The spymaster gritted his teeth, but said nothing. What was there to say?
Nanda Lal was the chief spymaster for the entire Malwa Empire, and considered Isanavarman his best agent. Nanda Lal had assigned him to be the spymaster for Damodara’s army for that very reason. By the simple nature of geography, Damodara was operating an independent command. His was the only army not under the immediate and watchful eye of Malwa’s rulers. So Nanda Lal had sent Isanavarman—with many spies, if not quite a horde—as much to keep an eye on Damodara as his enemies.
So what was there to say?
Damodara found words. “Make yourself useful for a change, Isanavarman. Interview the surviving Ye-tai. Find out as much as you can about the handcannons.”
Isanavarman began to say something, but Damodara cut him short. “Do it. I am the commander of this army, spymaster, not you.”
The Malwa lord lifted his finger in a little gesture at the troops surrounding them. Rajputs, all of them, except a few hundred kshatriyas—those whose proven valor had made them welcome. Most of the kshatriyas were in the camp, knowing full well the Rajputs would not permit their presence.
Isanavarman scanned the mass of soldiers. There were perhaps a thousand Ye-tai there also. But the spymaster did not fail to notice that the Ye-tai were scattered through the mass of Rajputs in small groups. Individuals, often enough, chatting amiably with their Rajput companions. Rajputs had a certain scorn for Ye-tai barbarity. But this was a day of manliness, and no one questioned Ye-tai courage.
“Do it,” repeated Damodara. Again, cold eyes went to the spymaster. “Leave now, Isanavarman. This is not a place for you.”
The spymaster left, then, trailed by his three subordinates. Nanda Lal’s agents did not flee, exactly, but neither did they amble. They were not oblivious to other hard, cold eyes upon them. The eyes of thousands of Rajput warriors, who had no love for Malwa spies at any time or place—and certainly not here, on this day of glory.
* * *
When they were gone, Damodara leaned toward Narses. The commander’s eyes were still fixed on the combat between Valentinian and Rana Sanga, but his gaze seemed a bit unfocused. As if Damodara’s thoughts were elsewhere.
“I trust he no longer has a horde of spies,” he murmured.
Narses’ sneer, as always, was magnificent. “He’s got the three who came with him, and two others. The rest are on my payroll.”
Damodara nodded. “Tonight, then. I think that would be best.”
“It’ll be perfect,” agreed Narses. “A pitched battle was fought today. A great victory for Malwa, of course, but not without its cost. The cunning Roman general sent a cavalry troop raiding into our camp. Terrible carnage. Great losses.”
Narses crooked his finger. Ajatasutra, squatting ten feet away, rose and came over.
“Tonight,” whispered Narses. “Do it yourself, if possible.”
Ajatasutra did not sneer. He never did. That was one of the reasons, oddly, why Narses had grown so fond of him. But the assassin’s thin smile had not a trace of humor in it.
“Those arrogant snobs haven’t used a dagger in years,” he said softly. “Years spent lounging in Kausambi, reading reports, while poor downtrodden agents like me were having hair-raising adventures with tired old eunuchs.”
Narses had a fine grin, to match his sneer. It was not an expression often seen on his reptilian face—and no more reassuring, come to it, that a cobra’s yawning gape. But the grin stayed on his face, for minutes thereafter.
He was amused, thinking not of serpents but of different animals. Tigers, and men who choose to ride them.
He glanced at Damodara. The Malwa commander’s eyes were riveted on the combat, now, and there was nothing unfocused in the gaze.
He might as well have stripes himself, thought Narses.
* * *
In the tales of bards, and the lays of poets, truth takes on a rosy tinge. More than a tinge, actually. The reality of a single combat between two great warriors becomes something purely legendary.
There is little place, in legends, for sweat. Even less for thirst and exhaustion. And none at all for urination.