Those coarse truths, spoken by a man about his own wife, did not seem odd to his enemies in the pavilion. They knew the story—Narses had told them what few details the Malwa espionage service had not already ferreted out. Yet they knew as well, as surely as they knew the sunrise, that the Roman was oblivious to any shame or disgrace. Not because he was ignorant of his wife’s past, but simply because he didn’t care. Any more than a diamond, nestled with a pearl, cares that the pearl was also shaped from waste.
The shadow passed, and sunlight returned. “Yet that boy—that bastard, sired by a prostitute’s customer—has become my own son in truth. As dear to me as if he were born of my own flesh. Why is that, do you think?”
Belisarius stared down at the beauty hidden in his fist. “This too—this monster—has become like a son to me. And why is that, do you think?” When he raised his head, the face of the Roman general was as serene as the moon. “The reason, Lord of Malwa and King of Rajputana, was explained to me by Raghunath Rao. In a vision I had of him, once, dancing to the glory of time. Only the soul matters, in the end. All else is dross.”
Belisarius turned to Rana Sanga. “My wife is a very beautiful woman. Is yours, King of Rajputana?”
Sanga stared at the Roman. Belisarius had never met Sanga’s wife. For a moment, angrily, Sanga wondered if Rome’s spies had—
He shook off the suspicion. Belisarius, he realized, was simply making a shrewd guess. Looking for any angle from which to drive home the lance.
“She is plump and plain-faced,” he said harshly. “Her hair was already gray by the time she was thirty.”
Belisarius nodded. He opened his hand. Beauty reentered the pavilion.
“Would you trade her, then, for my own?”
Sanga’s powerful fingers closed around the hilt of his sword. But, after an instant, the gesture of anger became a simple caress. A man comforted by the feel of an old, familiar, trusted thing. The finest steel in the world was made in India. That steel had saved him, times beyond counting.
“She is my life,” he said softly. “The mother of my children. The joy of my youth and the certainty of my manhood. Just as she will be the comfort of my old age.”
Sanga’s left hand reached up, gingerly stroking the new scar which Valentinian had put on his cheek. The scar was still angry-looking, in its freshness, but even after it faded Sanga’s face would remain disfigured. He had been a handsome man, once. No longer.
“Assuming, of course, that I reach old age,” he said, smiling ruefully. “And that my wife doesn’t flee in terror, when she sees the ogre coming through her door.”
Again, for a moment, the fingers of his right hand clenched the sword hilt. Powerful fingers. Sanga’s smile vanished.
“I would not trade her for a goddess.” The words were as steely as his blade.
“I didn’t think so,” murmured Belisarius. He slipped Aide back into his pouch, and refastened the tunic.
“I didn’t think so,” he repeated. He rose, and bowed to Damodara. “Our business is finished, I believe.”
Belisarius was a tall man. Not as tall as Sanga, but tall enough to loom over Damodara like a giant. He was a big man, too. Not as powerful as Sanga, to be sure, but a far more impressive figure than the short and pudgy Malwa lord sitting on a cushion before him.
It mattered not at all. Lord Damodara returned the Roman general’s gaze with the placidity of a Buddha.
“Yes, I believe it is,” he agreed pleasantly. Damodara now rose himself, and bowed to Belisarius. Then, he turned slightly and pointed to Narses. “Except—”
Damodara smiled. The very image of a Buddha.
“You requested that Narses be present. I assume there was a reason.”
Belisarius examined the eunuch. Throughout the parley, Narses had been silent. He remained silent, although he returned Belisarius’ calm gaze with the same glare with which he had first greeted him.
“I would like to speak to Narses alone,” said Belisarius. “With your permission.”