The Dance of Time

Not regular Malwa soldiers, either, to make things worse. Marathas, from their look, newly-impressed into the city's garrison. It seemed the new Axumite commander had given orders to form units from all residents of the city.

The captain sized them up. Eight of them there were, and tougher-looking than he liked. He didn't doubt that he and his four assassins could overcome them. But not without suffering casualties—and then what?

Five Malwa assassins in today's Bharakuccha, many if not all of them wounded, would be like so many pieces of bloody meat in shark waters.

"There you are!" the official exclaimed. "You are the trade delegation just returned from Rome, yes?"

That had been their official identity. The captain wondered how an official in Bharakuccha—the place was a madhouse!—had managed to keep track of the records and identify them so soon after their return.

He brought down a savage curse on all hard-working and efficient bureaucrats. A silent curse, naturally.

"Come with me!" the official commanded. "I've been instructed to send a courier team to catch up with the emperor"—he didn't even bother to specify the "new" emperor—"and you're just the men for the job!"

"I can't believe this," muttered his lieutenant. Very softly, of course.

* * *

The next morning, they were riding out of the city on excellent horses, carrying dispatches for Damodara. Along with a Maratha cavalry platoon to provide them with a safe escort out of the Deccan. The assassins were obviously Malwa—some sort of north Indians, at any rate—and despite the new truce between the Malwa and Andhran empires, it was always possible that a band of Maratha irregulars in the hills wouldn't obey it. Or have simply turned to banditry, as some soldiers always do at the end of a war.

That same escort, needless to say, also made it impossible for them to return to Bharakuccha and continue their assignment. Not, at least, until they'd passed the crest of the Vindhyas—at which point, they have to return another hundred miles or so, and do it without being spotted by Maratha patrols.

The only bright spot in the whole mess was that their luggage hadn't been searched. If it had been, the bombard would have been discovered—and they'd have had a very hard time explaining why and how a "trade delegation" had been carrying an assassination device. A bombard of that size and type was never used by regular military units, and it would have been even more useless for trade delegates.

That night, around their campfire and far enough from the Maratha escort not to be overheard, the five assassins quietly discussed their options.

"It's hopeless," the captain concluded. "We've done our best. Let's just give it up and return to Kausambi for a new assignment."

His lieutenant finally said it. "That's assuming we don't find a new emperor when we get there. Then what?"

The captain shrugged, and spit into the fire.

More cheerily, one of the other assassins said: "Well, there's this. Whoever the emperor is when we get there, one thing's for sure. We won't be reporting failure to Nanda Lal. No matter what."

That was true. Perhaps the only certainty left in their lives. They'd all seen Nanda Lal's head perched on a pike outside the Goptri's palace. There hadn't been much left of it. But the captain and the lieutenant had recognized the nose. Broken, years ago, by the boot of Belisarius. Battered, at the end, by boys in their play.

Back | Next

Contents

Framed

Back | Next

Contents

Chapter 30

The Thar desert

Belisarius finally managed to force his eyes somewhere else. Staring at the empty well wouldn't make it fill up.

Not that he found the sight of the desert any prettier.

"So, I gambled and lost," he said to Ashot and Abbu, standing next to him.

Ashot was still scowling down into the well. Abbu was scowling at the desert, his eyes avoiding the general's.

"It's not your fault, Abbu."

The old bedouin grimaced. "This well was one of the best!" he protested. "I was worried about the last one. And another one some twenty miles farther. Not this one!"

Finally, Ashot straightened up. "Wells are finicky in a desert like this. If the water table was reliable, we wouldn't have had to dig our own. There'd have been wells already here."

The Armenian cataphract wiped the dust off his face with a cloth. "What do we do now, general? We don't have enough water left to make the crossing to the next well. Not the whole expedition, for sure. A few dozen could make it, maybe, if they took all the water we still have."

"For what purpose?" Belisarius demanded. Not angrily, just wearily.

He leaned over the well again, gauging the dampness at the very bottom. There wasn't much.

There were two decisions to be made. One was obvious to probably everyone. The other was obvious to him.