Destiny's Shield

"He told me you were as tricky and quick as a mongoose." Another barking laugh. " `Expect only the unexpected, from that man,' he said. `He adores feints and traps. If he makes an obvious threat, look for the blow to come from elsewhere. If he seems weak, be sure he is strong. Most of all—remember the fate of the arrogant cobra, faced with a mongoose.' "

He laughed again. All the Kushan soldiers standing around shared in that bitter laugh.

"I tried to tell Lord Kumara, when I realized we were facing Roman troops. I was almost sure you would be in command. Lord Kumara is—was—the commander of this expedition."

"Lord Fishbait, now," snarled one of the other Kushans. "And good riddance."

Vasudeva scowled. "Of course, he refused to listen. Fell right into the trap."

Belisarius took a sip from his cup. "And what else did Rana Sanga say about me?"

Again, Vasudeva gave Belisarius that long, lingering look. Still cold. Gauging, assessing. "He said that one thing only is predictable about the man Belisarius. He will be a man of honor. He, too, knows the meaning of vows."

Belisarius waited. Vasudeva tugged the point of his goatee with his fingers. Looked away.

"It's difficult, difficult," he murmured.

Belisarius waited.

Vasudeva sighed. "We will not be broken up, sold as slaves to whichever bidder. We must be kept together."

Belisarius nodded. "Agreed."

"Any labor will be acceptable, except the work of menials. Kushan soldiers are not domestic dogs."

Belisarius nodded. "Agreed."

"No whippings. No beatings of any kind. Execution will be acceptable, in cases of disobedience. But it must be by the sword, or the ax. We are not criminals, to be hung or impaled."

Belisarius nodded. "Agreed."

"Decent food. A bit of wine, now and again."

Belisarius shook his head. "That I cannot promise. I am on campaign, myself, and will be using you for a labor force. My own men may eat poorly, at times, and go without wine. I can only promise that you will eat no worse than they do. And enjoy some wine, if there is any to spare."

From the little murmur which came from the surrounding soldiers, the general knew that his forthright answer had pleased them. He suspected, although he was not sure, that the last question had been Vasudeva's own little trap. The Kushan commander was obviously a seasoned veteran. He would have known, full well, that any other answer would be either a lie or the words of a cocksure and foolhardy man.

"Agreed," said Vasudeva.

Belisarius waited.

Finally, the word came: "Swear."

Belisarius gave his oath. Gave it twice, in fact. Once in the name of his own Christian god. And then, to the Kushans' great surprise, on the name of the Buddha to whom they swore in private, when there were no Mahaveda priests to hear the heresy.

That evening, late at night, Belisarius began his negotiations with the Persians—seated, now, amidst the splendid wreckage of what had once been an emperor's favorite hunting villa.

Here, too, he found the task much easier than anticipated.

Kurush, in the event, was not baying for Kushan blood. After the young sahrdaran heard what Belisarius had to say, he simply poured himself some wine. A noble vintage, this, poured from a sahrdaran's jug into a sahrdaran's gorgeous goblet.

He drank half the goblet in one gulp. Then said, "All right."

Belisarius eyed him. Kurush scowled.

"I'm not saying I like it," he grumbled, "but you gave your word. We Aryans, you know, understand the meaning of vows."

He emptied the goblet in another single gulp. Then, he gestured toward his blood-soaked garments and armor. "Charax has been well enough avenged, for one day."

Growl: "I suppose."

Belisarius let it be. He saw no reason to press Kurush for anything beyond his grudging acceptance.

He did cast a questioning glance at Baresmanas. The older sahrdaran had said nothing, thus far, and it was obvious that he intended to maintain his silence. He simply returned Belisarius' gaze with his own fair imitation of a mask.

No, Baresmanas would say nothing. But Belisarius suspected that the Persian nobleman had already had his say—earlier, to his young and vigorous nephew. Reminding him of a Roman general's mercy at a place called Mindouos. And teaching him—or trying, at least—that mercy can have its own sharp point. Keener than any lance or blade, and even deadlier to the foe.

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Framed

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Chapter 21

THE MALABAR COAST

Summer, 531 A.D.

The refugee camps in Muziris swarmed like anthills. Families gathered up their few belongings and awaited the voyage to the island of Tamraparni. Maratha cavalrymen and Kushan soldiers readied their gear. The great fleet of ships assembling in the harbor cleared their holds. Keralan officials presented chests full of gold and silver, to fund the migration. An empress and her advisers schemed.

And old friends arrived.

In midafternoon of a sunny day—a rarity, that, in southwest India during the monsoon season—five Axumite warships entered the harbor at Muziris.