There had been many times, since the war began, that Belisarius had been glad to have Abbu and his Arab scouts in his service.
Never more than now.
"Idiot Rajputs would have gotten you into another war, General," said the old bedouin chief, scowling. "Are they blind? Who else wears topknots?"
Abbu was being a little uncharitable, but . . . only a little. It was not as if Rajputs weren't familiar with Kushans. Until recently, there had been tens of thousands of Kushans in the Malwa military, many of whom had served in the same armies as Rajputs, if not in the same units.
On the other hand—being charitable—there were still considerable numbers of Kushans in the service of the Malwa empire. By no means all of the Kushans had defected after Kungas re-created the old Kushan kingdom.
But they were no longer trusted, and there was no possibility at all that Link had included Kushan units in its army when it marched from the Punjab. Even idiot Rajputs should have understood that much.
Even idiot teenage Rajputs.
"They're still young," muttered old Jaisal. "Young men don't think of these things."
Belisarius squelched his irritation. It would be purely stupid to offend the Rajputs who constituted almost his entire army, after all.
"Well, there was no harm done, apparently. The Kushans fled the scene as soon as contact was made and"—he cleared his throat, as diplomatically as possible—"the Rajput cavalrymen immediately began firing on them."
That fact was interesting, in and of itself. Under normal circumstances, Kushans were quite belligerent enough to have responded to the initial Rajput bow fire by attacking them. Especially since, by all accounts—those of the Rajputs as well as the Arab scouts—the Kushans had outnumbered the Rajput cavalry unit.
Abbu put his thoughts into words. "They were expecting us, General. Only possible answer."
"Yes." Belisarius scratched his chin. "I'm almost sure that means Kungas himself is here. He must have gambled that Maurice could keep the main Malwa army pinned in the south Punjab, while he marched into the Ganges plain to attack Link's army."
"Bold man!"
Belisarius smiled. "Well, yes. A timid fellow would hardly have marched across Central Asia in the middle of the world's greatest war to set up a new kingdom. With a new Greek bookworm wife, to boot."
Abbu had met Irene. "Crazy man," he muttered, his scowl returning.
Belisarius swiveled in the saddle to face Dasal and the other Rajput kings. "Can you keep your men under control? I have got to establish contact with the Kushans—and, as Abbu says, I don't need to start a new war with my allies."
All the Rajput kings had the grace to look embarrassed for a moment. They didn't answer immediately, however, Belisarius noted.
He wasn't surprised. Their smashing victory over the Mathura garrison had filled the young Rajput warriors with elation so great it bordered on heedlessness and reckless arrogance. Inexperienced to begin with, they were in no mood to listen to the lectures of old kings concerning the danger of accidentally fighting allies in the middle of a turbulent campaign of marches and countermarches. "Friendly fire," as a future world would call it, was not something a nineteen-year-old Rajput cavalryman gave much thought to when he woke up in the morning. Or at any time of the day or night.
"Right." Belisarius swiveled again and brought Jaimal and Udai Singh under his gaze.
"Can you manage it?"
Jaimal smiled thinly. "Oh, yes, General Belisarius." He gave the old kings a sly look. "Our men are real veterans."
"But there are only fifty of us," cautioned Udai Singh.
"That should be enough," Belisarius said. "I'll send Abbu and some of his scouts with you, along with a few of my cataphracts. All we need to do, for the moment, is make contact with the Kushans. Set up a time and place where Kungas and I can meet—assuming I'm right, and he's here. If not, whoever their commander is."
Sanga's two lieutenants trotted off, with Abbu and Stylian trailing behind. Belisarius could rely on Stylian to select level-headed cataphracts for the business. In the meantime, he had a different problem to deal with.
"I'm still guessing," he said to the kings, "but I'm pretty sure Kungas will have most of his army on the north bank of the Ganges. It's what I would do in his place. Keep Sati from crossing the river and using it as a shield between us and her."
Faced with a straightforward tactical issue, the kings were more at ease.
"Agreed," said Dasal. "Which means—until we can establish liaison—we should stay on this side."
"This side, and east of here," his younger brother grunted. "Resume the burning. Turn everything for twenty miles to the east into a wasteland. The Malwa will be stranded."
"The young men will complain," complained Chachu.
Dasal's frown might have been envied by Jove. "The young men will do as they are told."
The young Rajput warriors complained. Bitterly.
They also did as they were told.
By the time Jaimal and Udai and Abbu returned, the sky east of Sati's army was filled with smoke.
"It's Kungas," Jaimal said. "He recommends you meet at a fishing village—what used to be a fishing village—five miles upstream from the Malwa army."
Udai grinned. "He promises not to shoot you, if you have your hair in a topknot. Otherwise he may not be able to control his men. He says most of them are only ten years old. Heedless and careless."
Belisarius returned the grin. "I'd look silly in a topknot. I'll take my chances."
Stylian was frowning, however. "Only five miles from the enemy? That seems . . ."
Abbu was already shaking his head. "No need to worry. That Malwa army is not moving at all, any longer. Just sitting there, baking in the garam sun."
"Kungas says Sati had her elephants butchered, two days ago," added Jaimal. "The beasts were getting out of control—and, by now, they probably needed the meat, anyway. He thinks that army is getting pretty desperate."
The word "desperate" could have been applied to the soldiers of Link's army, well enough, but not to the cyborg itself. True, it had come to the conclusion that the position of its army was hopeless. But, in the odd way that its mind worked, that knowledge brought nothing more than what a human might have called "relief."
Not that either, really, since Link knew no emotions. Still, the other side of hopelessness was that decisions became very simple. If nothing else, rest from labor was at hand.
In a few hours, at least. Link still had to work through human instruments, and those flawed creatures always had their own needs. Which, at times, had to be respected.
So, with its inhuman patience, Link observed silently as the special priests and assassins in its chaundoli began their rituals.
It might even be said to do so with satisfaction. At least that part of the new gods' plan had worked properly. The cult fostered over a century earlier in the Khmer lands had served its purpose well. Link could rely on those priests and assassins to do what was needed.
If not, unfortunately, as quickly as it would have liked. But half a day's delay should not matter. Even if, as Link was assuming, Damodara had seized the big guns at Mathura, it would still take weeks before they could begin crumbling the walls of Kausambi.
Damodara's estimate was considerably more pessimistic.
"At least two months," he grumbled, watching the great cannons as they belched fire at the walls of Kausambi. Half of them missed entirely. The bores on those giant but crude siege guns were very sloppy. The huge stone balls that did strike the walls seemed to have no more effect than so many pebbles.
"If we're lucky," he added sourly.
But Rana Sanga barely heard him, and paid no attention to the guns at all. The Rajput king had entered that peculiar mental zone he usually entered before a great battle. A strange combination of serenity and fierce anticipation—the first, serving as a dam for the pent-up waters of the second.
When the time came—very soon, Sanga thought—the dam would break.
No, would shatter. Pouring out in that flood would be the greatest ride of his life, followed by his greatest battle.
"Months!" Damodara snarled.
"Yes, Lord," said Sanga, absently. He didn't even notice that he used the old appellation for Damodara, instead of the new "Your Majesty."
Neither did Damodara.
"I'm nervous," said Tarun. "What if I do it wrong? Are you sure—"
"Don't be silly," Rajiv assured the young stable-boy. He held up the fuse, pinched between thumb and forefinger. "What's to go wrong? You've got a pocket full of matches. Just light this and take shelter."
Dubiously, Tarun brought out one of the matches in his pocket and studied it.
"What if—?"
Trying not to let his exasperation show, Rajiv plucked the match from Tarun's hand and struck it against one of the stones in the stable floor. The match flared up very nicely, with its usual acrid fumes.
"Specially made," he said forcefully. "By the best apothecary in Kausambi."
Honesty forced him to add: "Well . . . The best in this quarter, anyway. He's probably just as good as any in the imperial palace, though."
That was true enough, but it brought up another thing for Tarun to fret over.
"What if he betrays us? Matches are unusual things. What if he starts wondering—"
Squatting a few feet away, Valentinian laughed softly. "Weren't you just telling us yesterday that nobody is paying attention to the soldiers any more? Even the soldiers themselves?"
"They've even slacked off the digging," Anastasius added. "Good thing, too, as close as they were getting."
Never comfortable for very long in a squat, the huge cataphract rose to his feet. It was an ungainly movement, not because Anastasius was uncoordinated—which he certainly wasn't, for a man his size—but simply because the size itself created certain physical realities. A rhinoceros is ungainly also, rising to its feet. Not ungainly, however, in the charge that follows.
"Relax, boy. By now, Skandagupta has over a thousand corpses or heads decorating the walls of his palace. He's become a maniac, and everyone in the city knows it. Nobody in his right mind wants to get anywhere near him—or his police. That apothecary will do what everyone else is trying their best to do, these days. Mind his own business and hope he survives whatever's coming."
It was true enough, and Tarun knew it as well as anyone else in the stable. The soldiers and laborers engaged in digging up the area looking for the hideaways had been slacking off, for at least a week. "Slacking off," at least, in the sense of not getting much done that was of any use. To be sure, they managed to look as if they were working frenziedly. But most of it was make-work; literally, moving soil and rubble back and forth from one hole or pile to another.
You could hardly blame them. Every time they'd uncovered something, whoever was in charge wound up getting beheaded or impaled. Over time, of course, reports of no progress at all would be met with equal punishment. But that took more time than success.
By this point, in besieged Kausambi, most people were simply buying time.
Not everyone.
Lady Damodara appeared in the stall. "Ajatasutra's back. He wants to know—"
"How soon?" asked the assassin himself, coming right behind her. "Inquiring emperors want to know."
Valentinian grinned, mirthlessly. "Now that you're here, how's tomorrow morning sound?"
Tarun gulped.
"You'll do fine," Rajiv assured him. "But you'd better leave now. It's a big city and you've got a ways to go. And you need to be in place before sunrise."
"It's dark outside," Tarun protested.
"Of course it is," said Valentinian. "That's the plan. Now, go."
Tarun made no further protest. Whatever else he might be worried about was merely a possibility, involving someone else or something else at some other place and time.
Valentinian was here and now. Tarun went.
Belisarius wasn't really worried about any Malwa patrols sent out by Link. Where Belisarius had twenty thousand cavalrymen and Kungas had fifteen thousand dragoons, the monster had had only had three thousand cavalry to begin with. Far fewer than that, now, between the casualties they'd suffered in various clashes and—the crudest factor of all—the fact that they were now beginning to butcher their horses for the meat.
Still, he saw no reason to take chances. So, he made the rendezvous with Kungas well before daybreak.
The Kushan king was waiting for him, in one of the few huts in the small village that had escaped the Rajputs' arson. He was squatting on the dirt floor, with a bottle of rice wine and two cups.
"Nice to see you again," he said, pouring Belisarius a drink. "I'd worry about you getting drunk, except you can drink like a fish and this stuff's so thin it doesn't matter anyway. Best I could find."
Smiling, Belisarius squatted and took the cup. "I'm delighted to see you—and surprised. You took a mighty gamble, coming here from the Hindu Kush."
Kungas made the little shoulder twitch that did him for a shrug. "I figured you'd be here, somewhere. And since I'm a Kushan king, I need to prove I'm a great gambler or I'll soon enough have people muttering that I'm unfit to rule. Most of all, though, I want to see that bitch finally dead."
Belisarius swallowed the wine in one gulp. It was not a big gulp, however, since it was a very small cup.
Just as well. The stuff was wretched as well as thin. Exactly the sort of wine you'd expect to find in a poor fishing village.
The face he made, though, was not due to the wine.
"Then I hate to say this, but you're in for a big disappointment. The one thing we're not going to do is kill Great Lady Sati."
Kungas' eyes widened slightly. In his minimalist manner, that signified astonishment.
"Why in the world not?" Accusingly, almost plaintively, he added: "You killed her predecessor, didn't you?"
"Yes, I did. And I will say that few things in my life gave me more satisfaction than seeing Great Lady Holi die. But that was another place, another time, and under different circumstances. Here, and now, we want Sati simply isolated—but still alive."
He set the cup down on the floor. "That was a battle. This is the battle. More accurately, this is a holding action while the final battle is fought elsewhere, by Damodara."
Kungas tugged at his wisp of a goatee. "Um. You're gambling yourself."
"Yes and no. I'm not gambling—well, not much of a gamble—that Damodara will have reached Kausambi by now. What I'm gambling is simply that it will take him some time to break into the city. I've seen those defenses. Nothing in the world matches them, except possibly the ancient fortifications at Babylon."
The Kushan king's beard-tugging became more vigorous. "Damnation, Belisarius . . ."
The Roman general just waited, patiently. The best way to persuade Kungas of anything was to let him persuade himself. Beneath that impassive exterior, the Kushan was as smart as anyone Belisarius had ever known—and he was privy to all the secrets of Link's methods of rule. Belisarius had briefed Kungas and Irene extensively on the matter, before they left Constantinople on their great expedition to the Hindu Kush.
"Damnation," Kungas repeated. But the word, this time, was simply said fatalistically.
Belisarius waited. The Kushan's hand fell from the beard.
"All right. I understand the logic. As long as the bitch is alive, Link is locked into her body. Here—not in Kausambi. The minute she dies, Link will assume a new sheath. This new one in the imperial palace, so it will be able to take direct command of Kausambi's defenses. Instead of Skandagupta, whom no one in his right mind has ever considered a military genius. Or even a very competent emperor."
"Exactly."
"Who?" Kungas wondered. "And how many sheaths does that monster have at its disposal?"
Good question. Aide?
Belisarius could sense the jewel's hesitation. Not sure. It's complicated.
Try to explain, as best you can. We need to know.
After a moment, Aide said: It's not easy for it. Link, I mean. First of all, the sheath has to be female—never mind why—and, second of all, it has to be in the line of the dynastic clan. That's because . . . well, never mind that, either. Just take my word for it. There's a critical genetic component to the process. Several, in fact. Close blood relations are important.
Belisarius nodded. To Kungas, he said: "Aide's explaining it to me. Give us a moment."
Third, the sheath itself has to be individually suitable. Not every girl is. Most aren't, in fact—and there are only a small number to choose from in the first place, being restricted to the female offspring of the dynastic clan. She has to be . . . The word won't mean anything to you, but it's something the future will call "autism." It's a pretty rare medical condition. Not very many children suffer from it.
Belisarius didn't bother asking Aide to explain the terms. Some day, he would, but there wasn't the need for it now, or the time available.
He did purse his lips with distaste. Contempt, rather. That was absolutely typical of the methods of the "new gods" who claimed to be humanity's true future. They would not only use innocent children as the vessels for their rule, but would choose ones already damaged and even less able to protect themselves.
I see. The Malwa dynastic clan is a big one, but still . . .
There'd only be one available every few years. It would vary, of course. The long span of years between Holi's age and Sati's would have been unusual. Even so, I doubt if Link has more than two—maybe three—sheaths available. Not even that, really, because they need years of training in addition to everything else. The moment of transition—possession, if you will—is pretty traumatic. If the girl isn't thoroughly prepared for it, she'll simply die.
A thought came to Belisarius. If that's so . . . What if the new sheath is very young? It might actually be smarter . . .
He shook his head. "No, that's too much of a gamble."
Kungas twisted his head, quizzically. Belisarius explained: "There can't be many sheaths. Maybe only one—and she might very well still be a young girl. If so . . ."
He almost laughed, seeing the suddenly fierce expression on the Kushan's face.
"Tempting, isn't it, Kungas? What happens if the Malwa empire is suddenly ruled by a child? Will anyone—even Skandagupta—really listen to her?"
After a moment, Kungas expelled his breath. "No. As you say, too much of a gamble—even for a Kushan. What if she isn't? Sati was in her prime, after all, when she became the new Link."
What was too much of a gamble, even for a Kushan king, was not for a cyborg.
Not, at least, for this cyborg. Kungas and Belisarius had options. Link no longer did.
The Khmer had finished their rituals.
"Now," the thing known as Great Lady Sati commanded.
Expertly, the assassin standing behind her drove his dagger into Sati's spinal column. Just as expertly, the assassin standing before her drove his blade into her heart.
As her body slumped, a third assassin stepped forward and—with the same expertise—slit her throat from ear to ear.
A priest was there with a large bowl, to catch the sacred fluid. There was little spillage, since the goddess' heart was no longer beating.
That was good, because the blood was needed for the remaining rituals.
Those rituals done, the assassins slew all the priests but one. Then, slew themselves.
Being careful, even at the end, to keep the gore as minimal as possible.
That was not because of the needs of the rituals; which, to the contrary, normally put the gore to extensive use. But the goddess had ordered it all done quietly and economically.
Following the usual rituals would have permeated the chaundoli with a stench that the soldiers outside would have noticed almost immediately. As it was, in the heat of garam, they would notice it soon enough. Link wanted this army intact as long as possible, to keep Belisarius distracted.
The sole surviving priest remained at his duty. Simply sitting by the door to the chaundoli, that he might tell inquiring officers that the Great Lady was asleep and had given orders not to be disturbed.
In the special quarters far below the imperial palace at Kausambi, the eight-year-old girl known as Rani lay motionless and empty-eyed on the floor of her chamber. Her special Khmer attendants were deeply concerned, but could do nothing.
The sacred transference had happened, they knew. But it had happened much sooner than any of them had expected, including the girl herself.
She would survive, they decided. Beyond that, other than providing her with a cloth soaked in water to sip, they could only wait.
Tarun was too nervous to wait any longer. He'd gotten to the place Rajiv and he had picked long before he really needed to. It was an isolated corner in the maze of an outdoor bazaar not far from Kausambi's northernmost gate. At this time of night, the stalls were all closed and barred.
No one paid any attention to a twelve-year-old boy huddled in the darkness. There were many such in the city. A thief might have noticed the wrapped bundle beneath the boy's ragged cloak, but even if he had he would most likely have done nothing. What of any value could such a ragamuffin possess?
Still, the two hours Tarun waited seemed interminable to the stable-keeper's son. So, when he saw the first faint sign of dawn in the sky above, he rose and drew forth the signal rockets. There were three of them, in case of a misfire.
Nervous as he was, Tarun fumbled none of the tasks involved. Within seconds, one of the rockets was propped against the simple bamboo frame that held it erect, pointing at the sky. He lit the match, struck the fuse, and hurried to the other side of the stall.
He was even disciplined enough to remain there, the final seconds. If the rocket misfired, he'd retrieve the bamboo frame to use for a second.
For a wonder, nothing went wrong. The rocket didn't misfire, and it didn't blow up. It soared hundreds of yards into the dark sky above Kausambi.
It even exploded when it was supposed to. A great, bright yellow light shone over the city.
Tarun didn't spend any time admiring the sight, however. He just dropped the remaining rockets and hurried off. What would happen, would happen. He'd done his part and now simply wanted to get back to his family.
Few of the city's inhabitants ever saw the wondrous sight, for its people were mostly asleep.
The soldiers standing guard saw, of course, and raced to bring the news to their officers. Something is happening at the northern gate!
Valentinian and Anastasius and Ajatasutra and Tarun and their three Ye-tai mercenaries saw it also, of course. They arose from their own hiding place not far from the city's southern gate.
More precisely, Anastasius and Rajiv arose. The others remained in the small wagon, hidden from sight below a thin bamboo grate that held the produce which apparently filled the wagon's entire bed.
Anastasius seized the handles of the wagon, hauled it into the street, and began plodding toward the gate some fifty yards away. Rajiv walked beside him, dressed as a merchant's son. Clearly enough, the scion of a prosperous family assigned to oversee a strong but dimwitted laborer in his work.
"Why does the big guy always get stuck with these jobs?" complained Anastasius.
"Shut up," came Valentinian's voice from under the wagon's load. "You're not only as big as an ox, you look like one. Be thankful I didn't give Rajiv a whip."
Rana Sanga saw it also. And the dam shattered.
He was on his horse and charging out of the lines within a minute, with ten thousand Rajputs following.
Only Rajputs, and only half of those. Damodara would use the other half, and the Ye-tai and the kshatriya, for whatever else was needed. But this charge, the emperor knew, belonged to Rana Sanga alone.
There would be nothing imperial about it, really. Just the nation of the Rajputs, finally and truly regaining its soul.
"For the glory of Rajputana!" Sanga called, his lance and its pennant on high, in a piercing voice that was half a bellow and half a shriek.
"RAJPUTANA!" came the response from ten thousand throats.
The Malwa soldiers on the southern wall of the city did not understand what was happening. They knew only three things.
One, most of the garrison had been ordered to the northern gate.
Two, a flood—a torrent—a tidal bore of Rajput lances was pouring past them on the ground beyond the walls.
Going where?
Who could say?
They only knew the third thing. Those lances looked as sharp as the sound of the Rajput battle cry.
"Shit," said one of them.
"What are we going to do?" asked his mate in the squad.
"Don't be an idiot. Try to stay alive, what else? Do you care who the emperor is?"
"Well. No."