“The Kushans should have it wrapped up soon,” he said cheerfully. “I think we only lost four of them, too. Better than I expected.”
Then, seeing Valentinian’s rigid stance, Ajatasutra tensed. He couldn’t really see most of the wagon’s interior, because the cataphract was in the way. All Ajatasutra could spot was a young servant huddled in one far corner, shrieking with terror. The moment his eyes met hers, the servant’s screaming stopped abruptly. Clearly enough, her terror had now gone beyond shrieks.
Crouched in the other corner, wearing very fine clothing, was a little girl. Sanga’s daughter, he supposed. The girl’s face was pale, and she was wide-eyed as only a six-year-old girl can be. But she seemed otherwise composed. At least she hadn’t been screaming like the servant.
But what was in front of Valentinian? Ajatasutra had never seen the deadly cataphract so utterly prepared for mortal combat. As taut and alert as a mongoose facing a cobra. Apparently—Ajatasutra had not foreseen this possibility—Lady Sanga had brought one of her husband’s most capable Rajput warriors along as a personal bodyguard.
“You draw him off to one side,” Ajatasutra hissed, speaking in Greek. “I’ll take him from the other.”
Valentinian began to mutter something. Then, as he obeyed Ajatasutra’s instructions, the mutter became something more in the way of a laughing exclamation.
“Good! You figure out how to handle this, you genius!”
With Valentinian out of the way, Ajatasutra could finally see the whole interior of the wagon. Lady Sanga, a plump, plain-faced and gray-haired woman, was sitting on the large settee at the front of the wagon. On her lap, clutched tightly, she was holding a four-year-old boy.
In front of her, standing between his mother and Valentinian, was the last of Sanga’s children. A twelve-year-old boy, this one was. Ajatasutra knew that his name was Rajiv, and that the gap in age between himself and his two siblings was due to the death in infancy of two other children.
What he hadn’t known . . .
—although he should have assumed it—
“Great,” muttered Valentinian. “Just great. ‘You draw him off and I’ll take him from the other side.'”
Suddenly, the cataphract straightened and, with an abrupt—almost angry—gesture, slammed his spatha back in its scabbard. A moment later, the knife vanished somewhere in his armor.
Now empty-handed, Valentinian crossed his arms over his chest and leaned casually against the wagon’s wall. Then he spoke, in clear and precise Hindi.
“I fought the kid’s father once already, Ajatasutra. And once is enough to last me a lifetime. So you can kill the kid, if you want to. You can spend the rest of your life worrying that Sanga will come looking for you. I am not an idiot.”
Ajatasutra stared at the boy. Rajiv held a sword in his hand and was poised in battle stance. Quite adeptly, in fact, given his age.
Of course, the boy’s assurance was not all that surprising, now that Ajatasutra thought about it. He was the son of Rana Sanga, after all.
Ajatasutra was still trying to figure out how to disarm the boy without hurting him, when Rajiv himself solved his quandary. As soon as Valentinian finished speaking, the boy curled his lip. Quite an adult sneer it was, too.
“Had you truly fought my father, bandit, you would not be alive today.” The twelve-year-old spit on the floor of the wagon. Quite a hefty glob of spittle it was, too. Ajatasutra was impressed.
“Only two men have ever faced my father in battle and lived to speak of it afterward. The first was the great Raghunath Rao, Panther of Majarashtra. The other was—”
He broke off, his eyes widening. Then, for the first time since Ajatasutra got sight of him, the boy’s eyes lost that slightly vague focus of the trained swordsman who is watching everything at once, and fled to Valentinian’s face.
His eyes widened further. Behind him, his mother uttered a sharp little cry. Ajatasutra couldn’t tell if the wordless sound signified fear or hope. Possibly both.
“You are the Mongoose?” Rajiv’s question was barely more than a whisper.
Valentinian grinned his narrow-faced weasel grin. Which was a bit unfortunate, thought Ajatasutra. That was not a very reassuring expression.