Yes. All of them.
His honor demanded it, and honor was all that was left to him.
That, and his name.
Finally, now, he was able to stand erect. He was very tall.
Rana Sanga was his name. The greatest of Rajputana’s kings, and one of India’s most legendary warriors.
Rana Sanga. He took some comfort in the name. A name of honor. But he did not take much comfort, and only for an instant. For he was not a man given to lies, and he knew what else the name signified. Malwa bards and chroniclers could sing and write what they would, but he knew the truth.
Rana Sanga. The man—the legend, the Rajput king—who led the final charge which broke the Persians at the Caspian Gates. The man who opened the door, so that the world’s foulest evil could spill across another continent.
* * *
He felt a gentle touch on his arm. Sanga glanced down, recognizing the pudgy little hand of Lord Damodara.
“Are you badly injured?”
Damodara’s voice seemed filled with genuine concern. For a moment, a bitter thought flitted through Sanga’s mind. But he dismissed it almost instantly. Some of Damodara’s concern, true, was simply fear of losing his best general. But any commander worthy of the name would share that concern. Sanga was himself a general—and a magnificent one—and knew full well that any general’s mind required a capacity for calculating ruthlessness.
But most of Damodara’s concern was personal. Staring down at his commander, Sanga was struck by the oddity of the friendship in that fat, round face. Of all the highest men in the vast Malwa Empire, Damodara was the only one Sanga had ever met for whom he felt a genuine respect. Other Malwa overlords could be capable, even brilliant—as was Damodara—but no others could claim to be free of evil.
Not that Damodara is a saint, he thought wryly. “Practical,” he likes to call himself. Which is simply a polite way of saying “amoral.” But at least he takes no pleasure in cruelty, and will avoid it when he can.
He shook off the thought and the question simultaneously.
“No, Lord Damodara. I am exhausted, but—” Sanga shrugged. “Very little of the blood is mine. Two gashes, only. I have already bound them up. One will require some stitches. Later.”
Sanga made a small gesture at the battlefield. His voice grew harsh. “It is more important, this moment, to see to the needs of honor. I want all the Persians buried—exposed—in their own manner. With their weapons.”
Sanga cast a cold, unyielding eye on a figure standing some few feet away. Mihirakula was the commander of Lord Damodara’s Ye-tai contingents.
“The Ye-tai may loot the bodies of any coin, or jewelry. But the Persians must be exposed with their weapons. Honor demands it.”
Mihirakula scowled, but made no verbal protest. He knew that the Malwa commander would accede to Sanga’s wishes. The heart of Damodara’s army was Rajput, unlike any other of the Malwa Empire’s many armies.
“Of course,” said Damodara. “If you so wish.”
The Malwa commander turned toward one of his other lieutenants, but the man was already moving toward his horse. The man was Rajput himself. He would see to enforcing the order.
Damodara turned back. “There is news,” he announced. He gestured toward another man in his little entourage. A small, wiry, elderly man.
“One of Narses’ couriers arrived just before the battle ended. With news from Mesopotamia.”
Sanga glanced at Narses. There was sourness in that glance. The Rajput king had no love for traitors, even those who had betrayed his enemies.
Still—Narses was immensely competent. Of that there was no question.
“What is the news?” he asked.
“Our main army in Mesopotamia has suffered reverses.” Damodara took a deep breath. “Severe reverses. They have been forced to lift the siege of Babylon and retreat to Charax.”
“Belisarius,” stated Sanga. His voice rang iron with certainty.
Damodara nodded. “Yes. He defeated one army at a place called Anatha, diverted the Euphrates, and trapped another army which came to reopen the river. Shattered it. Terrible casualties. Apparently he destroyed the dam and drowned thousands of our soldiers.”