove, apart from the throngs. Now that the reception was over, the festivities had spread throughout the palace. Relieved beyond measure, the courtiers had come into their own.
"You are concerned over possible gossip," Belisarius said. "Dadaji, I will point out that with husbands like that—not to mention you being the peshwa of Andhra—"
"Yes, yes, yes." Holkar waved his hand, impatiently. "We can add the fact that—I have no doubt—you will have your son shower Valentinian and Anastasius with ranks in the Roman nobility and Rana Sanga's clan has already officially adopted them and pronounced them both kshatriya. Give it ten years, and—I have no doubt—someone will discover ancient records that proves both men are descended from the most illustrious lines. Somewhere."
His face looked weary. "The fact remains, Belisarius, that people will talk. And I really don't think we need to have the streets of Bharakuccha running with the blood of gossiping merchants. Which—Valentinian?—will most certainly happen."
The Roman general scratched his chin. "But who would start the talk, Dadaji?" He hesitated, for a moment, before deciding that brutal honesty was the only sensible course. "Look, here's the simple truth. Within a week—a day—a prostitute's customer doesn't even remember what she looked like. He'll remember her name—if he even asked at all—no longer than that. As for the other prostitutes, by now they'd be scattered to the winds. And nobody listens to such women, anyway."
Holkar didn't flinch from the bluntness. "Who cares about them? Belisarius, their pimps will remember them. And the line between a pimp and a blackmailer can't be wedged open by a knife. They might even be remembered by the slavers who originally sold them—who are still in business, I remind you, here in Bharakuccha."
Belisarius kept scratching his chin. "That's your only concern?"
"Oh, yes. Otherwise, I think the marriages would be splendid. The best things to happen to my daughters since they were taken away, other than being reunited with me and my wife. I like Valentinian and Anastasius, Belisarius. Most men see nothing in them but warriors, and brutal ones at that. But I was with them, you remember, for quite some time."
"Yes, I remember." He lowered his hand. "Will you trust me to handle the matter, if I tell you I can?"
Holkar didn't hesitate for more than an instant. "Yes, of course."
"These things can be handled. Leave it to me."
A week after the reception, Narses was summoned to appear before Emperor Damodara.
To his surprise, however, the meeting was not held in the audience chamber that was part of the huge suite assigned to the Malwa delegation in the former Goptri's palace. It was held in a small private chamber. The only other man in the room, besides the emperor himself and Narses, was Rana Sanga.
When Narses saw that, he tried not to let the relief show in his posture. It was still possible that Sanga was there to escort him, afterward, to the executioners. But he wouldn't do the work himself. So Narses still had some time left.
Apparently, however, his efforts were not entirely successful.
Damodara smiled, thinly. "Relax, Narses. I decided not to have you assassinated over a month ago. I decided not to have you officially executed even before that."
Damodara did not seem to take umbrage at being questioned. "Hard to explain. Simply accept that I feel it would be a bad start, for a new dynasty, and leave it at that. Whatever else, both Sanga and I are in your debt."
The Rajput king nodded. Stiffly.
"Then why—oh. You've spent the time figuring out what else to do with me. I take it the answer was not: keep him in my service."
Damodara's smile widened, considerably. "That would be foolish, would it not?"
"So I surmised. As it happens, however, I am—in a way—keeping you in my service." The emperor pointed to a chest over in a corner. "Open that."
Narses went over and did so. Despite himself, he couldn't stifle a little gasp, when he saw the contents.
"A king's ransom, yes. It's yours, Narses. Officially, the funds to set you up and maintain you in your new position. There's a good mixture of coins, jewels, rare spices—other valuables—that you should be able to use anywhere."
"Anywhere." Narses considered the word. "And where would that 'anywhere' be found? If I might ask?"
"Well, of course you can ask!" Damodara actually grinned. "How could you possibly get there, if you didn't know where you were going? China, Narses. I find myself possessed by a burning desire to establish an embassy in China. And to appoint you as my ambassador."
"There are sixteen kingdoms in China, the last I heard. Which one?"
Damodara waved his hand. "I believe the situation has simplified some. It doesn't matter. I leave those decisions to you."
He leaned forward and planted his hands firmly on the armrests of the big chair he was sitting in. There was neither a smile nor a grin on his face, now.
"Go to China, Narses. I send you with a fortune and with my good wishes. Believe it so. Set yourself up wherever you choose, once you get there. Send me reports, if you would. But whatever else..."
Damodara nodded. "Don't come back. Ever. Or the man—men—in the room with me won't be Rana Sanga."
Narses felt a combination of emotions. Relief, that he would live. Interest, because China would be interesting, for a man of his talents and inclinations. Sorrow, because...
It dawned on him that Damodara hadn't said anything about that.
"I would miss Ajatasutra," Narses said quietly. "The rest is fine."
"Yes, I know. Sanga already discussed the matter with him, and Ajatasutra says he is willing to accompany you. Probably even willing to stay there, although he insists on reserving his final decision until he reaches China and can assess the situation. He claims to have finicky tastes in wine and women."
"He's lying through his teeth," Narses grunted. But he was almost overjoyed to hear it.
"No great hurry. Can't be, anyway. Ajatasutra will be leaving the city in a few days, and won't be back for a time."
Narses frowned. The assassin hadn't said anything about leaving, and the eunuch had spoken to him just a few hours earlier.
"Don't ask," said Damodara. "Ever."
Sanga was a bit more forthcoming. "Just a personal errand, for Belisarius."
* * *
He said nothing more, since doing so would be stupid. Almost as stupid as Damodara thinking Narses wouldn't figure it out anyway.
But once he reached the safety of the corridors, Narses sneered. As if he'd care!
"The customers don't matter. Neither do the whores. But not a single pimp leaves that brothel alive."
"Easy, then," said the captain of the assassination team. Killing the customers and whores would have been easy, too, except there'd be enough of them that one or two were bound to escape.
After all, five assassins—no, six, since Ajatasutra was joining them in the assignment—can only do so much. Especially since Ajatasutra had instructed them to leave the bombard behind.
Thankfully. Hauling the heavy damn thing from Bharakuccha to Pataliputra would have been a monstrous pain.
Bad enough he'd made them haul it to Bharakuccha from Kausambi. They couldn't refuse, of course. Ajatasutra was the only reason they were still alive.
* * *
That had been an awkward moment, when they presented themselves before the new emperor and asked for the reward. Only to find that Ajatasutra—of all people!—was now in Damodara's service.
He recognized the captain and the lieutenant just as readily as they recognized him. Hardly surprising, since they'd all been officers in Malwa's elite assassination unit.
"You're grinning, Ajatasutra," the emperor said, after he took his eyes from the severed head of Skandagupta. "Why?"
"Your Majesty, these five men have approximately the same kinship to a trade delegation as I have to a cow."
Damodara's eyes went back to the head, sitting on a leather apron to protect the floor. "It struck me I'd never seen a head severed that neatly, except in a butcher shop."
He lifted his eyes and stared at the assassins. "Give me one reason I shouldn't have them executed. After paying them the reward, of course. I'm not dishonest."
"I can use them, Your Majesty. They're not bad fellows. For Malwa assassins."
"That's like saying a crocodile isn't a bad animal. For a voracious man-eating reptile."
"True. But cows make inferior assassins."
"A point. All right, Ajatasutra. But if they disobey you—if anything—"
The rest of the emperor's speech would have been tediously repetitious, except that men whose lives hang by a thread are not subject to tedium of any sort.
* * *
Still, it hadn't worked out badly. The work wasn't much of a challenge, any longer. So far, at least. Killing all the slavers in a slave emporium in Bharakuccha had been almost laughable. The worst part of their current assignment was simply the long journey to Pataliputra, which would be followed by a long journey back. Hundreds of miles added to thousands.
There was no rhyme or reason to the assignment, either. But they'd found there often wasn't, with Ajatasutra as their boss. He seemed to be a man much given to whimsy.
So it never occured to them to press him for a reason. They just did the job, as instructed. When it was over, which didn't take long, India was shorter by a brothel. With all of its pimps dead, the whores would drift elsewhere, and the customers would simply find another one.
* * *
They returned to Bharakuccha just in time to witness—from a considerable distance, of course—the wedding of the daughters of Andhra's peshwa to two Roman noblemen.
It was a grand affair, attended by royalty from half the world. The city practically vibrated with gossip. Incredible stories. The two young noble ladies, rescued from imperial captivity by daring Roman knights—or dukes, or senators, nobody was quite sure since Roman ranks were mysterious anyway—some sort of connection with Rajput royalty—apparently the Roman nobles were also kshatriya, as strange as that seemed but who could doubt it since one of them was the famous Mongoose and both of them had also rescued Sanga's wife at the same time—even the empress, it was said—
On and on and on. The five assassins participated in the gossip just as cheerfully as everyone else, in the city's inns and taverns. By then, they'd half-forgotten the brothel hundreds of miles to the east. It had been erased from their memories almost as thoroughly as they had erased it from the world.
* * *
Alas, all good things come to an end. A week later, Ajatasutra informed them that they were to accompany him on a new assignment.
There was good news, and there was bad news, and there was terrible news.
"An ambassadorial guard?" The captain and the lieutenant looked at each other, then at their men. The chests of all five swelled. What a promotion!
"Some considerable miles," Ajatasutra informed them.
It was all they could do not to groan. By now, they knew Ajatasutra well enough to translate "considerable" into more precise terms. At least two thousand miles, that meant.
"Look on the bright side," he told them. "The Kushans have also decided to set up an embassy in China, so we'll be accompanying their party. It's a big party. Several hundred soldiers."
That did brighten them up. No fear of being harassed by bandits. Still a horrible lot of miles, but easy miles.
But their spirits were only lifted for a moment. The terrible news crashed down.
"Of course, we're bringing the bombard. In fact, I'm having several others made up."
Belisarius finally got to see Rao dance, at the wedding. Not the dance of time, unfortunately, since that wouldn't have been appropriate for this occasion. But it was a magnificent dance, nonetheless.
It was an unsettling experience, in a way, just as meeting Rao had been unsettling. Through Aide, and the memories of another universe he'd given him, Belisarius knew Rao as well as he knew any man in the world. He'd lived with him—officially as master and slave, but in reality as close friends—for decades, after all. And he'd seen him dance, many times.
Had even, through Aide's mind, seen Rao's great dance after he'd sent Belisarius himself to his death.
In this universe, he'd never actually met him before.
What did you say to a man, who'd once—as an act of supreme friendship—pushed you into a vat of molten metal?
Fortunately, Belisarius had been coached by Antonina, who'd faced the same quandary earlier. So he managed to avoid the inane words nice to finally meet you.
Instead, feeling clever, he said: "Please don't do it again."
He felt less clever after a blank-faced Rao replied: "Do what?"
* * *
"It's not fair," he complained to Antonina later. "I can—usually—keep my own memories separated from the ones Aide gave me. But it's a bit much to expect me to remember that nobody else remembers what I remember when I remember what Aide remembered."
By the time he was done, Antonina was looking cross-eyed. But since they'd just entered their bedroom, she was also looking cross-eyed at the bed.
"I hope you haven't forgotten everything."
The next morning, it was his son Photius who was complaining.
"Theodora's going to have a fit, when we get back. She always appoints my bodyguards. Well, not Julian and his men. But they're real bodyguards. Not, you know, fancy imperial appointments."
"Stop squirming," his wife hissed at him. "People are coming in. The audience is about to begin."
"I hate these stupid imperial robes," Photius muttered. "You know that."
"I hate mine, too," Tahmina whispered in return. "So what? It's part of the job. And so what if Theodora has a fit? It won't be worse that a Sour Beta."
"Am not. First, because Justinian's coming back with us on the same ship, and however much she shrieks and hollers she actually does love the man. God knows why, but she does."
"Well, that's true." Since the audience room was now filling up, Photius lowered his voice still further. "What're the other reasons?"
"Belisarius and Antonina are coming back too, all at the same time. She'll be too busy hollering at Belisarius and trying to stay on Antonina's good side at the same time to worry much about what you've done."
"Well, okay. But that only knocks it down to a Sour Gamma, at best. How do you figure Beta?"
But she had to break off. A Roman courtier was stepping forward. The official audience was about to begin.
* * *
Photius forgot about his complaints, then, because he was too busy worrying about remembering the lines he was supposed to speak, when the time came.
Especially because it didn't come very quickly. Roman courtiers giving speeches extolling the virtues of emperors were almost as long-winded as Persian ones. Even more long-winded than Indian ones, if you subtracted all the silly parts about divinity that nobody listened to anyway.
But, eventually, he got to the point.
"—first time by the emperor himself to the ranks of the imperial bodyguards. A body whose august members, in times past, have included the great general Belisarius himself."
Photius took a gleeful satisfaction in being able to start his speech by correcting the courtier. It was the first time he'd ever done that, too.
"This is not an appointment," he said forcefully. "I can't do that here. It's a request, not a command."
Alas, in his glee, he'd forgotten the rest of his speech. He fumbled, for a moment, and then decided to continue on with the same course.
Call it free will. He was the emperor, wasn't he?
So he just looked at the son of Rana Sanga, standing by his father's side, and said: "I'd like it very much if Rajiv would accept the offer. It is, in fact, very prestigious. Although it does mean that Rajiv would have to accompany us back to Constantinople. And, well, probably stay there for some years."
Since he'd veered wildly off the planned course, anyway, he decided to end with a note that might seem lame, from one angle, but wasn't lame at all from the angle he looked at things.
"And it would be really nice for me, to have an imperial bodyguard who was my own age. Well, pretty close."
The courtier had turned an interesting color. Photius thought it was the one called "puce." He'd have to ask his wife later. She knew about that stuff. She knew about most stuff, in fact.
Rajiv, on the other hand, just looked solemn. He stared at Photius, for a moment; then, at his father. Then, at a Roman soldier standing off to the side.
"Ask him," Sanga said, quietly but firmly.
Valentinian didn't wait for the question. "Do it, boy. The experience will be good for you. Besides, every one of Photius' bodyguards—the real ones, I'm talking about, my sort of men—like him. He's a nice kid. Especially for an emperor."
The courtier's color got even more interesting. Sort of a cross between liver and old grapes. Photius wondered if he might have died, standing on his feet.
No, he couldn't have. He was still quivering.
Fortunately—or maybe not, depending on how you looked at it—the courtier seemed to start recovering after Rajiv accepted. By the time the audience ended, his color had returned to that first weird shade.
"Is that 'puce'?" Photius whispered.
"No. 'Puce' is when he looked like he was dead. This is magenta."
"You're so smart. I love you."
* * *
As soon as they entered their private chambers, after the audience, Tahmina turned to him. "That's the first time you've ever said that."
"Oh. Well. I'm getting older."
She sat down on a divan, sighing. "Yes, you are. Awfully fast, actually, when I look at it cold-bloodedly. Which I never do, any more."
"Maybe that's because you're getting older, too."
She smiled, almost as crookedly as Belisarius might. "My dear husband. The difference between 'puce' and 'magenta' is absolutely nothing, compared to the difference between 'getting older' and 'can't wait.'"
Photius thought he was probably a pretty interesting color himself, then.
His father walked in, that very moment. After looking back and forth between the two of them, Belisarius said: "Why are you bright pink? And why are you smiling like that?"
Tahmina gave no answer. Her smile just got more crooked.
Photius, rallying, said: "I did what you asked me to, father. About Rajiv, I mean. Is there something else I can do?"
Belisarius seemed to get sad, for just an instant. But then, he rallied too, and the smile that came to his face made it clear that Tahmina still had a long way to go when it came to "crooked."
"Yes, as a matter of fact. As soon as you can manage it, I'd like a lot of grandchildren."
"That's called 'scarlet,'" Tahmina said, to Photius.
To Belisarius, she said: "Consider it done."
An empress and her distractions
Tahmina proved to be quite right. After they finally returned to Constantinople, whatever empress regent fury might have fallen on Photius for his presumptuous appointment was almost completely deflected. Photius and Tahmina never had to suffer worse than a Sour Beta. Maybe even Sour Alpha.
First, as Tahmina had foreseen, by Theodora's joy at being reunited with her husband.
Secondly, by the time and energy Theodora spent hollering at Belisarius for: a) putting her husband at risk; b) keeping him away from her for an unholy length of time, and c) giving away half of her empire—sorry, your son's empire—in the course of his fumble-fingered so-called "negotiations."
Thirdly, by the time and energy she spent mollifying her best friend Antonina's anger over the preposterous way she was treating the man who had won the greatest war in history and saved her empire for her three times over—against the Medes, internal rebellion, and the Malwa.
And, finally, of course, as Tahmina had also foreseen...
"You agreed to be a business partner in a manufacturing scheme? Are you out of your mind?"
"I'm not the Emperor any longer, dear," Justinian pointed out mildly. "Photius is."
"I'm the Grand Justiciar. And you know how much I love to play with gadgets." He tried to dampen the gathering storm: "Besides, I'll have to keep it quiet anyway. Otherwise it might look like a conflict of interest."
Theodora frowned. "'Conflict of interest'? What in the world is that?"
"It's a new legal concept I'm about to introduce. I thought of it while I was in India."
That wasn't really true. He'd gotten the original idea from Aide. But since the jewel wasn't around any longer, Justinian saw no reason to give him credit. He'd never much liked the creature anyway.
It took him a while to explain the concept of "conflict of interest" to the Empress Regent. When he was done, Theodora burst into laughter.
"That's the silliest thing I ever heard of! My husband!"
Ousanas delayed his return to Ethiopia, long enough to ensure that a full year had passed, since Eon's death. When he arrived at Adulis, he discovered that Rukaiya had already overseen the transfer of the capital there from Axum.
He was surprised. True, this had been planned for some time, but he hadn't thought Rukaiya would be bold enough, in his absence, to push the matter through. Many of the Ethiopians were not happy at the prospect of sharing their capital with Arabs.
Ezana met him at the docks, and provided part of the reason.
"Why not? And it gave me the chance to demonstrate that the queen had the full support of the royal regiments."
Ousanas eyed him sidewise. "And just how vigorous was this 'demonstration'?"
"Not vigorous at all," Ezana said, sounding disgruntled. "Didn't need to be. Everybody kept their mouth shut. In public, anyway."
When Ousanas arrived at the palace—a new one, still being built—Rukaiya provided him with the other reason.
"I thought it would best, when you returned. Eon never lived here. His ghost does not walk these halls, or hover in these rooms. We will remember him always, of course, and keep him in our hearts. But this palace belongs to us alone."
By then, they had entered their private chambers. Night was falling.
Rukaiya turned to face him squarely. "You are home, Ousanas. Finally and truly home. No more the hunter, no more the rover, no more the stranger. You are a husband, now—mine—and will soon be a father."
He wasn't able to return that gaze, yet. His eyes avoided hers, roaming the room until they spotted the bookcase. Which they did quickly. It was a very large bookcase.
He moved over to examine the titles. Then, for the first time since his ship docked, was able to smile.
"I began assembling it the day you left. There are still a few titles missing, but not many."
"No, not many. Although I'll want to be adding some new titles I discovered in India. I can read Sanskrit well enough, by now."
His fingers drifted across the spines. "This must be the finest collection of books on philosophy in the whole world."
"That was my plan. Home should not mean abstinence. Look at me, Ousanas."
He could, then. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Or, perhaps, it was simply that he was looking at her for the first time as his wife.
"I am good at loving," she said. "That, too, I learned from Eon. Do not waste that gift he gave you, husband. His ghost is not here. His gift remains."
For the rest of his life, sundown was always a special time for Belisarius. Sadness, mostly, in the beginning. As the years passed, fading into a sort of warm melancholy.
Watching the sunset never really became a ritual for him, however, although he did it more often than most people. He saved ritual for an annual occasion.
Every year, on the day that Aide died, he would go alone into the night and stare up at the stars. If the night was overcast, or if it rained, he would keep coming until the skies cleared.
Antonina never accompanied him, although she would always see him to the door when he left, and be there to welcome him when he returned in the morning. She, too, grieved Aide. So, as the years passed, did millions of people the world over, as the Talisman of God became incorporated, one way or another, into the various religions. But for all of them other than Belisarius, with only the partial exception of Ousanas, it was an abstract sort of grief. They had lost a talisman, or a saint, or a symbol, or an avatar. Belisarius had lost a person.
So, she felt that night belonged to him alone, and he loved her for it.
All night, he would spend, just staring at the stars and watching them twinkle. Looking out into a universe whose heavens reminded him of the way a jewel's facets had flashed once in his mind. Looking up at the universe that jewel had guaranteed, by sacrificing his life.
Many monuments were erected to Aide, over the years, in many lands. Belisarius visited none of them, except the grove of sal trees on those occasions he returned to India. Even then, he went to spend his time at Ashot's grave. He would barely glance at the memorial devoted to Aide.
Others might need stones to remember Aide. Belisarius had the heavens.
His ritual was reciprocated, although he would never know it. Aide had transformed his crystalline branch of humankind, by the same sacrifice, and they never forgot. Neither Aide nor the man who had enabled his life.
They did forget the man's name, eventually. But by they time they did, it hardly mattered. A ritual had emerged—perhaps the only thing that could really be called a ritual, for them. They were, as a rule, a more practical-minded folk than their protoplasmic kin. Certainly more so than the Great Ones.
No matter where they went, to whatever star system—in time, to whatever galaxy—the crystals would select a constellation from the skies. It was their only constellation. Often enough, simply adopted from a constellation named by the fleshy humans among whom they lived.
But if they adopted the star pattern from their neighbors, they did not adopt the name. The crystals had their own name for that one and only constellation. As if the ritual of the invariant name was a great talisman of their own, protecting them from whatever horrors might lurk in the universe.
They would call it, always, The Craftsman.
A note on terminological usage. Throughout the series, the terms "Roman" and "Greek" are used in a way which is perhaps confusing to readers who are not very familiar with the historical setting. So a brief explanation may be helpful.
By the sixth century a.d., the only part of the Roman Empire still in existence was what is usually called by modern historians the Eastern Roman Empire, whose capital was in Constantinople. The western lands in which the Roman Empire originated—including Rome itself and all of Italy—had long since fallen under the control of barbarian tribes like the Ostrogoths.
The so-called "eastern" Roman Empire, however, never applied that name to itself. It considered itself—and did so until its final destruction at the hands of the Ottoman Turks in 1453 a.d.—as the Roman Empire. And thus, when referring to themselves in a political sense, they continued to call themselves "Romans."
Ethnically speaking, of course, there was very little Latin or Roman presence left in the Roman Empire. In terms of what you might call its "social" content, the Roman Empire had become a Greek empire in all but name. In Justinian's day, Latin was still the official language of the Roman Empire, but it would not be long before Greek became, even in imperial decrees and political documents, the formal as well as de facto language of the Empire. Hence the frequency with which the same people, throughout the course of the series, might be referred to (depending on the context) as either "Roman" or "Greek."
Loosely, in short, the term "Roman" is a political term; the term "Greek" a social, ethnic or linguistic one—and that is how the terms are used in the series.
Places
Adulis:
a city on the western coast of the Red Sea; the kingdom of Axum's major port; later, the capital city of the Ethiopians.
Ajmer:
the major city of Rajputana.
Alexandria:
the major city of Roman Egypt, located on one of the mouths of the Nile.
Amaravati:
the former capital of the Empire of Andhra, located on the Krishna river in south India; sacked by the Malwa; Shakuntala taken into captivity after her family is massacred.
Anatha:
an imperial villa in Mesopotamia; site of the first major battle between Belisarius and the Malwa.
Axum:
the name refers both to the capital city in the highlands and the kingdom of the Ethiopians.
Babylon:
ancient city in Mesopotamia, located on the Euphrates; site of a major siege of the Persians by the Malwa.
Barbaricum:
the major port in the Indus delta; located near present day Karachi.
Begram:
the major city of the Kushans.
Bharakuccha:
the major port of western India under Malwa control; located at the mouth of the Narmada river.
Charax:
Persian seaport on the Persian Gulf.
Chowpatty:
Malwa naval base on the west coast of India; located at the site of present day Mumbai (Bombay).
Constantinople:
capital of the Roman Empire; located on the Bosporus.
Ctesiphon:
capital of the Persian empire; located on the Tigris river in Mesopotamia.
Deccan:
southern India.
Deogiri:
a fortified city in central Majarashtra; established by Shakuntala as the new capital of Andhra.
Gwalior:
location of Venandakatra's palace in north India where Shakuntala was held captive.
Hindu Kush:
the mountains northwest of the Punjab. Site of the KhyberPass.
Kausambi:
capital of the Malwa empire; located in north India, at the junction of the Ganges and Jamuna rivers.
Majarashtra:
literally, "the Great Country." Land of the Marathas, one of India's major nationalities.
Marv:
an oasis city in Central Asia; located in present day Turkmenistan.
Mindouos:
a battlefield in Mesopotamia where Belisarius fought the Persians.
Muziris:
the major port of the kingdom of Kerala in southeastern India.
Nehar Malka:
the ancient canal connecting the Euphrates and Tigris rivers; scene of a battle between Belisarius and the Malwa.
The Pass:
a pass in the Zagros mountains separating Mesopotamia from the Persian plateau; site of a battle between Belisarius and Damodara; called The Battle of the Mongoose by the Rajputs.
Peshawar:
located in the Vale of Peshawar, between the Punjab and the KhyberPass.
Punjab:
the upper Indus river valley.
Rajputana:
the land of the Rajputs, one of India's major nationalities.
Sind:
the lower Indus river valley.
Sukkur:
a major city on the Indus; north of the city is the "Sukkur gorge" which marks the boundary between Sind and the Punjab.
Suppara:
a port city on India's west coast, to the north of Chowpatty.
Tamraparni:
the island of Ceylon; modern day Sri Lanka.
Vindhyas:
the mountain range which marks the traditional boundary between northern India and southern India.
Terms
Anvaya-prapta sachivya:
members of the Malwa royal clan.
Aqabe tsentsen:
literally, "keeper of the fly-whisks." The highest ranked official in the Axumite government.
Azadan:
literally, "men of noble birth." Refers to a class of people in the Persian empire roughly analogous to medieval European knights.
Cataphract:
the heavily armed and armored mounted archer and lancer who formed the heart of the Roman army. Developed by the Romans as a copy of the dehgan.
Dawazz:
a slave assigned as adviser to Ethiopian princes, specifically for the purpose of deflating royal self-aggrandizement.
Dehgan:
the Persian equivalent of a cataphract.
Dromon:
a Roman war galley.
Kushans:
originating as a barbarian tribe from the steppes, the Kushans became civilized after conquering Central Asia and were the principal support for Buddhism in the early centuries of the Christian Era; later subjugated by the Malwa.
Negusa nagast:
"King of Kings." Ruler of Axum, the kingdom of the Ethiopians.
Nika:
the name of the insurrection against Justinian and Theodora engineered by the Malwa.
Peshwa:
roughly translates as "vizier." Top civilian official of the Empire of Andhra.
Sahrdaran:
the highest ranked nobility in the Persian empire, next in status to the emperor. Traditionally consisted of seven families, of which the "first among equals" were the Suren.
Sarwe:
a regiment of the Axumite army. The plural is "sarawit." Individual soldiers are called "sarwen."
Spatha:
the standard sword used by Roman soldiers; similar to the ancient Roman short sword called the gladius, except the blade is six inches longer.
Vurzurgan:
"grandees" of the Persian empire. Noblemen ranked between the azadan and the sahrdaran.
Ye-tai:
a barbarian tribe from central Asia incorporated into the Malwa governing structure. Also known as "Ephthalites" or "White Huns."
THE END
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