Kurush tightened his jaws. But, touchy or not, the Persian was also honest. He nodded his head curtly.
Belisarius continued. “I thought they’d be limited by the fact that Emperor Skandagupta sent Damodara and Sanga into eastern Persia with very little in the way of gunpowder weapons. But if that’s not true—if they’ve created their own weapons industry along the way—then we are looking at a very different kind of animal. A tiger instead of a leopard.”
Kurush frowned. “Would Skandagupta permit Damodara such freedom? I always got the impression, from what you told me of your trip to India, that the Malwa gunpowder industry was kept exclusively in their capital city of Kausambi—right under the emperor’s nose.”
Belisarius stared at the pass above them, as if he were trying to peer through the rock of the mountains and study the enemy on the other side.
“Interesting question,” he murmured. “Offhand, I’d say—no. But what does Skandagupta know of things in far-off Marv?” Belisarius smiled himself, now—a smile every bit as thin as Vasudeva’s had been.
“Narses,” he said softly, almost lingering over the name. “If Damodara does have Narses working for him, then he’s got one of the world’s supreme politicians—and spymasters—helping to plan his moves. Narses is not famous, to put it mildly, for his slavish respect for established authority. And he worships no god but Ambition.”
Kurush stared at Belisarius, wide-eyed. “You think—”
Belisarius’ shoulders moved in a tiny shrug. “Who knows? Except this: if Narses is on the other side of that pass, then I can guarantee that he is spinning plans within plans. Never underestimate that old eunuch, Kurush. He doesn’t think simply of the next two steps. He always thinks of the twenty steps beyond those.”
Kurush’s smile was not thin. “That description reminds me of someone else I know.”
Belisarius did not smile in return. He simply nodded, once. “Well, yes. It does.”
For a few seconds, the two men were silent. Then, after a quick glance into the interior of the tent to make sure no one could overhear, Kurush whispered: “What does this mean—in terms of your strategy?”
Again, Belisarius made that tiny shrug. “I don’t know. At the moment, I don’t see where it changes anything.” He thrust out his chin, pointing at the enemy hidden from their sight by the pass above. “I can delay that army, Kurush, but I can’t stop it. So I don’t see that I have any choice but to continue with the plan we are already agreed on.”
Belisarius gave his own quick glance backward, to make sure no one was within hearing range. Kurush was familiar with his plans, as were Belisarius’ own chief subordinates, but he knew that none of the other Persian officers were privy to them. So far as they knew, Belisarius and his Roman army were in the Zagros simply to fend off Damodara’s advance. He wanted to keep them in that happy state of ignorance.
“I do know this much,” he continued, turning his eyes back to Kurush. “The rebellion in south India is now more important than ever. If our strategy works, here, and we drive the main Malwa army out of the delta—and if the rebellion in Majarashtra swells to gigantic proportions—then the Malwa will have no choice.” Again, he pointed with his chin to the pass. “They will have to pull that magnificent army out of Persia. And use it, instead of Venandakatra’s torturers, to crush the Deccan.”
Kurush eyed him. He knew how much Belisarius liked and admired the Marathas and their Empress Shakuntala. “That’ll be very tough on the rebels.”
Belisarius winced, but only briefly. “Yes—and then again, maybe not.”
He paused, staring at the mountains. “Those men are far better soldiers than anything Venandakatra has. And there’s no comparison at all between their leaders and the Vile One. But that army is Rajput, now, at its core. And Damodara has welded himself to them. Rajputs have their own hard sense of honor, which fits their Malwa masters about as well as a glove fits a fish tail. I’m not sure how good they’ll be, when the time comes for murder instead of war.”