Sizing up the situation, Belisarius summoned the hostel proprietor. He dipped into his diminishing funds and paid for another room. For himself, alone. He was about to request the services of a laundress, when one of the Kushan women offered to clean his clothes. She seemed surprised when he spoke Kushan, but relieved. Especially after she realized the nature of the stains which discolored the tunic.
For a moment, there, things got tense. The three women suddenly realized that one of these foreigners was apparently a murderer, or an assassin, or—
But Belisarius explained the circumstances, again in Kushan, and the cataphracts smiled encouragingly (which, in the case of Valentinian, didn’t help at all; a weasel’s grin is not reassuring), and—
Their pimps weren’t much different from murderers, anyway. So, they stayed. And Belisarius got his tunic cleaned and, in his own room, even managed to get some sleep.
Venandakatra, on the other hand, got little sleep that night. Not after hearing his spy’s report.
After the spy left, the Indian lord spent a few minutes venting his frustration and anger on the concubine who had the misfortune of sharing his bed that night. Then, pacing about in the room, recast his plans.
He was not completely surprised, of course. He had not shared his spy’s sanguine certainty of success. Unlike his lord, the spy had never witnessed Belisarius in combat.
Still, Venandakatra had hoped. It had been a well-planned ambush.
Briefly, he considered another assassination attempt. But he dismissed the thought. Not even professional assassins would suffice, now. Belisarius was sure to be accompanied by his cataphracts, henceforth, probably in full armor. Malwa assassins were skilled, true. But the subtle skills of assassins were no match for armed and ready cataphracts. Not those cataphracts, for a certainty.
The only remaining alternative was an actual military operation, using Rajputs or Ye-tai. With enough numbers, such an assault would succeed. But there would be no way to disguise such an attack as anything other than what it was. The Malwa emperor was not ready, yet, to declare open hostilities against Rome. A pretense of friendship, or at least, neutrality, was necessary until—
His thoughts were interrupted by the girl’s sobbing. Enraged, Venandakatra beat her into a whimpering half-silence. It took a while, for he was not a strong man. But he didn’t mind the time spent. Not in the slightest.
When he finally returned to his considerations, he was exhausted. Glumly, he reconciled himself to Belisarius’ survival.
Perhaps it was all for the best, mused Venandakatra. He had almost canceled the planned assassination, in any event. There had been those indications, in Belisarius’ conversation aboard ship, of a man resentful of his treatment at the hands of the Roman emperor. Slight indications, to be sure, nothing more than subtle tones of bitterness and the trace of discontent in a few phrases. Still—Venandakatra decided they were worth pursuing.
The Indian lord even smiled then. There was this much satisfaction to be had, after all: Belisarius relished tales of debauchery, and told quite good ones himself. So, in the long weeks of the journey into the interior, Venandakatra would at least enjoy his conversation. Just as he had aboard the ship.
Memories of those conversations turned his thoughts toward the delightful news he had received upon embarking. The Princess Shakuntala herself! A gift from the Emperor, awaiting him in his own palace.
Venandakatra had heard tales of the girl’s beauty. A pity, of course, that she was seventeen. He preferred his concubines much younger. (The one he had just beaten was twelve.) But—best of all, she was the prize of Andhra. Venandakatra detested the southerners. Marathas especially, the surly dogs. Shakuntala was not Maratha, but she was their princess nonetheless. In mounting her, he would be subjugating that entire polluted people.
His thoughts enflamed him. He eyed the dazed and bleeding girl on his bed. He considered summoning the chamberlain to bring another concubine, but dismissed the thought almost at once. To the contrary—this one would do marvelously.
Chapter 19
“So, they are not warships?”
Garmat shrugged. “They could serve as such, Belisarius. Poorly, however, except as rocket ships.” The adviser began a technical discourse, but Belisarius shook his head.