Now, while Deogiri danced its glee, the Great Country began its new eruption. Dancing, with swift and spreading steps, the new time for Malwa. The time of death, and terror, and desperate struggle.
Malwa’s soldiers already detested service in Majarashtra. From that day forward, they would speak of it in hushed and dreading tones. Much like soldiers of a later army, watching evil spill its intestines, would speak of the Russian Front.
Belisarius had planned, and schemed, and maneuvered, and acted, guided by Aide’s vision of the Peninsular War.
He already had his Peninsular War. Now, he got the Pripet Marshes, and the maquis, and the Warsaw Ghetto, and the mountains cupping Dien Bien Phu, and the streets of Budapest, and every other place in the history of the species where empires, full of their short-memoried arrogance, learned, again, the dance of Time.
* * *
Time, of course, contains all things. Among them is farce.
Shakuntala’s eyes were very wide. The young woman’s face, slack with surprise.
“I thought it would— I don’t know. Take longer.”
Looking down on that loving, confused face from a distance of inches, Rao flushed deep embarrassment.
“I can’t believe it,” he muttered. “I haven’t done that since I was fourteen.”
Awkwardly, he groped for words. “Well,” he fumbled, “well. Well. It should have, actually. Much longer.” He took a breath. How to explain? Halting words followed, speaking of self-discipline too suddenly vanished, excessive eagerness, a dream come true without sufficient emotional preparation, and—and—
When Shakuntala finally understood—which didn’t take long, in truth; she was inexperienced but very intelligent; though it seemed like ages to Rao—she burst into laughter.
“So!” she cried.
He had trained her to wrestle, also. In an instant, she squirmed out from under him and had him flat on his back. Then, straddling him, she began her chastisement.
“So!” Playfully, she punched his chest. “The truth is out!”
Punch. “Champion—ha! Hero—ha!” Punch. “I have been defrauded! Cheated!”
Rao was laughing himself, now. The laughs grew louder and louder, as he heard his wife bestow upon him his new cognomens of ridicule and ignominy. The Pant of Majarashtra. The Gust of the Great Country—no! The Puff of the Great Country.
Laughter drove out shame, and brought passion to fill the void. Soon enough—very soon—the empress ceased her complaints. And, by the end of a long night, allowed—regally magnanimous, for all the sweat—that her husband was still her champion.
Chapter 41
THE STRAIT OF HORMUZ
Autumn, 532 a.d.
A monster fled ruin and disaster. Licking its wounds, trailing blood, dragging its maimed limbs, the beast clawed back toward its lair. Silent, for all its agony; its cold mind preoccupied with plans for revenge. Revenge, and an eventual return to predation.
A different monster would have screamed, from fury and frustration as much as pain and fear. But that was not this monster’s way. Not even when the hunter who had maimed it sprang, again, from ambush.
Though, for a moment, there might have been a gleam of hatred, somewhere deep inside those ancient eyes.
Chapter 42
Belisarius started to speak. Then, closed his mouth.
“Good, good,” murmured Ousanas. The aqabe tsentsen glanced slyly at Antonina.
She returned the look with a sniff. “My husband is an experienced general,” she proclaimed. “My husband is calm and cool on the eve of battle.”
Ousanas chuckled. “So it seems. Though, for a moment there, I would have sworn he was about to tell experienced sea captains how to maneuver a fleet.”
Belisarius never took his eyes off the approaching flotilla of Malwa vessels. But his crooked smile did make an appearance.
“What nonsense,” he said firmly. “The idea’s absurd.” He turned his head, speaking to the man standing just behind him. “Isn’t it, Maurice?”
Maurice scowled. “Of course it is. You’d spend ten minutes, before you got into it, telling Gersem which way the wind’s blowing. After spending half an hour explaining what sails are for.”
“It’s the general’s curse,” muttered Belisarius. “Surly subordinates.”
“After spending two hours describing what wind is in the first place,” continued Maurice. “And three hours—” He stuck out a stubby finger, pointing to the sea around them. “Oh, Gersem—look! That stuff’s called water.”