He groped for words. Maloji provided them: “She has been called the Black-Eyed Pearl of the Satavahanas since she was twelve. There is a reason for it, which goes far beyond her eyes. I have not seen her since Amaravati, but even then she was beautiful.”
Rao closed his eyes again. “I try not to think about it,” he whispered. “It is difficult, but I manage. Since that day, years ago, I have kept myself from looking at the beauty of her body. Other men may do so, but not I.” His eyes reopened. “But I cannot blind myself to the real beauty. I have tried—so very hard—but I cannot. I simply try not to think about it.” He smiled. “Perhaps that is why I meditate so often.”
Abruptly, he rose. “Enough. We will not speak of this again, Maloji, though I thank you for your words.” He stared at the Malwa enemy over the battlements. “We have a war to fight and win. A dynasty to return to its rightful place. An empress to shield and protect—and cherish. That is our dharma.”
He pushed himself away from the stones and turned toward the stairs leading to the city below. “And now, I must be about my tasks. I have my duty, she has hers. She will marry Chola, and I will dance at her wedding. The best dance I ever danced.”
Seconds later, he was gone. Maloji, watching him go, bowed his head. “Not even you, Raghunath Rao,” he whispered. “Not even you—the Great Country’s best dancer as well as its soul—can dance that well.”
Chapter 11
PERSIA
Spring, 532 a.d.
The first Malwa barrage came as an unpleasant surprise to the Roman troops dug in on the crest of the saddle pass. Instead of sailing all over the landscape, a majority of the Malwa rockets landed uncomfortably near their entrenchments. And the fire from the small battery of field guns which Damodara had placed on a nearby hilltop was fiendishly accurate. The Roman fieldworks were partially obscured by small clouds of dust and flying dirt.
There was not much actual damage, however. Two cannon balls landed in trenches, but they caused only one fatality. Solid cannon shot was designed for field battles, where a ball could bounce through the packed ranks of advancing infantry. Even when such a solid shot struck a trench directly, it usually did nothing more than bury itself in the loosened dirt. The man killed just had the misfortune of standing on the wrong patch of soil. His death was almost silent, marked only by a sodden thud; and then, by the soft and awful sounds of blood and intestines spilling from a corpse severed at the waist.
Worse casualties were created by the single rocket which hit directly in a trench. Rocket warheads were packed with gunpowder and iron pellets. When such a warhead exploded in a crowded trench, the result was horrendous.
“Damn,” hissed Maurice, watching the survivors in the trench frantically trying to save the wounded. The shouts of the rescuers were drowned beneath the shrieks of dying and injured men. “They’ve got impact fuses.”
Belisarius nodded. “And they’ve refitted their rockets with proper venturi,” he added. “You can tell the difference in the sound alone, leaving aside the fact they’re ten times more accurate.”
Frowning, he swiveled his telescope to point at Damodara’s pavilion, erected just a few hundred yards behind the front lines of the Ye-tai who were massing for a charge.
Through the telescope, Belisarius could see Damodara standing on a platform which had been erected in front of the pavilion. The platform was just a sturdy framework of small logs, but it was enough to give the Malwa commander a good field of view. It was typical of Damodara, thought Belisarius, that he had not even bothered to have the logs planed. Most anvaya-prapta sachivya would have insisted on polished planks, covered with rugs.
“How did he do it?” the Roman general muttered. “I knew the Malwa would come up with impact fuses and venturi soon enough. But I didn’t expect to see them appear in Damodara’s army, as isolated as they are from the manufactories in India.”