"It's just impossible," said Anna wearily, leaning her head against her husband's shoulder. "That great mass of people out there isn't really a city. It's a huge refugee camp, with more people pouring into it every day. Just when I think I've got one problem solved, the solution collapses under the weight of more refugees."
Calopodius stroked her hair, listening to the cannonade outside the bunker. The firing seemed a lot heavier than usual, on the Malwa side. He wondered if they might be getting nervous. By now, their spies were sure to have reported that a large Persian army had been camped briefly just across the river from the Iron Triangle.
But he gave only a small part of his mind to that matter. He had much more pressing and immediate things to deal with.
"Have you given any thought as to what you'd like to do, after the war? With the rest of your life, I mean."
Anna's head stirred. "Some," she said softly.
"And what did you decide?"
Now, her head lifted off his shoulder entirely. He knew she was looking at him sideways.
"Do you care?" she asked, still more softly.
He started to respond with "of course," but the words died before they were spoken. He'd spent quite a bit of time thinking about Anna, lately, and knew full well that "of course" was not an answer that would have even occured to him a few months ago.
So, he simply said: "Yes. I do."
There was a pause for a few seconds. Then, Anna's head came back to nestle on his shoulder again. "I think I'd like to keep the Service going. Somehow or other. I like healing people."
Calopodius kissed her hair. It felt rich and luxurious to him; more so now, than when he'd been able to see it.
"All right," he said. "That shouldn't be too hard."
Anna issued a sound halfway between a snort and a chuckle. "Not too hard! It's expensive, husband. Not even your family's rich enough to subsidize medical charity on that scale. Not for very long. And once the war is over, the money Belisarius and the army have been giving me will dry up."
It was Calopodius' turn to hesitate. "Yes, I know. But . . . how would you feel about remaining here in India?"
"I wouldn't mind. But why India?"
"Lots of reasons. I've been thinking about our situation myself. But let's start with three. One that matters—I think—to you. One that matters to me. And one that would matter to my family. Perhaps more to the point, my family's coffers."
Her head came back off his shoulder and, a moment later, Calopodius could feel her shifting her weight entirely. Within a few seconds, she was no longer lying beside him on their pallet but was sitting on it cross-legged, facing him. He knew the sensation quite well. Whenever they had something to really talk about, Anna preferred to be sitting up.
"Explain."
"Let's start with you. You already know that if our world keeps the same historical pattern with regard to disease as the one we diverged from, a terrible plague is 'scheduled' to start in eight years or so. By the time it's over, millions of people in the Mediterranean world will be dead."
"It might have already started, in fact," Anna mused. "Somewhere in China. Where the death toll will be just as bad."
Calopodius nodded. He wasn't surprised that she'd remembered that part of the future history that Belisarius had imparted to them.
"Yes. It'll enter the Roman Empire in Alexandria, in the year 541. But it almost certainly got transmitted through India."
He heard Anna draw in a sharp breath. "I hadn't thought of that."
"Then I think you should start thinking about it. If you move fast enough—fast enough and with enough money and authority—between your Service and the Hospitalers in Alexandria, it might be possible to forestall the plague. Reduce its effects, anyway."
"There's no cure for it," she said. "And no . . . what's the word?"
" 'Vaccine,' " Calopodius supplied.
"Yes. No vaccine. Not anything we could make in time, in sufficient quantities."
Calopodius shrugged. "True. But from what Belisarius told me Aide said to him, it wasn't really a medical 'cure' that defeated the plague in the future, anyway. It was mostly just extensive and thorough public health and sanitation. Stuff as simple and plebeian as good sewers and clean drinking water. That is within our technological capacity."
He listened to Anna breathing, for a while. Then she said: "It would take a lot of money, and a lot of political influence."
"Yes. It'd be a life's work. Are you willing?"
She laughed abruptly. "I'm willing. But is the money willing? And . . ." Her voice lowered. "I really don't want to do anything that you wouldn't be happy with."
He smiled. "Not to worry! What I want to do is write histories and public commentaries. But what do I write about, once the war is over?"
He moved right on to supply the answer: "Write about India, that's what. Just think of it, love. An entire continent. One that Rome knows almost nothing about and with a history even longer than Rome's."
Silence.
"Your life's work, then," Anna mused. Then, issued that same abrupt laugh. "So where's the money to come from?"
His smile widened, becoming very close to a grin. "Well, we'll have to keep it hidden from your family. Even from mine, the rough details. But you and I are about to found a branch of the Saronites enterprises, here in India. Crude stuff, I'm afraid. Manufacturing, mostly."
He wasn't surprised at all that the woman his wife had become did not even stumble over the prospect. "Manufacturing what?"
"I thought we'd start with medical supplies and equipment. Also pharmaceuticals. Nothing fancy, though. Mostly soap, dyes and cosmetics, at the beginning. Belisarius told me those were the substances that were the big money-makers for the chemical industry when it got really started in the future. In what he calls the 'industrial revolution.' Once the business gets rolling, we can expand into medicines."
"And exactly which one of us is going to oversee and organize this grand scheme of yours?" she demanded.
"Neither of us. We just front the money—I can get enough to start from my father—and we—mostly you—provide the political influence. I figured we could bring up your banker from Barbaricum—"
"Pulinda?"
"Yes, him. He's shrewd as they come, and he knows India. For running the technical end, we'll use Eusebius."
"If he agrees. He might not—"
"I already asked him. He says he'd love to. He's tired of figuring out new ways to kill people."
"You already asked him?"
"Yes. And I think Justinian will go for it, too. Not directly, of course. He's got to get back to Constantinople as soon as the war's over or Theodora will send out the executioners. But he's intrigued by the idea and says he's sure he can siphon us some imperial financing—provided he gets to play with the gadgets at his end."
The pallet lurched. Calopodius knew that Anna had risen to her feet. Jumped to her feet, more like.
"You asked the Emperor of Rome to be our business partner in a manufacturing scheme? Are you out of your mind?"
"He's not the emperor any longer, dear," Calopodius pointed out mildly. "Photius is."
"Still!"
"He's the Grand Justiciar. And you know how much he loves to play with gadgets."
"My husband!" Anna burst into laughter that was not abrupt at all.
Kungas came to his decision and moved away from the window looking out over Peshawar. "All right," he said, "we'll do it."
He gave the small group of Ye-tai deserters a gaze that wasn't cold so much as simply impassive. The way a glacier contemplates so many rocks who might be in its way when it ground forward to the sea. More indifferent than icy, since the outcome was inevitable.
The Ye-tai were squatting on the floor of his private audience chamber. They seemed like so many rocks, indeed, as motionless as they were. And for good reason. First, they were disarmed. Second, the Kushan soldiers standing around and guarding them were armed to the teeth. Third, there was no love lost between Kushans and Ye-tai to begin with. Hadn't been for a century, since the invading Ye-tai had broken the Kushan kingdom that Kungas had re-created.
"If you're lying, of course, you're dead men."
The Ye-tai squad leader made a shrug that was as minimal as any Kungas himself might have made. "Why would we lie?"
"I can't think of any reason myself. Which is why I decided to believe you." Kungas' crack of a smile came. "Besides, Sarmatians are noted for their honesty. Even half-Sarmatians."
That little joke brought a ripple of laughter in the room, as much from the Kushan guards as the Ye-tai prisoners. For the first time since they'd been ushered into the chamber—frog-marched, more like—the Ye-tai visibly relaxed.
Although his thin smile had remained, Kungas had not joined the laughter. When it ended, he shook his head.
"I'm not joking, really. You six are the founding members of my new military unit. If you're not lying—and I'm assuming you aren't—then you won't be the last Malwa deserters coming over to us. So I think I'll enroll all of you in the . . . What to call it?"
Irene piped up, sitting on a chair to one side. "The Royal Sarmatian Guards."
"That'll do nicely." Kungas turned to his lieutenants. "Get the army formed up. I want to march out tomorrow morning, early. Leave five thousand men in the capital."
"I won't need that many," said Irene. "Three thousand is plenty to maintain order and keep the hill tribes from getting any ideas."
Kungas thought about it, and decided she was right. He could leave the additional two thousand men with the five thousand already garrisoning the forts in the passes at Margalla and Kohat. That would secure the gates to the kingdom and leave him almost twenty thousand men to do . . .
Whatever. He didn't know yet. He was quite sure the Ye-tai deserters weren't lying. But that didn't necessarily mean their assessment of things was all that accurate, either.
Still, he thought it was probably was. Close enough, anyway. Kungas had been fighting almost since he was a boy. There was that smell in the air, of an enemy starting to come apart.
When Jaimal caught his first glimpse of the walls of Ajmer, he felt the greatest exhilaration he'd ever felt in his life. Even though he was also completely exhausted.
He glanced at Udai Singh, riding next to him at the head of the small Rajput cavalry column, and saw the same gleaming smile he must have had on his own face.
"A ride of legend!" Udai shouted. Half-croaked, rather.
Shouted or croaked, it was true. And the ragged chorus of that same half-croaked shout coming from the fifty cavalrymen following told Jaimal that their men knew it as well as they did.
Rajputana was a land of horsemen, as well as warriors. A great horse ride would become a thing of renown just as surely as a great feat of arms.
Emperor Damodara and Rana Sanga had asked them to accomplish the incredibly difficult task of riding from Bharakuccha to Ajmer in two weeks. If possible.
They'd done it in eleven days. Without losing more than nine of their horses.
"A ride of legend!" he shouted himself.
But there was no need for that, really. Already, he could see the gates of the city opening, and cavalrymen issuing forth. Hundreds of them. Even from the great distance, just seeing the way they rode, he knew they were all young men. Seeking their own place in legends.
Jaimal and Udai would give it to them.
Standing on the walls of Ajmer and watching the way the young warriors who had poured out of the city were circling the new arrivals—there were at least a thousand of them, now, with more sallying from the gates every minute—the oldest and therefore wisest king of Rajputana knew it was hopeless. That was a whirlwind of celebration and excitement, out there. Caution and sagacity would soon become so many leaves blown by the monsoon.
"Perhaps . . ." began Chachu.
Dasal shook his head. Standing next to him, his brother Jaisal did likewise.
"Not a chance," said Jaisal curtly. "Look at them, out there."
"We don't even know what it's about, yet," whined Chachu. One of the other kings who formed the council grunted something in the way of agreement.
Dasal shrugged. "Don't be foolish. No, we don't know exactly what news—or instructions—that cavalry column is bringing. But the gist of it is obvious."
He nodded toward the column, which was now advancing toward the gates with over a thousand other Rajput cavalrymen providing them with what was, for all practical purposes, an escort of honor.
"The new emperor sent them. Or Rana Sanga. Or both. And they will be demanding the allegiance of all Rajputs. So what do we say?"
He had no answer, himself. The Rajput heart that beat within him was just as eager as any of those young warriors out there. But that heart had now beaten for almost eighty years, each and every year of which had hammered caution into his mind, whatever his heart might feel.
"Let's return to the council chamber and await them there," suggested Jaisal.
That might help. A bit.
"Yes," Dasal said.
But when they returned to the council chamber, they discovered it had been preempted from them already. The seven thrones had been removed from their accustomed places in a half-circle at the elevated dais. They were now resting, still in a half-circle, facing the dais.
On the dais itself, sat only one chair. A smaller and less ostentatious chair, as it happened, than the seven chairs of the kings. And the man who sat in it was smaller—certainly more rotund—than any of the kings.
But it hardly mattered. Dasal understood who he was before he even spoke.
Chachu, as usual, had to be enlightened.
"I am Great Lord Damodara," the short, fat old man said. "The emperor's father. I am the new viceroy of Rajputana. And you will obey me."
Behind him, in a row, stood half a dozen Malwa bodyguards. Assassins, to call things by their right name. More to the point, at least fifty young Rajput warriors were standing alongside the walls of the chamber. Each and every one of whom was glaring at the seven kings.
Suddenly, the plump face of Great Lord Damodara broke into a smile. The expression made him seem a much friendlier sort of fellow.
"But, please!" he exclaimed, waving his hand at the seven chairs before him. "Take your seats, Kings of Rajputana."
Dasal considered the courtesy. Then, considered the titles. Finally, considered the chairs.
The chairs made the decision. They were the same chairs, after all. Very august ones. Not to mention comfortable.
He felt relief more than anything else. Clearly enough, the new regime in the land of the Rajputs was willing to accommodate the status—if not the authority—of the old one.
He was almost eighty years old, after all. Even the youngest of the seven kings of the council was past seventy.
"Yes, Great Lord." Dasal moved forward and sat in his accustomed chair. He gave his half dozen fellows an abrupt nod, commanding them to follow.
They did so, readily enough. Only Chachu made a token protest.
"I don't understand," he whined. "If you're still alive, why aren't you the new emperor instead of your son?"
The smile on the Great Lord's face stayed in place, but it got an ironic twist.
"Good question. I'll have to take it up with my headstrong son when we meet again. For the moment, I ascribe it to the monsoon times we're living in."
The smile became serene. "But I don't imagine I'll argue the point with him. Actually, it might make for a good tradition. When emperors—and kings—get too old, they tend to get too set in their ways. Best to have them retire and take up some prestigious but less demanding post, while their son assumes the heavier responsibilities. Don't you think?"
The smile was friendly. But the assassins were still there, not smiling at all. And the young warriors were still glaring.
"Indeed, Great Lord," said Dasal.
His brother echoed him immediately. Chachu, thankfully, kept his mouth shut.
Or, at least, kept his mouth shut until the two leaders of the newly arrived cavalry column finished their report.
"That's madness!" Chachu exclaimed. "Belisarius?"
But Dasal had come to the opposite conclusion. The great lord was right. Old men should retire, when the time comes.
Especially when presented with such a fine way to do so.
"It's brilliant," he rebutted, rising to his feet. "And I will lead the force that goes into the Thar to find him."
His brother came to his feet also. "I'll go with you."
"You're too old!" protested Chachu.
The two brothers glared at him, with the combined indignation of one hundred and fifty-six years of life.
"I can still ride a horse!" snarled Dasal. "Even if you can't ride anything other than a chair any longer."
They left the following evening, just after sunset. No sane man rides into the desert during the day. Dasal and Jaisal had one hundred and fifty-six years of sanity between them.
The young warriors were impatient, of course. All seven thousand of them.
Especially impatient were the six thousand that the two kings had insisted ride on camels, carrying the water and other supplies that they were quite sure Belisarius needed. Leave it to an idiot Roman to try to cross the desert without camels. Relying on wells! In the Thar!
Most impatient of all were the ten thousand—with more coming into the city every day—whom Dasal had insisted remain behind. With, fortunately, the agreement and approval of the new viceroy of Rajputana. They would just be a nuisance in the expedition, and a new Rajput army had to be formed.
Formed quickly. The monsoon was coming.
Fortunately, Rana Sanga's two lieutenants Jaimal and Udai Singh had the authority and experience for the task. They needed a rest anyway, after their ride of legend. By the time Jaisal and Dasal returned to Ajmer with Belisarius, the new army would be ready.
For . . . whatever. Given Belisarius, it would be a thing of legend. Dasal only hoped he would live long enough to see it.
Assuming the idiot Roman was still alive. Crossing the Thar on horses! Relying on wells!
When the Malwa assassination team finally rowed their ship into the great harbor at Bharakuccha, they knew another moment of frustration and chagrin.
"Look at that!" snarled one of them.
The captain of the team just shook his head. The docks and piers of the city seemed practically covered with a carpet of people, all of them come down to greet the Axumite fleet escorting the Emperor of Rome.
The fleet was already anchored. As they drew closer, the Malwa assassins could see the Roman imperial party being escorted to the great palace of the Goptri by a small army of Ethiopian sarwen.
Even if they'd been in position, there would have been no way to get to the boy emperor. And once he was in the palace . . .
The captain of the assassination team and his lieutenant were both familiar with the great palace of the Goptri. As the palace of a conquering viceroy in a hostile land, serving a dynasty famous for its paranoia, it had been designed to thwart assassins. Unless the guards were utterly incompetent . . .
"Ethiopian sarwen," the lieutenant grumbled. "And you can be sure that Raghunath Rao will be there to advise them."
The captain spent a moment adding up the miles he and his team had traveled, to carry out an assignment that always seem to recede before them in the distance. It had been like trying to assassinate a mirage in the desert.
From Kausambi to Bharakuccha to Alexandria to Constantinople. And then back again, almost all the way.
Something like ten thousand miles, he thought. Who could really know?
"Nothing for it," he said. "We'll sell the ship as soon as we can, since we're almost out of money. Then . . . we'll just have to see what we can do."
Finding a buyer for the ship was easy. Whether rightly and wrongly—and, more and more, the captain was beginning to wonder if they weren't right—the merchants of Bharakuccha seemed quite confident that the old Malwa empire was gone from the Deccan and that trade would soon be picking up.
They even got a better price than the captain had expected.
That was the first and last thing that went as planned. No sooner had they emerged from the merchant clearinghouse than a harried-looking official accosted them. Accompanied, unfortunately, by a large squad of soldiers.
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 would 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.