Of the outcome, Kujulo had no doubt at all. Even had he been faced with real soldiers, Valentinian would transform that narrow alley into a creek of blood. Dealing with dacoits, the alley would erupt like a burst dam, spilling blood and limbs and heads and intestines everywhere.
“No,” he hissed. “The city is full of spies.”
Valentinian’s leg froze. His shoulder twitched irritation. “So? A caravan defending itself.”
They were not more than fifteen yards from the mouth of the alley. Kujulo hissed again. “No caravan defends itself the way you will. Or Anastasius.” The grunt that followed combined grim humor with exasperation. “Or me, for that matter, or my Kushans.”
Ten yards, now. “What else do you suggest?” snarled Valentinian softly. “Let them kill half of us, to show Malwa spies we are nothing but merchant sheep?”
His shoulders twitched irritation again. The leg began to rise. “Damn that. Let’s take it to them.”
Suddenly, a little chorus of shrieks erupted from the mouth of the alley. An instant later, spewing forth like so many pieces of a bad fig from a man’s mouth, six dacoits burst into the street. Two were shrieking, one was staggering. The other three, silent, simply raced off.
Raced off away from the caravan, not toward it. Followed, within a second or two, by the shriekers. The last dacoit staggered another step or two, then sprawled on his face and lay still. Blood was beginning to stain his filthy clothing.
Kujulo raised his hand, as any caravan leader would when faced with similar circumstances. “Halt!”
The caravan stopped. All the Kushans further back drew their weapons, as did Kujulo and the Roman cataphracts. The street was suddenly empty of all life, except for the group of dacoits who had begun emerging from the alley behind. But they too, seeing the new circumstances, hastily scampered out of sight.
Kujulo studied the alley. He held his own sword a bit awkwardly. Not too demonstratively, just enough to make him seem like a caravan master instead of an experienced soldier. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Valentinian’s grip was expert—just as, out of that same corner, he had seen the blinding speed with which the cataphract had drawn the blade.
“Can you just try not to seem like the perfect killer,” he muttered sourly.
Valentinian ignored him. His dark eyes were riveted on the alley mouth.
Again, motion. A dacoit emerged, slowly, clutching his throat. His eyes were gaping wide and his face was pale. Blood was pouring through his fingers. He took two steps into the street before his knees collapsed and he toppled onto his face.
Another dacoit came, this one like a limp rag being slapped against the mudbrick wall of the nearest building which formed the alley’s corner. The front of his clothing was a red blotch and his head was sagging. He was being held by the scruff of the neck by another man.
“Rob me, will you?” snarled the man who held him. A knife flashed into the dacoit’s back, flashed again. Then, contemptuously, the man tossed the would-be robber’s body onto that of his fellow.
Valentinian studied him carefully. The man was average in height, but very wide-shouldered. His hawk face was sharp and angry. He strode into the street, stooped like a raptor, and wiped the gore off his dagger on the clothing of his last victim.
Then, straightening and sheathing the weapon, he glared at Kujulo and the Romans.
“And you?” he demanded.
Kujulo sheathed his sword and raised his other hand in a placating gesture. “We are merchants, lord. No more.”
The man’s glare did not fade in the least. His clothing, though clean, was utilitarian and plain. “No lord, I!” he barked. Then, sneering: “But neither am I one to be troubled by dacoits. Nor any man.”
Despite his belligerence, the man stepped aside and waved his hand.
“Pass by, pass by!”
Kujulo set the caravan back into motion. As they drew alongside the alley, the glaring man snorted contemptuously. “A caravan, is it? Hauling what—sheep dung?”
He shook his head sarcastically. “You’ll be lucky if any stable will put up as sorry a lot as you. But I suppose the low-caste inn two streets up might do so.” And with that, he was gone, vanishing back into the alley like a wraith. Neither Valentinian nor Kujulo could hear his footsteps.