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Five Malwa assassins in today's Bharakuccha, many if not all of them wounded, would be like so many pieces of bloody meat in shark waters.
"There you are!" the official exclaimed. "You are the trade delegation just returned from Rome, yes?"
That had been their official identity. The captain wondered how an official in Bharakuccha-the place was a madhouse!-had managed to keep track of the records and identify them so soon after their return.
He brought down a savage curse on all hard-working and efficient bureaucrats. A silent curse, naturally.
"Come with me!" the official commanded. "I've been instructed to send a courier team to catch up with the emperor"-he didn't even bother to specify the "new" emperor-"and you're just the men for the job!"
"I can't believe this," muttered his lieutenant. Very softly, of course.
The next morning, they were riding out of the city on excellent horses, carrying dispatches for Damodara. Along with a Maratha cavalry platoon to provide them with a safe escort out of the Deccan. The assassins were obviously Malwa-some sort of north Indians, at any rate-and despite the new truce between the Malwa and Andhran empires, it was always possible that a band of Maratha irregulars in the hills wouldn't obey it. Or have simply turned to banditry, as some soldiers always do at the end of a war.
That same escort, needless to say, also made it impossible for them to return to Bharakuccha and continue their assignment. Not, at least, until they'd passed the crest of the Vindhyas-at which point, they have to return another hundred miles or so, and do it without being spotted by Maratha patrols.
The only bright spot in the whole mess was that their luggage hadn't been searched. If it had been, the bombard would have been discovered-and they'd have had a very hard time explaining why and how a "trade delegation" had been carrying an assassination device. A bombard of that size and type was never used by regular military units, and it would have been even more useless for trade delegates.
That night, around their campfire and far enough from the Maratha escort not to be overheard, the five assassins quietly discussed their options.
"It's hopeless," the captain concluded. "We've done our best. Let's just give it up and return to Kausambi for a new assignment."
His lieutenant finally said it. "That's assuming we don't find a new emperor when we get there. Then what?"
The captain shrugged, and spit into the fire.
More cheerily, one of the other assassins said: "Well, there's this. Whoever the emperor is when we get there, one thing's for sure. We won't be reporting failure to Nanda Lal. No matter what."
That was true. Perhaps the only certainty left in their lives. They'd all seen Nanda Lal's head perched on a pike outside the Goptri's palace. There hadn't been much left of it. But the captain and the lieutenant had recognized the nose. Broken, years ago, by the boot of Belisarius. Battered, at the end, by boys in their play.
Chapter 30
The Thar desert
Belisarius finally managed to force his eyes somewhere else. Staring at the empty well wouldn't make it fill up.
Not that he found the sight of the desert any prettier.
"So, I gambled and lost," he said to Ashot and Abbu, standing next to him.
Ashot was still scowling down into the well. Abbu was scowling at the desert, his eyes avoiding the general's.
"It's not your fault, Abbu."
The old bedouin grimaced. "This well was one of the best!" he protested. "I was worried about the last one. And another one some twenty miles farther. Not this one!"
Finally, Ashot straightened up. "Wells are finicky in a desert like this. If the water table was reliable, we wouldn't have had to dig our own. There'd have been wells already here."
The Armenian cataphract wiped the dust off his face with a cloth. "What do we do now, general? We don't have enough water left to make the crossing to the next well. Not the whole expedition, for sure. A few dozen could make it, maybe, if they took all the water we still have."
"For what purpose?" Belisarius demanded. Not angrily, just wearily.
He leaned over the well again, gauging the dampness at the very bottom. There wasn't much.
There were two decisions to be made. One was obvious to probably everyone. The other was obvious to him.
"No," he said. "We'll send a very small force-five men-with all the water they need to cross the rest of the Thar without stopping. They might be able to reach Ajmer in time to bring a Rajput relief expedition, if Rana Sanga's already gotten the word there."
Ashot winced. Abbu shook his head.
"That's a lot of 'ifs,' general," said the Armenian. " If they can cross in time. If the Rajputs are already prepared. If they'll listen to a handful of men in the first place. If they can get back in time with water before the rest of us are dead."
"The first 'if' is the easiest, too," Abbu added. "And it stinks. Five men, crossing as fast as they can… It would still take them at least five days. Another week-at least-before they could get back with enough water to make a difference. That's twelve days, general, at best."
Belisarius had already figured out the deadly arithmetic. If anything, Abbu was being optimistic-one of the few times Belisarius could ever remember him being so. Belisarius himself thought the minimum would be two weeks.
In the desert, in the hot season, a man without water could not survive for more than two days before he started to die. And he died quickly, thereafter. Maybe three days, depending on the temperature. That assumed he found shelter from the sun and didn't exert himself. If he did, death would come much sooner.
If the Roman expedition shared all their remaining water evenly-and gave none to the horses-they'd run out in three days. At most, the moisture still seeping into the bottom of the well might provide them with another day's water. Then…
They might last a little over a week, all told. Not two weeks, certainly. Probably not even twelve days.
There was no way to go back or to go forward, either. The last well was four days behind them, and it would be almost dry anyway after their recent use of it. The next well was at least two and a half days' travel, according to Abbu, for a party this size. Since they had to water the horses also, while traveling, they'd run out within the first day. The last two days they'd be without water.
So would the horses.
They'd never make it. Not in the Thar, in the hot season.
"I understand the arithmetic," Belisarius said harshly. "It's still our only chance."
The second decision, then.
"You'll lead the party, Ashot. Abbu, you go with him. Pick three of your bedouin for the remaining men."
Ashot's eyes widened, a little. Abbu's didn't.
"You're not going yourself?"
"No. I'll stay here with the men."
"But-"
"Be off, Ashot. There's no time to waste. And there will be no argument. No discussion at all."
He turned and started walking away from the well.
Are you sure? asked Aide, uncertainly.
Yes. These men have been with me for years. I'm not leaving them to die. Not that, whatever else.
Aide said nothing. His own survival was not at stake. There were things that could destroy Aide, Belisarius knew, although the jewel had always been reticent about explaining exactly what they were. But merely being without water for a few weeks-or even a few years-was not one of them.
When Ashot returned, most likely he would find Aide in a pouch hanging from a corpse's neck. But the jewel would be as alive as ever.
Working through Ousanas would be the easiest for you, I think, Belisarius mused. But he's probably not influential enough. You might try Rao, although there might be the same problem. The best would be Damodara, if you could reach him.