Sanga bellowed inarticulate fury. The Rajput shied away.
Sanga planted his sword tip in the ground-carefully, making sure there were no stones to dull the blade-and leaned upon it. After gasping a few more breaths, he pointed at Valentinian.
"Give the man water," he commanded. "Wine, if he prefers." The Rajput king studied his opponent, for a few seconds. Valentinian was still breathing deeply, and leaning on his own sword, but Sanga saw that he was no longer gasping.
"And bring us food and cushions," added Sanga. He smiled, quite cheerfully. "I think we're going to need them."
For the next few minutes, while Sanga and Valentinian rested, the Rajputs organized the necessities. A dozen Rajputs clustered around Sanga. Four began moving toward Valentinian, after lowering their weapons. One of them carried a winesack; another, a skin full of water; the third, a rolled-up blanket to serve Valentinian as a cushion whenever he rested; the fourth, some dry bread and cheese.
Sanga nodded toward them, while keeping his eyes on Valentinian. " They will assist you," he called out to the Roman. "Anything you need."
Sanga straightened. "You may surrender, of course. At any time."
For a moment, Valentinian almost gave his natural response-fuck you, asshole!-but restrained the impulse. He simply shook his head. A gesture which, at the end, turned into a little bow. Even Valentinian, hardbitten and cynical as he was, could sense the gathering glory.
In the hours which followed, as a lowborn Roman cataphract fought his way into India's legends, the man's mind wondered at his actions.
Why are you doing this, you damned fool?
All his life, Valentinian had been feared by other men. Feared for his astonishing quickness, his reflexes, his uncanny eye-most of all, for his instant capacity to murder. Precious few men, in truth, can kill at the drop of a hat. Valentinian, since the age of ten, could do it before the hat was touched.
And so men feared him. And found, in his whipcord shape and narrow face, the human image of a vicious predator.
Because I'm tired of being called a weasel, came the soul's reply.
The end came suddenly, awkwardly, unexpectedly-almost casually. As it usually does, in the real world. The bards and poets, of course, would have centuries to clean it up.
Sanga's foot slipped, skidding on a loose pebble. For a moment, catching his balance, his shield swung aside. Valentinian, seeing his opening, swung for the Rajput's exposed leg. No Herculean stroke, just Valentinian's usual economic slice. The quick blade cut deeply into Sanga's thigh.
The Rajput fell to one knee, crying out in pain. Pain-and despair. His leg was already covered with blood. It was not the bright, crimson spurting of arterial blood, true, but it was enough. That wound would slay him within half an hour, from blood loss alone. Sooner, really. Within minutes, pain and weakness would cripple him enough for his enemy to make the kill.
Then All other men, watching or hearing of that battle in years to come, would always assume that Valentinian made his only mistake.
But the truth was quite otherwise. For hours, Valentinian had avoided matching strength with Sanga. He had countered the king's astonishing power with speed, instead. Speed, cunning, and experience. He could have-shouldhave-ended the battle so. Circling the Rajput, probing, slashing, bleeding him further, staying away from that incredible strength, until his opponent was so weak that the quick death thrust could be driven home. Killing a king, like a wolf brings down a crippled bull. Like a weasel kills.
Something inside the man, buried deep, rebelled. For the first time since the battle began-for the first time in his life, truth be told-Valentinian swung a heroic blow. A mighty overhand strike at the Rajput's head.
Sanga threw up his sword, crosswise, to block the cut. Valentinian's sword, descending with the power of his own great strength, met a blade held in Rajputana's mightiest hand.
The finest steel in the world was made in India. The impact snapped the Roman sword in half, leaving not more than a six-inch stub in Valentinian's fist.
Six inches can still be enough, in a knife fight. Valentinian never hesitated. Weasel-quick, he flung himself to his own knee and drove the sword stub at Sanga's throat.
The Rajput king managed to lower his helmet in time. The blade glanced off the noseguard and ripped a great tear in Sanga's cheek. More blood gushed forth.
It was not enough. No cry of despair escaped his lips, but Valentinian knew he was finished. Facing each other at close distance, both on their knees, the advantage now was all Sanga's.
Sanga was never one for hesitation himself. Instantly, the Rajput king swung a blow. Valentinian interposed his shield. The shield cracked. Another blow. The shield broke. Another blow, to the head, knocked the Roman's helmet askew. The final blow, again to the helmet, split the segmented steel and sent Valentinian sprawling to the ground. Senseless, at the very least. Probably dead, judging from the blood which began pouring through the sundered pieces of the Spangenhelm.
Sanga raised his arm, to sever Valentinian's neck. But he stopped the motion, even before the sword finished its ascent.
He had won a glorious victory, this day. He would not stain it with an executioner's stroke.
Sanga sagged back on his heels. In a daze, he stared up at the sky. It was sunset, and the mountains were bathed in purple majesty. Around him, vaguely, he heard thunderous cheers coming from thousands of Rajput throats. And, seconds later, felt hands laying him down and beginning to bind his wounds.
A glorious victory. He had not felt this clean-this Rajput purefor many years. Not since the day he fought Raghunath Rao, and first entered himself into Indian legend.
In the river valley below, the Romans also heard the cheer. The mountains seemed to ring with the sound.
Maurice lowered the telescope. "That's it," he said softly.
Belisarius took a deep breath. Then, turning to Coutzes: "Send a courier, under banner of truce. I want to know if Valentinian's dead, so that the priests can do the rites."
"And if he's alive?" asked Coutzes.
"See if they'll accept a ransom." Belisarius' crooked smile made a brief appearance. "Not that I think I could afford it, even as rich as I am. Not unless Damodara's truly lost his mind."
"Not for all the gold in Rome," was Damodara's instant reply. "Do I look like a madman?"
When Coutzes brought back the news, Belisarius lowered his head. But his heart, for the first time in hours, soared to the heavens.
"He might still die," cautioned Coutzes. "They say he's lost a lot of blood. And his skull's broken."
Anastasius snorted. So did Maurice.
"Not Valentinian," said Belisarius. He lifted his head, smiling as broadly as he ever had in his life. "Notmy champion. Not that great, roaring, lion of a man."
The following morning, the Malwa army began moving along the river. To the northwest, away from the Romans. Belisarius' army, still holding the fords, made no effort to block them.
Not a single soldier, on either side, thought the matter odd.
"Let's hear it for maneuvers," said a Rajput to a Ye-tai. The barbarian nodded quick agreement.
"God, I love to march," announced a Greek cataphract. His eyes swept the mountains. "Gives us a chance to admire the scenery. For weeks, if we're lucky. Maybe even months."
"Beats staring at your own guts," came a Syrian's response. "Even for a minute."
Chapter 15
Yemen
Spring, 532 A.D.
"It'll be tonight, for sure," stated Menander.
Ashot wobbled his hand back and forth, in a gesture which indicated less certainty. "Maybe. Maybe not."
Menander stood his ground. "It'll be tonight," he repeated confidently. The young cataphract took two steps to the entrance of the field headquarters and pulled back the flap. The Roman army's camp had been set up half a mile east of a small oasis. Menander was staring in that direction, but his eyes were on the horizon rather than the oasis itself.