“Patience, lad, patience. We’ll be climbing over Malwa bodies soon enough.” For once, the veteran’s voice was soft and gentle. Cold and callous with long experience, Valentinian was, but he was not heartless. He could still remember his first battlefield, mounded with carnage. During that battle, his own guts had not joined that of the others strewn about. Even as a youth, Valentinian had been incredibly deadly. But, when the battle was over, the contents of his guts had been spewed about freely. He had not stopped puking, long after there was nothing left to vomit, until darkness finally and mercifully fell.
Once over the tent pole, the Romans found themselves in a clear space. They had reached the center of the pavilion. The four tent poles which were still standing held the canopy aloft, sagging, but still some fifteen feet above the ground. The area was dim, lit only by the sunlight which filtered its way through gashes in the fabric of the pavilion.
The moans and shrieks from the battlefield seemed softer, now. And the Romans encountered live men, for the first time since they entered the pavilion. Ye-tai bodyguards, live—and alert. Eight Ye-tai, seeing the Romans, glared and began circling them. The bared swords in their hands were covered with blood.
Belisarius began to speak, but a harsh voice intervened.
Rana Sanga’s voice: “Stop! They are Romans. Guests of the emperor.”
A moment later, the Rajput kinglet emerged out of the gloom and strode between the Romans and Ye-tai. He himself was literally covered with gore, from the blood soaking his beard to his squelching boots. But no one who saw that majestic figure of a man could doubt for an instant that none of the blood was his.
Sanga faced down the Ye-tai, raising his sword. The sword, like the man, was blood-soaked.
“Put down your swords!” he roared. “Or I will butcher you myself!”
Ye-tai, whatever their other faults, were not prone to cowardice. But, faced with Sanga, they cowered like jackals before a tiger.
Sanga did not bother to sneer. He turned and bowed to the Romans. He swept his sword in a gesture of welcome. The politesse of the act was almost comical, in a grisly way, for the sweep of his sword left a little arc of blood and gore in its wake.
“Welcome, Belisarius.” He transferred the sword to his left hand—his scabbard was useless; shattered and splintered—and stepped forward, holding out his right. “And I give you my thanks—our thanks. I saw the counter-charge. It is all that saved us.”
There was no mistaking the genuine warmth in that handclasp. Nor the warmth in the two pair of dark eyes which gazed at each other—a level gaze, for they were both tall men. But Belisarius, meeting Sanga’s gaze closely, also understood the question in those eyes.
“I, too, swore an oath,” he said softly. Sanga frowned.
“To another emperor.” The Roman’s voice was almost a whisper.
The Rajput’s frown of puzzlement vanished, replaced by understanding. Belisarius almost regretted his words, then, for he knew that he had given too much away. Sanga, he was sure, did not understand why Belisarius had done what he had done. But, he was also sure, the Rajput understood him perfectly. And there was nothing to be feared so much as an enemy who understood you.
For a moment, the two enemies of the future stared at each other. Then Sanga’s lips curled in a manner which, to the cataphracts who watched, was astonishingly akin to their own general’s crooked smile.
“So,” murmured Sanga, in a voice so low that only Belisarius could hear him. “It is always said, in Lord Venandakatra’s defense, that he is nobody’s fool. His only saving grace, it is said.” The Rajput’s smile deepened. “It seems the great lord lacks that grace also, after all.”
Belisarius said nothing. A slight shrug, a little cock of the eyebrow, his own crooked smile.
Sanga turned away. “Would you like to meet the Emperor?” he asked. “I do not think the courtiers will object, now. They could hardly refuse an audience to the man who saved their necks.”
Belisarius followed the Rajput into a small nook in the pavilion, formed by a hastily erected barricade of furniture and statuary. The nook was very dark. Little sunlight reached into it. But Belisarius could see a middle-aged man huddled on the floor, short and rather corpulent, dressed in rich silk robes, surrounded by other men who were of a similar age and dress. One of them was Lord Venandakatra. The Vile One’s face was almost unrecognizeable. The feral intelligence was utterly absent, replaced by half-mindless terror.