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 an 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.
What do you mean?
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 feel 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 us 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 faction 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.
Don't look, said Aide.
No. I must.
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.
The girl was gagged, too.
Don't listen to it.
No, I must.
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.
The gag came off.
"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.
Were any other girls found?
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.
Nothing.
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.
Will it . . .
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."
"Sure, General."
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.
"Thank you."
"My pleasure."
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.
What are you talking about?
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.
Aide looked . . .
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.