In the Heart of Darkness

He strode forward and sent the Roman back on his belly with a vicious, stamping kick. Then he sprang upon him, jerked his head up by the hair, and manhandled him to his knees.

"Here you great general, Sanga King," he said contemptuously. He cuffed the Roman, silencing a squawl.

Rana Sanga stared down at Belisarius. Stared up at the Pathan holding him by the hair. The tracker was grinning savagely.

Stared down at Belisarius. The general was gasping like a fish, eyes glazed.

Stared back at the Pathan. Down at Belisarius.

"Who in the hell is that?" snarled Jaimal.

Stared down at that. Up at the Pathan.

"I've never seen this man before in my life," he told the tracker quietly.

It was almost worth it, then, for Rana Sanga. After all those years, finally, to see the Pathan gape. Like an idiot beast.

"I'm just a poor peddler," whined the man, for the hundredth time. He moaned, pressing the bandage against his cheek. Moaned:

"My name is—"

"Shut up!" snarled Udai. "We know your name! What we want to know is where did you get the horses?"

The peddler stared up at the Rajput. Finally, something beyond squawling terror and babbling self-pity entered his mind.

Avarice.

"They're my horses!" he squealed. "You can't—"

"Shut up!" bellowed Udai. "Just shut up!"

Rana Sanga put a restraining hand on Udai's shoulder. His lieutenant's fury was just frightening the man senseless.

The Rajput king squatted, bringing his eyes level with those of the bloody-faced man sprawled in the dirt.

"Listen to me, peddler," he said quietly. Quietly, but very firmly. The peddler fell silent.

"My name is Rana Sanga."

The peddler's eyes widened. He was not Rajput, but he traded in Rajputana. He knew the name. Knew it well.

"We will take your horses." Quiet, iron words.

The peddler opened his mouth, began to squawl.

"Those horses were stolen from the royal courier service. To possess them is to be condemned to death. Impaled."

The peddler's mouth clamped shut. His eyes bulged.

Sanga raised his hand reassuringly.

"Have no fear. We have no interest in your execution. If you serve us well, we may even repay you for the loss of the horses."

Partly, he thought, watching the avarice leap back into the peddler's eyes. Whatever you paid for them. Which, I am quite certain, is much less than what they are worth. I think I am beginning to understand what that—that—fiend—

He took a deep breath.

No. What that fiendish mind has done here.

He glanced to the side. Thirty feet away, his Pathan tracker was holding up one of the horse's legs, examining the hoof. Very carefully.

Sanga turned back to the peddler.

"But now, man, you must tell me—very quickly, very simply, very clearly—how you got the horses."

"He was a Ye-tai," gasped out the peddler. Then, in a sudden rush of words:

"A deserter from the imperial bodyguard, I think. I'm not sure—I didn't ask!—not a Ye-tai—but. I think. I saw part of a uniform. Gold and red. He was on the run, I think. Had nothing but those fine horses, and seemed desperate to get out of Ajmer. So he—he—"

Suddenly, amazingly, the peddler burst into laughter. "Idiot Ye-tai! Stupid barbarian! He had no idea what those horses we're worth—none, I tell you! In the end—it only took me two hours of haggling—I traded them for three camels, some blankets, and a tent. Food. Maybe fifty pounds of water. Two big tureens full. And five bottles of wine. Cheap wine." Howling, howling. "Fucking idiot! Fucking savage!"

Sanga slapped the man's ear. "Silence."

The peddler's hysterical laughter stopped instantly. His faced turned pale.

"And what else?" grated Sanga. "There would have been something else."

The peddler's expression was a weird conglomeration of astonishment, fear, greed. Fear.

"How did you know?" he whispered.

"I know that—Ye-tai," replied Sanga quietly. "He would not have simply sent you on your way. He would have made sure you came this way. How?"

Fear. Greed. Fear.

"Show me."

It was one of the Emperor's emeralds.

A small emerald, very small, by imperial standards. Probably the least of the jewels which Belisarius had with him. But it had been a fortune to the peddler. Enough to send him off to Bharakuccha, with the promise of a matching emerald if he delivered the message to the proper party.

Who?

A Greek merchant. A ship captain.

His name? The name of the ship?

Jason. The Argo.

Show me the message.

Rana Sanga could read Greek, but only poorly. It did not matter. Most of the message was mathematics, and that he understood quite well. (India was the home of mathematics. Centuries later, Europeans would abandon Roman numerals and adopt a new, cunning arithmetic. They would call them "Arabic numerals," because they got them from the Arabs. But they had been invented in India.)