In the Heart of Darkness

The Rajput glanced up, gauging. The sky was clear, and he hoped they had reached the end of the kharif, India's wet season. The kharif was brought by the monsoon in May, and lasted into September. It would be succeeded by the cool, dry season which Indians called rabi. In February, then, the blistering dry heat of garam season would scorch India until the monsoon.

Jaimal echoed his own thoughts:

"Rabi is almost here. Thank God."

Sanga grunted approvingly. Like most Indians, rabi was his favorite season.

"There is no point in looking for tracks," he announced. "But we have one advantage, here in the plain—there are many travelers on the road. They will probably have noticed a single Ye-tai. Anyone Belisarius encountered in his first days of travel will be long gone, by now. But we can hope, in two or three days, to start encountering people who saw him."

"The soldiers in the courier relay stations may have spotted him," commented Udai. "They have nothing else to do except watch the road."

"True," said Sanga. "We can make it to the first relay station by mid-afternoon. Udai may well be right—the soldiers may have spotted him. Let's go!"

"Are you sure it is them?" asked the crouching young warrior, peering down into the ravine.

"Oh, yes," said Rao. "Quite sure. I only met one of them, but he is not the sort of man you forget."

The Maratha chieftain rose from his hiding place behind a boulder. The armored horseman leading the small party through the trail below immediately reined in his horse. Rao was impressed by the speed with which the man unlimbered his bow.

He probably shoots well, too. Let's not find out.

"Ho—Ousanas!" he bellowed. "Do you still maintain the preposterous claim that all appearance is but the manifestation of eternal and everlasting Forms?"

The reply came instantly:

"Of course! You are the living proof yourself, Raghunath Rao, even where you stand. The very Platonic Form of a sight for sore eyes."

The young guerrillas lining the ravine where Rao had set his ambush—friendly ambush, to be sure; but Rao never lost the chance for training his young followers—were goggling.

They were provincials, almost without exception. Poor young villagers, most of whom had never seen any of the world beyond the hills and ridges of the Great Country. The Romans were odd enough, with their ugly bony faces and sick-looking pallid complexions. The Ethiopians and Kushans were even more outlandish. But the other one! A tall half-naked man, black as a cellar in night-time—arguing philosophy with Rao himself!

A maniac. Obvious.

"Oh, Christ," muttered Valentinian, replacing his bow. "Another philosopher. Maniacs, the lot of 'em."

In truth, Valentinian was finding it hard not to goggle himself. Finally, after all these months, he had met the legendary Raghunath Rao. And—

The man was the most ordinary looking fellow he had ever seen! Valentinian had been expecting an Indian version of Achilles.

He studied Rao, now standing atop the boulder some thirty feet away and ten feet up the side of the ravine.

Shortish—by Roman standards, anyway. Average size for a Maratha.Getting a little long in the tooth, too. Must be in his early forties. Well-built, true—no fat on those muscles—but he's no Hercules like Eon. I wonder—

Rao sprang off the boulder and landed lithely on the floor of the ravine ten feet below. Two more quick, bounding steps, and he was standing next to Valentinian's horse. Smiling up at him, extending a hand in welcome.

Mary, Mother of God.

"The Panther of Majarashtra," Valentinian had heard Rao called. He had dismissed the phrase, in the way veterans dismiss all such romantic clap-trap.

"Be polite, Valentinian," he heard Anastasius mutter. "Please. Be polite to that man."

The bodies had been rotting for days, with only two small windows to let air through the thick mudbrick walls. The stench was incredible.

"He's a demon," snarled Udai. "Only a soulless asura would—"

"Would what, Udai?" demanded Sanga.

The Rajput kinglet gestured to the pile of festering corpses.

"Kill enemies? You've done as much yourself."

Udai glared. "Not like this. Not—"

"Not what? Not from ambush? I can remember at least five ambushes which you laid which were every bit as savage as this one."

Udai clamped his lips shut. But he was still glaring furiously.

Sanga restrained his own temper.

"Listen to me, Udai," he grated. Then, his hard eyes sweeping the other Rajputs in the room:

"All of you. Listen. It is time you put this—this Malwa superstition—out of your minds. Or you will never understand the nature of this enemy."