In the Heart of Darkness

Epilogue

An Empress and Her Soul

To Belisarius, the huge throne room seemed more like a cavern than ever, with so few occupants. But Theodora had insisted on meeting him there, and he had made no objection. If the Empress found some strength and comfort in the sight of that huge chamber, and the feel of her enormous throne, Belisarius was glad for it.

She, now, was the lynchpin for the future.

He advanced across the huge room with a quick step. When he was ten paces from the throne, he prostrated himself. Then, after rising, began to speak. But Theodora stopped him with a gesture.

"One moment, Belisarius." The Empress turned toward the handful of excubitores standing guard a few yards away.

"Tell the servants to bring a chair," she commanded.

As the excubitores hastened to do her bidding, Theodora bestowed a wry smile upon the general standing before her.

"It's scandalous, I know. But we're in for a long session, and I'd much rather have your untired mind than your formal respect."

Inwardly, Belisarius heaved a sigh of relief. Not at the prospect of spending an afternoon in seated comfort-he was no stranger to standing erect-but at the first sign in days that there was something in the Empress' soul beyond fury, hatred and vengeance.

A City and Its Terror

For eight days, since the crushing of the insurrection, Theodora's soul had dwelt in that realm. As Antonina had so aptly put it, at the very gate of hell.

Much of that time, true, the Empress had spent with her husband. Overseeing the doctors who tended to his wounds; often enough, pushing them aside to tend Justinian herself.

But she had not spent all of her time there. By no means.

She had spent hours, with Irene, overseeing her agentes in rebus-the "inspectors of the post" who served the throne as a secret police-dispatching squads of them throughout the Empire. Those squads assigned to the capital itself had already reported back. The results of their missions were displayed, for all to see, on the walls of the Hippodrome. Next to the spiked heads of Malwa kshatriya-hundreds of them, with Balban's occupying a central position; faction leaders; Hypatius; John of Cappadocia (and all of his bucellarii who had not managed to flee the city)-now perched the heads of three dozen churchmen, including Glycerius of Chalcedon and George Barsymes; those officers of the Army of Bithynia who had been captured; nineteen high noblemen, including six Senators; eighty-seven officials and functionaries; and the torturer who had blinded Justinian.

The torturer's head was identified by a small placard. His face was quite unrecognizeable. Theodora had spent other hours overseeing his own torture, until she pushed aside her experts and finished the job herself.

There would have been more heads, had it not been for Belisarius and Antonina.

Many more.

Theodora had demanded the heads of every officer, above the rank of tribune, of every military unit in the capital which had stood aside during the insurrection. That demand, however, could not be satisfied by her secret police. As cowed and terrified as they were, those officers were still in command of thousands of troops. Shaky command, true-very shaky-but solid enough to have resisted squads of agentes in rebus.

So, Theodora had ordered Belisarius to carry out the purge. He had refused.

Flatly refused. Partly, he told her, because it was excessive. Those men were not guilty of treason, after all, simply dereliction of duty. What was more important, he explained-calmly, coldly-was that such an indiscriminate purge of the entire officer corps in Constantinople would undermine the army itself.

He needed that army. Rome needed that army. The first battle with the Malwa Empire had been fought and won. There were many more to come.

In the end, Theodora had yielded. She had been satisfied-it might be better to say, had accepted-the dismissal of those officers. Belisarius, along with Sittas and Hermogenes, had spent three days enforcing that dismissal.

None of the officers had objected, with the sole exception of Gontharis, the commander of the Army of Rhodope. A scion of one of the empire's noblest families, he apparently felt his aristocratic lineage exempted him from such unceremonious and uncouth treatment.

Belisarius, not wishing to feed further the nobility's resentment against Thracians, had allowed Sittas to handle the problem.

The Greek nobleman's solution had been quick and direct. Sittas felled Gontharis with a blow of his gauntleted fist, dragged him out of his headquarters into the Army of Rhodope's training field, and decapitated him in front of the assembled troops. Another head joined the growing collection on the walls of the Hippodrome.

Immediately thereafter, Sittas and his cataphracts marched to Gontharis' villa on the outskirts of Constantinople. After expelling all the occupants, Sittas seized the immense treasure contained therein and burned the villa to the ground. The confiscated fortune, he turned over to the imperial treasury.

The treasury's coffers were bulging, now. Theodora had executed only nineteen noblemen. But she had confiscated the fortunes of every noble family whose members had even the slightest connection with the plot. The confiscations, true, had been restricted to that portion of such families' fortunes which were located in the capital. Their provincial estates-to which most of them had fled-were untouched. But, since most aristocrats resided in the capital, the plunder was enormous.

The same treatment had been dealt to officials, bureaucrats, churchmen.

None of them objected. Not publicly, at least. They were glad enough to escape with their lives.

A Populace and Its Glee

The great populace of the city had been untouched.

Indeed, after a day, the populace came out of hiding and began applauding the purge. Throngs of commoners could be found, from dawn to dusk, admiring the new decorations on the Hippodrome. The heads of bucellarii meant little to them, and the Malwa heads even less. But the heads of high officials, nobles, churchmen-oh, now, that was a different matter altogether. Often enough, over the years-over the decades and centuries, in the memory of their families-had such men extorted and bullied them.

John of Cappadocia's head, of course, was the most popular attraction. He had often been called the most hated man in the Roman Empire. Few had doubted that claim, in the past. None doubted it now.

But the populace also spent much time admiring the heads of the Hippodrome factions. For the first time in their lives, the common folk could walk the streets of Constantinople without fearing an encounter with faction thugs. The leaders of those thugs-with the exception of a few who had escaped Irene's eye-were all perched on the wall. And, within days, those who had escaped the slaughter joined them-along with two hundred and sixty-three other faction bravos. Such men might have escaped Irene's eye, and the eyes of the agentes in rebus. They could not escape the eyes of the populace, who ferreted them out of their hiding places and turned them over to Hermogenes' infantrymen. Or, often enough, simply lynched them on the spot and brought their heads to the Hippodrome.

The more prosperous residents of Constantinople-and there were many of them, in that teeming city: merchants, shopkeepers, craftsmen, artisans-did not share the unadulterated glee of their poorer neighbors. They were not immune to that glee, of course. They, too, had suffered from the exactions of the high and mighty. But-as is usually the case with those who have something to lose-they feared that the purge might widen, and deepen, and grow into a cataclysm of mass terror.

Their fears were exaggerated, perhaps, but by no means groundless. On any number of occasions, Hermogenes' infantrymen had prevented mobs from beating or murdering a man-or an entire family-whose only real crime was unpopularity. On two occasions, the turmoil had become savage enough to require the intervention of Sittas and Belisarius' cataphracts.

Theodora's rage had shaken the entire city. Shaken it almost into pieces.

It was Antonina, more than anyone, who had held the city together. Partly, by the hours she had spent with Theodora, doing what she could to restrain her friend's half-insane fury. But, mostly, Antonina had held the city together by marching through it.

Hour and hour, day after day, marching through Constantinople at the head of her little army of grenadiers, and their wives, and their children.

"Marching" was not the correct word, actually. It would be more accurate to say that she and her Theodoran Cohort paraded through the streets. Gaily, cheerfully-and triumphantly. But theirs was not the grim triumph of cataphracts, or regular soldiers. Their was the insouciant triumph of humble Syrian villagers, who were sight-seeing as much as they were providing a sight for the city's residents.

Who could fear such folk? With their families parading with them? After the first day, none. By the second day, Antonina's parades had become as popular as the grisly display at the Hippodrome. By the third day, much more popular.

Much more popular.

The vicinity of the Hippodrome, for one thing, was becoming unbearable due to the stench. Gangs of slaves were hauling out the bodies and burying them in mass graves. But there were thousands of those bodies, many of them-as Hermogenes had said-not much more than meat paste smeared across the stone floors and walls. Fortunately, it was winter, but even so the bodies were rotting faster than they could be removed.

For another, the vengeful glee of the common folk was beginning to abate. Second thoughts were creeping in, especially as those people sat in their little apartments in the evening, enjoying the company of their families. Reservations, doubts, hesitations-as fathers began wondering about the future, and mothers worried over their children.

The death of arrogant lordlings was a thing to be treasured, true. But, at bottom, none of Constantinople's commoners thought Death was truly a friend. They were far too familiar with the creature.

No, better to go and enjoy Antonina's parades. There was nothing, there, to frighten a child. Nothing, to worry a mother or bring a frown to a father's face. There was only-

Triumph, in the victory of humble people.

Enjoyment, in the constant and casual conversations with those simple grenadiers, and their wives. And their children, for those of an age-who gazed upon those lads and lasses with an adulation rarely bestowed upon rustics by cosmopolitan street urchins. But those were the children of grenadiers-a status greatly to be envied.

And, most of all, a feeling of safety. Safety, in the presence of-her.

She-the closest friend of the Empress. Whom all knew, or soon learned, was striving to hold back the imperial madness.

She-who smote the treason of the mighty.

She-who was of their own kind.

She-who was the wife of Belisarius. Rome's greatest general, in this time of war. And Rome's sanest voice, in this time of madness.

Belisarius had already been a name of legend, among those people. Now, the legend grew, and grew. His legend, of course. But also, alongside it-swelling it and being swollen by it-the legend of Antonina.

"The whore," she had often been called, by Rome's upper crust.

The populace of Constantinople had heard the name, in times past. Had wondered. Now, knowing, they rejected it completely.

"The wife," they called her; or, more often, "the great wife."

Her legend had begun with the words of a famous holy man, spoken in distant Syria. The grenadiers passed on his words to the people of Constantinople. The legend had expanded in a kitchen, here in the city itself. The grenadiers and the cataphracts told the tale.

Soon enough, that pastry shop became a popular shrine in its own right. The shopkeeper grew rich, from the business, and was able to retire at an early age; but, an avaricious man, he complained to his dying day that he had been cheated out of his cleaver.

The legend grew, and swelled. Then, five days after the crushing of the insurrection, Michael of Macedonia arrived in Constantinople. Immediately, he took up residence in the Forum of Constantine and began preaching. Preaching and sermonizing, from dawn to dusk. Instantly, those sermons became the most popular events in the city. The crowds filled the Forum and spilled along the Mese.

He preached of many things, Michael did.

Some of his words caused the city's high churchmen to gnash their teeth. But they gnashed them in private, and never thought to call a council. They were too terrified to venture out of their hiding places.

But, for the most part, Michael did not denounce and excoriate. Rather, he praised and exhorted.

The legend of Antonina now erupted through the city. So did the legend of Belisarius. And so, in its own way, did the legend of Theodora.

By the end of the week, the overwhelming majority of Constantinople's simple citizens had drawn their simple conclusions.

All hope rested in the hands of Belisarius and his wife. Please, Lord in Heaven, help them restore the Empress to her sanity.

The great city held its breath.

An Empress and Her Tears

The Empress and her general gazed at each other in silence, until the servants placed a chair and withdrew.

"Sit, general," she commanded. "We are in a crisis. With Justinian blinded, the succession to the throne is-"

"We are not in a crisis, Your Majesty," stated Belisarius firmly. "We simply have a problem to solve."

Theodora stared at him. At first, with disbelief and suspicion. Then, with a dawning hope.

"I swore an oath," said Belisarius.

Sudden tears came to the Empress' eyes.

Not many, those tears. Not many at all. But, for Belisarius, they were enough.

He watched his Empress turn away from Hell, and close its gate behind her. And, for the first time in days, stopped holding his own breath.

"A problem to solve," he repeated, softly. "No more than that. You are good at solving problems, Empress."

Theodora smiled wanly.

"Yes, I am. And so are you, Belisarius."

The general smiled his crooked smile. "That's true. Now that you mention it."

Theodora's own smile widened. "Pity the poor Malwa," she murmured.

"Better yet," countered Belisarius, "let us pity them not at all."

A Man and His Purpose

In the cabin of a ship, another Empress argued with a slave.

"We will arrive in Muziris tomorrow. You must now decide. I need you, Dadaji. Much more than he does."

"That may be true, Your Majesty." The slave shrugged. "The fact remains, he is my legal master."

Shakuntala chopped her hand. "Malwa law. You were bought in Bharakuccha."

Again, Holkar shrugged. "And so? The sale is legally binding anywhere in the world. Certainly in the Roman Empire. Malwa India has not, after all, been declared an outlaw state."

The Empress glared. The slave held up a hand, trying to mollify her.

"I am not quibbling over the fine points of law, Your Majesty. The truth is, even if the Malwa Empire were to be declared outlaw"-he chuckled-"although I'm not sure who would be powerful enough to do so! — I would still feel bound to my obligation."

He took a deep breath. "I owe my life to the general, Empress. I was a dead man, when he found me. Still walking-still even talking, now and then-but dead for all that. He breathed life back into my soul. Purpose."

Shakuntala finally saw her opening.

"What purpose?" she demanded. "The destruction of Malwa, isn't it?"

Dadaji leaned back. He and the Empress were seated, facing each other three feet apart, each on cushions, each in the lotus position. He eyed her suspiciously.

"Yes. That. One other."

Shakuntala nodded vigorously, pressing the advantage.

"You can serve that purpose better as my imperial adviser than you can as his slave," she stated. "Much better."

Holkar stroked his beard. The gesture, in its own way, illustrated his quandary.

As a slave, he had been forced to shave his respectable beard. That beard, and the middle-aged dignity which went with it, had been restored by Belisarius. It was a symbol of all that he owed the general.

Yet, at the same time-it was a badge of his dignity. Full, now; rich with the gray hairs of experience and wisdom. Foolish, really, to waste the beard and all it signified on the life of a slave. A slave who, as Shakuntala rightly said, was no longer of great use to his master.

Stroke. Stroke.

"How do you know I could serve you properly?" he demanded.

Shakuntala felt the tension ease from her shoulders. Get the argument off the ground of abstract honor and onto to the ground of concrete duty, and she was bound to win.

"You are as shrewd as any man I ever met," she stated forcefully. "Look how you managed this escape-and all the preparations which went into it. Belisarius always relied on you for anything of that nature. He trusted you completely-and he is immensely shrewd himself, in that way as well as others. I need men I can trust. Rely on. Desperately."

Stroking his beard. "What you need, girl, is prestige and authority. An imperial adviser should be noble-born. Brahmin. I am merely vaisya. Low-caste vaisya." He smiled. "And Maratha, to boot. In most other lands, my caste would be ranked among the sudra, lowest of the twice-born."

"So?" she demanded. "You are as literate and educated as any brahmin. More than most! You know that to be true."

Holkar spread his hands. "What does that matter? The rulers and dignitaries of other lands will be offended, if your adviser does not share their purity. They would have to meet with me, privately and intimately, on many occasions. They would feel polluted by the contact."

The Empress almost snarled. "Damn them, then! If they seek alliance with me, they will have to take it as it comes!"

Holkar barked a laugh.

"Tempestuous girl! Have you already lost your wits-at your age? They will not be seeking alliance with you, Empress. They are not throneless refugees, hunted like an animal. You will be knocking on their doors, beggar's bowl in hand."

With amazing dignity (under the circumstances; she was, after all, a throneless refugee): "I shall not."

"You shall."

"Shall not."

Dadaji glowered. "See? Already you scorn my advice!" Shaking his finger: "You must learn to bridle that temper, Empress! You will indeed treat with possible allies with all necessary-I won't say humility; I don't believe in magic! — decorum."

Glower.

"And another thing-"

Shakuntala spent the next hour in uncharacteristic silence, nodding her head, attending patiently to her new adviser. It was not difficult. His advice, in truth, was excellent. And she had no need to rein in her temper. Even if he had been babbling nonsense, she would have listened politely.

She had her adviser. In fact, if not yet in name.

At the end of that hour, Dadaji Holkar reined himself in. With a start of surprise.

"You are a treacherous girl," he grumbled. Then, chuckling: "Quite well done, actually!" He gazed at her fondly, shaking his head with amusement.

"Very well, Empress," he said. "Let us leave it so: I will send your request to Belisarius. If he agrees, I will serve you in whatever capacity you wish."

Shakuntala nodded. "He will agree," she said confidently. "For reasons of state, if no other. But he will want to know-what do you wish? What will you tell him?"

Holkar stared at her. "I will tell him that it is my wish, also." Then, still seated, he bowed deeply. "You are my sovereign, Empress. Such a sovereign as any man worthy of the name would wish to serve."

When he lifted his head, his face was calm. Shakuntala's next words destroyed that serenity.

"What is your other purpose?" she asked.

Holkar frowned.

"You said, earlier, that the destruction of Malwa was one of your purposes. One of two. Name the other."

Holkar's face tightened.

Shakuntala was ruthless.

"Tell me."

He looked away. "You know what it is," he whispered.

That was true. She did. But she would force him to face it squarely. Lest, in the years to come, it gnawed his soul to destruction. Youth, too, has its bold wisdom.

"Say it."

The tears began to flow.

"Say it."

Finally, as he said the words, the slave vanished. Not into the new, shadow soul of an imperial adviser, but into what he had always been. The man, Dadaji Holkar.

In the quiet, gentle time that followed, as a low-born Maratha sobbed and sobbed, his grey head cradled in the small arms of India's purest, most ancient, most noble line, the soul named Dadaji Holkar finished the healing which a foreign general had begun.

He would help his sovereign restore her broken people.

And he would, someday, find his broken family.

A Family and Its Resolve

Ironically, Dadaji Holkar had already found his family, without knowing it. He had even, without knowing it, helped them through their troubles.

Standing next to the stablekeeper in Kausambi, watching the rockets flaring into the sky, he had been not half a mile from his wife. She, along with the other kitchen slaves, had been watching those same rockets from the back court of her master's mansion. Until the head cook, outraged, had driven them back to their duties.

She had gone to those duties with a lighter heart than usual. She had no idea what that catastrophe represented. But, whatever it was, it was bad news for Malwa. The thought kept her going for hours, that night; and warmed her, a bit, in countless nights that followed.

His son had actually seen him. In Bihar, rearing from his toil in the fields, his son had rested for a moment. Idly watching a nobleman's caravan pass on the road nearby. He had caught but a glimpse of the nobleman himself, riding haughtily in his howdah on the lead elephant. The man's face was indistinguishable, at that distance. But there was no mistaking his identity. A Malwa potentate, trampling the world.

The overseer's angry shout sent him back to work. The shout, combined with the sight of that arrogant lord, burned through his soul. From months and months of hard labor, the boy's body had grown tough enough to survive. But he had feared, sometimes, that he himself was too weak. Now, feeling the hardening flame, he knew otherwise.

Stooping, he cursed that unknown Malwa, and made a solemn vow. Whoever that stinking lord was, Dadaji Holkar's son would outlive him.

Holkar had not come as close to his daughters. As planned, Shakuntala and her companions had taken a side road before reaching Pataliputra. They had no desire to risk the swarming officialdom in that huge city, and so they had bypassed it altogether.

Still, they had passed less than fifteen miles to the south. Thirteen miles, only, from the slave brothel where his daughters were held.

In a way, Dadaji had even touched them. And his touch had been a blessing.

The soldiers at the guardpost where Shakuntala had browbeaten the commanding officer, had contributed to his humiliation later. The bribe had been very large, and their officer was a weakling. An arrogant little snot, whom they had browbeaten themselves into a bigger cut than common soldiers usually received. With their share of the bribe, they had enjoyed a pleasant visit to the nearest brothel, on the southern outskirts of the city. They had had money to burn.

Money to burn, and they spent it all. Gold coin from the hand of Dadaji Holkar had found its way into the hands of his daughters' pimps. The girls were popular with the soldiers, and they had paid handsomely.

It cannot be said that the soldiers were popular with the girls. None of their customers were. But, in truth, Holkar's daughters had been relieved to spend two days in their exclusive company. The soldiers were not rough with them; and, young men, unjaded, were not given to the bizarre quirks that some of the local merchants and tradesmen preferred.

After the soldiers left, their pimps informed the girls that they had decided to turn down the various offers which had come in for their purchase, from other brothels. Holkar's daughters had known of those offers, and dreaded them, for they would result in separation.

But the pimps had decided to keep them. They were popular with the soldiers. Steady business.

The brothel-keeper even tossed them one of the coins. A bonus, he said, for good work.

That coin, in the endless time which followed, was his daughters' secret treasure. They never spent it. Sometimes, late at night, in the crib they shared, the girls would bring the coin from its hiding place and admire it, holding hands.

It was their lucky coin, they decided. So long as they had it, they would be together. The family of Dadaji Holkar would still survive.

An Empress and Her Decision

As she watched Dadaji's tears soak her royal skin, the Empress Shakuntala made her own decision. And reaffirmed a vow.

She had never thought much about purity and pollution, in her short life. She had resented the caste system, half-consciously, for the many ways it constrained her. Had even hated it, half-consciously, for the inseparable barrier which it placed between her and her most precious desire. But she had never really thought about it, before. It had simply been there. A fact of life, like the three seasons of India.

She began to think about it, now. Her thoughts, unlike her heart, were very unclear. She was young. Rao, in times past, had tried to teach her some aspects of philosophy, and devotion. But the girl she had been had not taken to those lessons kindly. His soft words had met none of the enthusiastic attention which had greeted his training in other, much harder, fields.

Now, she began to think, and learn.

She had learned this much, already. Watching a foreign general, she had seen Rao's forgotten lessons come to life. Hard fists, and harder steel, were like snow at the foot of mountains. Mountains called minds, which produced that snow, and then melted it when they so desired. Only the soul matters, in the end. It towers over creation like the Himalayas.

She made her decision. As she rebuilt Andhra, she would gather what there was of human learning and wisdom around her throne. She would not only rebuild the stupas, the viharas. She would not simply recall the philosophers, and the sadhus, and the monks. She would set them to work-mercilessly-driving them one against the other. Clashing idea against idea like great cymbals, until truth finally emerged.

That doing, of course, required another. And so, watching her purity imperilled by the racking tears of the low-born man in her arms, and drawing strength from that pollution, she reaffirmed her vow.

I will make Malwa howl.

An Empire and Its Howl

Malwa was howling. As yet, however, only in the privacy of the Emperor's chambers. And only, as yet, howling with rage. Fear was still to come.

The rage blew inward, centered on Malwa itself. The fate of Lord Venandakatra hung in the balance.

"I always told you he was a fool," snarled Nanda Lal. "He's smart enough, I admit. But no man's intelligence is worth a toad's croak if he cannot restrain his lusts and vanities."

"You can no longer protect him, Skandagupta," stated Sati. "You have coddled him enough. He-not the underlings he blames-is responsible for Belisarius. For Shakuntala. Recall him. Discipline him harshly."

Link, then, was all that saved Venandakatra from disgrace. Or worse.

"NO. YOU MISS THE GREAT FRAMEWORK. VENANDAKATRA WAS JUST APPOINTED GOPTRI OF THE DECCAN. TO RECALL HIM IN DISGRACE WOULD HEARTEN THE MARATHA. SHAKUNTALA IS IMPORTANT, BUT SHE IS NOT AS IMPORTANT AS HER PEOPLE. BREAK THAT PEOPLE, YOU BREAK HER."

The Malwa bowed to their overlord.

"BREAK MAJARASHTRA. TERRORIZE THE MARATHA MONGRELS, TILL THEIR BASTARDS WHISPER FEAR FOR A MILLENIUM. PULVERIZE THAT POLLUTED FOLK."

"FOR THAT, VENANDAKATRA WILL DO. PERFECTLY."

A Husband and His Thoughts.

The day before his departure to join Lord Damodara's army, Rana Sanga spent entirely with his wife. Late that night, exhausted from love-making, he stroked his wife's hair.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, smiling. "All of a sudden, you've got this serious look on your face."

"Hard to explain," he grunted.

His wife reared up in the bed, the coverings falling away from her plump figure.

"Talk," she commanded, wriggling her fingers threateningly. "Or I tickle!"

Sanga laughed. "Not that! Please! I'd rather face Belisarius himself, with an army at his back."

His wife's amusement died away. "That's what you were thinking about? Him?"

Her face tightened. The Persian campaign was about to begin. She knew Sanga would, soon enough, be facing that-terrible Roman-on the battlefield. And that, for all her husband's incredible prowess at war, this enemy was one he truly respected. Even, she thought, feared.

Sanga shook his head. "Actually, no. Not directly, at least."

He reached up his hand and gently caressed her face. Plain it was, that face, very plain. Round, like her body.

He had not married her for her beauty. He had never even seen her face, before she lifted the veil in his sleeping chamber, after their wedding. Theirs, in the way of Rajput royalty, had been a marriage of state. Dictated by the stern necessities of dynasty, class, and caste. Of maintaining the true Rajput lineage; protecting purity from pollution.

He had said nothing, on the night he first saw his wife's face, and then her body, to indicate his disappointment. She had been very fearful, she told him years later, of what he would say, or do-or not do-when he saw how plain she was. But he had been pleasant, even kind; had gone about his duty. And, by the end of the night, had found a surprising pleasure in that eager, round body; excitement, in those quick and clever fingers; gaiety and warmth, lurking behind the shyness in her eyes. And, in the morning, had seen the happiness in a still-sleeping, round face. Happiness which he had put there, he knew, from kindness far more than manhood.

Young, then, filled with the vainglory of a Rajput prince already famous for his martial prowess, he had made an unexpected discovery. Pride could be found in kindness, too. Deep pride, in the sight of a wife's face glowing with the morning. Even a plain face. Perhaps especially a plain face.

The day had come, years later, when he came upon his wife in the kitchen. She was often to be found there. Despite their many cooks and servants, his wife enjoyed preparing food. Hearing him come, recognizing his footsteps, she had turned from the table where she was cutting onions. Turned, smiled-laughed, wiping the tears from her eyes-brushed the hair (all grey, now-no black left at all) away from her face, knife still in her hand, laughing at her preposterous appearance. Laughing with her mouth, laughing with her eyes.

Twice only, in his life, had the greatest of Rajputana's kings been stunned. Struck down, off his feet, by sudden shock.

Once, sprawling on a famous field of battle, when Raghunath Rao split his helmet with a dervish blow of his sword.

Once, collapsing on a bench in his own kitchen, when he realized that he loved his wife.

"You are my life," he whispered.

"Yes," she replied. And gave him a fresh sweet onion, as if it were another child.

"I was thinking of your face," he said. "And another's. The face of a young woman. Very beautiful, she was."

His wife's lips tightened, slightly, but she never looked away.

"I have always told you I would not object to concubines, husband," she said softly. "I am not-"

"Hush, wife!" he commanded. Then, laughing: "The farthest thing from my mind! Even if the woman in question was not the Emperor's own daughter-hardly a woman for a Rajput's concubine."

His wife giggled. Sanga shook his head.

"I was not matching the two faces that way, dearest one. I was-ah! It is too difficult to explain!"

"The tickle, then!"

She was as good as her word. But, for all the gleeful torment, Sanga never did explain his thoughts to her. Not that night. Not for many nights to come.

They were too hard to explain. Too new. Too bound up with new secrets. Too twisted into the misty coils of the far distant future which he had glimpsed, in the chamber of Great Lady Holi and the being for which she was a mere vessel.

Eventually, his wife fell asleep. Sanga did not, for a time. He was kept awake by thoughts of lineage. Of the plain face of his wife; the lines of her face which he could see coiling through the faces of his children, alongside his own. Of the beautiful face of an emperor's daughter, destined to be the vessel for the perfect faces of future gods.

The lineage of his life. Life that was. Life that is. Life that will be.

He contemplated purity; contemplated pollution. Contemplated perfection. Contemplated onions.

Most of all, he pondered on illusion, and truth, and the strange way in which illusion can become truth.

And truth become illusion.

A Creation and Its Understanding

When the general finally left the Empress and walked out of the palace, the day was ending. Drawn by the sunset, Belisarius went to the balustrade overlooking the Bosporus. He leaned on the stone, admiring the view.

An urgent thought came from Aide.

There is more, now. More that I understand of the message from the Great Ones. I think. I am not sure.

Tell me.

They said to us-this also:

Find everything that made us.

Find passion in the virgin, purity in the whore;

Faith in the traitor, fate in the priest.

Find doubt in the prophet, decision in the slave;

Mercy in the killer, murder in the wife.

Look for wisdom in the young, and the suckling

need of age;

Look for truth in moving water; falsehood

in the stone.

See the enemy in the mirror, the friend

across the field.

Look for everything that made us.

On the ground where we were made.

Silence. Then:

Do you understand?

Belisarius smiled. Not crookedly, not at all.

Yes. Oh, yes.

I think I understand, too. I am not sure.

"Of course you understand," murmured Belisarius. "We made you. On that same ground."

Silence. Then:

You promised.

There was no reproach in that thought, now. No longer. It was the contented sound of a child, nestling its head into a father's shoulder.

You promised.