Rana Sanga did not respond. Belisarius glanced at him again. The scowl had disappeared, replaced by a frown.
A moment later, the frown also disappeared, replaced by a little sigh.
“It goes without saying, Belisarius,” said Sanga softly. The Roman did not fail to notice that this was the first time the Rajput had ever called him by his simple name, without the formal addition of the title of “general.”
“It goes without saying. Yet—in some ways, I might prefer it if the Vedic glories remained a thing of the past.” Another brief silence. Then: “Glory,” he mused. “You are a soldier yourself, Belisarius, and thus have a better appreciation than most of everything the word ‘glory’ involves. The ancient battle of Kurukshetra, for instance, can be described as ‘glorious.’ Oh yes, glorious indeed.”
They were now within a hundred yards of the Roman encampment. Belisarius could see the Kushan soldiers already drawing up in formation before the pavilions where the Romans and their Ethiopian allies made their headquarters. The Kushans were vassal soldiers whom the Malwa had assigned to serve as the permanent escort for the foreign envoys.
As always, the Kushans went about their task swiftly and expertly. Their commander’s name was Kungas, and, for all that the thirty or so Kushans were members of his own clan and thus directly related to him by blood, maintained an iron discipline over his detachment. The Kushans, by any standard, were elite soldiers. Even Valentinian and Anastasius had admitted—grudgingly, to be sure—that they were perhaps as good as Thracian cataphracts.
As they drew up before the tent which Belisarius shared with Dadaji Holkar, the Maratha slave emerged and trotted over to hold the reins of the general’s horse. Belisarius dismounted, as did his cataphracts.
From the ground, Belisarius stared up at Rana Sanga.
“You did not, I believe, complete your thought,” he said quietly.
Rana Sanga looked away for a moment. When he turned back, he said:
“The Battle of Kurukshetra was the crowning moment of Vedic glory, Belisarius. The entire Bhagavadgita from the Mahabharata is devoted to it. Kurukshetra was the greatest battle ever fought in the history of the world, and uncounted words have been recorded discussing its divine meaning, its philosophical profundity, and its religious importance.”
Rana Sanga’s dark, heavily bearded, handsome face seemed now like nothing so much as a woodcarving.
“Eighteen million ordinary men, it is also written, died in that battle.”
The Rajput drew back on the reins, turning his horse.
“The name of not one of those men was ever recorded.”
Chapter 2
Belisarius watched Rana Sanga and his men ride away. Not until the Rajputs had vanished did he turn to Dadaji Holkar.
“I do not think he is typical of Rajputs,” he said. It was more of a question than a statement.
The Maratha slave disagreed. Instantly, and without hesitation. With any other master, he would not have done so. By ancient Indian custom—though only the Malwa had ever written it into law—a slave was expected to cherish as well as obey his master. That Dadaji Holkar did so in actual fact was due, as much as anything, to the fact that his outlandish foreign master interpreted obedience as devotion to his purpose rather than his person.
“You misunderstand him, master. Rana Sanga is quite famous. Most Indians—and all Maratha—consider him the truest of Rajputs. He is perhaps the greatest Rajput warrior today living, and certainly the finest Rajput general. His exploits are legend. He is a king also, of course, but—” the Maratha smiled “—that means little by itself. There are so many Rajput kings, most of whom rule their little hilltop as if it were all the universe. But Sanga is of the Chauhar dynasty, which is perhaps their greatest line of royalty. And the Chauhar are known for their thought as well as their archery and swordsmanship.”
Belisarius cocked his eyebrow. “And so?”
Dadaji Holkar shrugged. “And so, Rana Sanga is the truest of Rajputs, and takes his deepest pride in that fact. But because he does so, and thinks like a Chauhar thinks, he also ponders on what being a Rajput means. He knows, you see—he has even been heard to make the occasional jest about it—that the Rajput lineage is really not so much grander than that of we disreputable Maratha hillmen. Yet he also knows that the lineage is true, nonetheless. And so he thinks about lineage, and how it comes to be, and how truth emerges out of illusion. And he wonders, I think, where the difference between truth and illusion lies, and what that means for his dharma.”