“You must forgive the Emperor’s posture,” murmured Sanga. “I had to use his throne as part of the barricade.”
The Rajput strode forward. The Emperor and his courtiers stared up at him. Beneath the dusky Indian complexions, their faces were pallid and drawn.
“Your Majesty, may I present General Belisarius, the envoy from Rome. We owe our lives to him. He organized the counter-attack which broke the rebels.”
Aide’s voice, then, as sharp and steely in Belisarius’ mind as a sword.
You must look into his eyes. I must see the Emperor’s eyes.
Belisarius stepped forward, went down to his knees, prostrated himself before the Malwa emperor. Then, looking up, stared directly into Skandagupta’s eyes from a distance of two feet.
Small eyes, close set, dark brown. Slightly unfocussed, as if the mind behind them was in shock. Which, Belisarius thought, it was. Never before, he suspected, had the great Emperor of Malwa stared death so closely in the face.
Beyond that, Belisarius saw nothing.
A moment later, Aide passed its own judgment, cold and indifferent:
Nothing. Link is not here. This is nothing but an emperor.
It was all Belisarius could do to keep from laughing.
Chapter 6
“They’re animals,” snarled Menander.
The young cataphract had a naturally light complexion. That skin color, along with his tawny hair and blue eyes, was the product of the Gothic blood which flowed through his veins, as it did through that of many Thracians. Now, his color was not light. It was pure white. From nausea, partly. But mostly, thought Belisarius, from sheer rage.
“They’re even killing the children. Babies.”
Unlike Menander, the general’s complexion retained its natural light olive shade. He could not help hearing the sounds of the massacre, even from the distance of a mile. And although—unlike Menander, drawn by horrified curiosity—the general had not gone to witness the butchery of Ranapur, he had no difficulty imagining the scene. He, like his veterans, had seen it before. Seen it more than once, in fact, if never on such a scale.
The four Romans were standing in an isolated little group just outside the entrance to the Malwa Emperor’s pavilion. His new pavilion, hastily erected during the four days while Ranapur was sacked.
The sack was almost over, now. Not from any sudden mercy on the part of the Malwa, but simply because they had already slaughtered almost everyone in the city. Even, as Menander said, down to the babes.
Today was the fifth day since the Malwa had finally broken through the city’s defenses. The successful assault had come the very morning after Belisarius and his men had helped defeat the rebel sally. That sally had been Ranapur’s last gasp.
“It’s our fault,” whispered Menander.
Belisarius placed a gentle hand on the cataphract’s shoulder.
“Yes and no, Menander. Even if the rebels had killed the Emperor, Ranapur would still have fallen. A few weeks later, perhaps, but Skandagupta’s successor would have seen to it.”
His words obviously brought no relief. Sighing faintly, Belisarius turned the young cataphract to face him. The boy’s eyes were downcast.
“Look at me, Menander,” he commanded. Reluctantly, the cataphract raised his head. Belisarius found it hard not to flinch from the bitter, unspoken reproach in those young eyes.
“If there is fault here, Menander, it is mine, not yours. I am your general, and I gave the command.”
Menander tightened his jaw, looked aside.
From behind, Valentinian interjected himself harshly.
“That’s pure bullshit, sir, if you’ll pardon my saying so. You didn’t order this.”
The veteran started to add something, but Belisarius waved him down.
“That’s not the point, Valentinian. I knew this would happen, when I gave the orders I did. Just as I’ve done before, ordering that a city which won’t surrender be stormed by my troops.”
“It’s still not the same, sir,” rumbled Anastasius. “Sure, there’ve been times you lost control of your troops during a sack. I don’t know a general who hasn’t. But you did everything you could to restore discipline, as fast as possible. Including the execution of soldiers proven guilty of atrocities.”
The huge Thracian spat on the ground. “These Malwa troops aren’t out of control. They were ordered to commit atrocities. The Emperor’s personal bodyguards have been setting the example.” Another spit. “Ye-tai dogs.”