Once over the tent pole, the Romans found themselves in a clear space. They had reached the center of the pavilion. The four tent poles which were still standing held the canopy aloft, sagging, but still some fifteen feet above the ground. The area was dim, lit only by the sunlight which filtered its way through gashes in the fabric of the pavilion.
The moans and shrieks from the battlefield seemed softer, now. And the Romans encountered live men, for the first time since they entered the pavilion. Ye-tai bodyguards, live-and alert. Eight Ye-tai, seeing the Romans, glared and began circling them. The bared swords in their hands were covered with blood.
Belisarius began to speak, but a harsh voice intervened.
Rana Sanga's voice: "Stop! They are Romans. Guests of the emperor."
A moment later, the Rajput kinglet emerged out of the gloom and strode between the Romans and Ye-tai. He himself was literally covered with gore, from the blood soaking his beard to his squelching boots. But no one who saw that majestic figure of a man could doubt for an instant that none of the blood was his.
Sanga faced down the Ye-tai, raising his sword. The sword, like the man, was blood-soaked.
"Put down your swords!" he roared. "Or I will butcher you myself!"
Ye-tai, whatever their other faults, were not prone to cowardice. But, faced with Sanga, they cowered like jackals before a tiger.
Sanga did not bother to sneer. He turned and bowed to the Romans. He swept his sword in a gesture of welcome. The politesse of the act was almost comical, in a grisly way, for the sweep of his sword left a little arc of blood and gore in its wake.
"Welcome, Belisarius." He transferred the sword to his left hand-his scabbard was useless; shattered and splintered-and stepped forward, holding out his right. "And I give you my thanks-our thanks. I saw the counter-charge. It is all that saved us."
There was no mistaking the genuine warmth in that handclasp. Nor the warmth in the two pair of dark eyes which gazed at each other-a level gaze, for they were both tall men. But Belisarius, meeting Sanga's gaze closely, also understood the question in those eyes.
"I, too, swore an oath," he said softly. Sanga frowned.
"To another emperor." The Roman's voice was almost a whisper.
The Rajput's frown of puzzlement vanished, replaced by understanding. Belisarius almost regretted his words, then, for he knew that he had given too much away. Sanga, he was sure, did not understand why Belisarius had done what he had done. But, he was also sure, the Rajput understood him perfectly. And there was nothing to be feared so much as an enemy who understood you.
For a moment, the two enemies of the future stared at each other. Then Sanga's lips curled in a manner which, to the cataphracts who watched, was astonishingly akin to their own general's crooked smile.
"So," murmured Sanga, in a voice so low that only Belisarius could hear him. "It is always said, in Lord Venandakatra's defense, that he is nobody's fool. His only saving grace, it is said." The Rajput's smile deepened. "It seems the great lord lacks that grace also, after all."
Belisarius said nothing. A slight shrug, a little cock of the eyebrow, his own crooked smile.
Sanga turned away. "Would you like to meet the Emperor?" he asked. "I do not think the courtiers will object, now. They could hardly refuse an audience to the man who saved their necks."
Belisarius followed the Rajput into a small nook in the pavilion, formed by a hastily erected barricade of furniture and statuary. The nook was very dark. Little sunlight reached into it. But Belisarius could see a middle-aged man huddled on the floor, short and rather corpulent, dressed in rich silk robes, surrounded by other men who were of a similar age and dress. One of them was Lord Venandakatra. The Vile One's face was almost unrecognizeable. The feral intelligence was utterly absent, replaced by half-mindless terror.
"You must forgive the Emperor's posture," murmured Sanga. "I had to use his throne as part of the barricade."
The Rajput strode forward. The Emperor and his courtiers stared up at him. Beneath the dusky Indian complexions, their faces were pallid and drawn.
"Your Majesty, may I present General Belisarius, the envoy from Rome. We owe our lives to him. He organized the counter-attack which broke the rebels."
Aide's voice, then, as sharp and steely in Belisarius' mind as a sword.
You must look into his eyes. I must see the Emperor's eyes.
Belisarius stepped forward, went down to his knees, prostrated himself before the Malwa emperor. Then, looking up, stared directly into Skandagupta's eyes from a distance of two feet.
Small eyes, close set, dark brown. Slightly unfocussed, as if the mind behind them was in shock. Which, Belisarius thought, it was. Never before, he suspected, had the great Emperor of Malwa stared death so closely in the face.
Beyond that, Belisarius saw nothing.
A moment later, Aide passed its own judgment, cold and indifferent:
Nothing. Link is not here. This is nothing but an emperor.
It was all Belisarius could do to keep from laughing.
Chapter 6
"They're animals," snarled Menander.
The young cataphract had a naturally light complexion. That skin color, along with his tawny hair and blue eyes, was the product of the Gothic blood which flowed through his veins, as it did through that of many Thracians. Now, his color was not light. It was pure white. From nausea, partly. But mostly, thought Belisarius, from sheer rage.
"They're even killing the children. Babies."
Unlike Menander, the general's complexion retained its natural light olive shade. He could not help hearing the sounds of the massacre, even from the distance of a mile. And although-unlike Menander, drawn by horrified curiosity-the general had not gone to witness the butchery of Ranapur, he had no difficulty imagining the scene. He, like his veterans, had seen it before. Seen it more than once, in fact, if never on such a scale.
The four Romans were standing in an isolated little group just outside the entrance to the Malwa Emperor's pavilion. His new pavilion, hastily erected during the four days while Ranapur was sacked.
The sack was almost over, now. Not from any sudden mercy on the part of the Malwa, but simply because they had already slaughtered almost everyone in the city. Even, as Menander said, down to the babes.
Today was the fifth day since the Malwa had finally broken through the city's defenses. The successful assault had come the very morning after Belisarius and his men had helped defeat the rebel sally. That sally had been Ranapur's last gasp.
"It's our fault," whispered Menander.
Belisarius placed a gentle hand on the cataphract's shoulder.
"Yes and no, Menander. Even if the rebels had killed the Emperor, Ranapur would still have fallen. A few weeks later, perhaps, but Skandagupta's successor would have seen to it."
His words obviously brought no relief. Sighing faintly, Belisarius turned the young cataphract to face him. The boy's eyes were downcast.
"Look at me, Menander," he commanded. Reluctantly, the cataphract raised his head. Belisarius found it hard not to flinch from the bitter, unspoken reproach in those young eyes.
"If there is fault here, Menander, it is mine, not yours. I am your general, and I gave the command."
Menander tightened his jaw, looked aside.
From behind, Valentinian interjected himself harshly.
"That's pure bullshit, sir, if you'll pardon my saying so. You didn't order this."
The veteran started to add something, but Belisarius waved him down.