David Drake - An oblique approach

The three people standing to the side of the artillery piece followed the trajectory of the jar. Within two seconds, the jar slammed into a stone wall some distance away and erupted into a ball of flame.

“Yes! Yes!” howled John, prancing with glee. “It works! Look at that, Antonina-spontaneous eruption!”

She herself was grinning from ear to ear. The grin didn’t vanish even after she caught sight of Maurice’s frown.

“Oh, come on, you damned Cassandra!” she laughed. “I swear, you are the most morose man who ever lived.”

Maurice smiled faintly. “I’m not morose. I’m a pessimist.”

John of Rhodes scowled. “And what are you pessimistic about this time?” The retired naval officer pointing to the wall, which was still burning hotly.

“Look at it! And if you still don’t believe, go and try to put it out! Go ahead! I promise you that fire will last-even on stone-until the fuel burns itself up. The only way you’ll put it out is to bury it under dirt. You think an enemy is going to march into battle carrying shovels?”

Maurice shook his head.

“I’m not contesting your claims. But-look, John, you’re a naval officer. No big thing for you, on a nice fat ship, to haul around a pile of heavy clay pots. Carefully nestled in cloths to keep them from breaking and bursting into flame. Try doing that with a mule train, sometime, and you’ll understand why I’m not jumping for joy.”

John’s scowl deepened, but he said nothing in reply. Antonina sighed.

“You’re being unfair, Maurice.”

The hecatontarch’s scowl made John’s look like a smile.

“ Unfair? ” he demanded. “What’s that got to do with anything? War is unfair, Antonina! It’s the nature of the damned beast.”

His scowl faded. The hecatontarch marched over and placed his hand on John’s shoulder.

“I’m not criticizing you, John. There’s no doubt in my mind you just revolutionized naval warfare. And siege warfare, for that matter. I’m speaking the plain, blunt truth, that’s all. This stuff’s just too hard to handle for an army in the field.”

The naval officer’s own scowl faded. He looked down and blew out his lips. “Yes, I know. That’s why I made sure we were all standing back and to the side. I wasn’t sure the impact of hitting the crossbeam wouldn’t shatter the pot right here.”

He rubbed his neck. “The problem’s the damn naphtha. It’s still the base for the compound. As long as we’re stuck with that liquid, gooey crap we’re not going to get any better than this.”

Maurice grunted. “What did you add this time?” He nodded toward the distant flame, still burning. “Whatever it was, it makes one hell of a difference.”

John peered at the flame. His blue eyes seemed as bright as diamonds, as if he were trying to force the flames into some new shape by sheer willpower.

“Saltpeter,” he muttered.

Maurice shrugged. “Then why don’t you try mixing the saltpeter with something else? Something that isn’t liquid. A clay, or a powder. Anything else that’ll burn but isn’t hard to handle.”

“Like what?” demanded John crossly. With a sneer: “Brimstone?”

“Why not?” asked Antonina brightly. As usual, she found herself cheering the naval officer up after another long effort had fallen short of its mark.

John made a face. “Give me a break. Have you ever smelled burning sulfur?”

“Give it a try,” said Maurice. “Just make sure you stand upwind.”

John thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Why not?” Then, with a smile: “As long as we’re at it, why not make it a regular salad? What else burns easily but doesn’t make old soldiers grumpy?”

“How do you feel about coal, Maurice?” asked Antonina. (Brightly, of course. Men were such a grumpy lot. Like children with a permanent toothache.)

Maurice grumped. “Too heavy.”

John of Rhodes threw up his hands with exasperation.

“Charcoal, then! How’s that, damn you?”

Before Maurice could form a reply, Antonina sidled up to John and put her arm around his waist.

“Now, now, John. Be sweet.”

John began to snarl at her. Then, catching movement out of the corner of his eye, transformed the snarl into a leering grin.

“Sweet, is it? Well! As you say, as you say. Let’s to the workshed, shall we, and mix up this unholy mess of Maurice’s.”

His own arm slid around Antonina’s waist. The two of them began walking toward the workshed. On their way, John’s hand slid down slightly, patting Antonina’s hip.

Maurice didn’t bother to turn around. He knew what he would see. Procopius, emerging from the villa, his eyes ogling the intimate couple.

Maurice puffed exasperation and stared up at the heavens.

Someday you’re going to outsmart yourself, Belisarius, playing it too close. You might have told me, young man. If I hadn’t figured it out fast enough and passed the word to the boys, your mechanical genius would have been found with a dagger in his back.

Maurice turned back toward the villa.

Sure, enough. Procopius.

Another little puff of exasperation.

And since then it’s all I can do to keep the boys from sliding a blade into this one’s back.

Generals and their damned schemes!

A dagger and a dance

Weeks later, Raghunath Rao decided he had finally eluded his pursuers. The key, as he had hoped, had been his turn to the west. The enemy had expected him to continue south, in the straightest route to Majarashtra. Instead, he had slipped west, into the Rann of Kutch.

In the days which followed, making his way through the salt-marshes, he had seen no sign of his pursuers. Now that he had finally reached the sea, he was certain he was no longer being pursued.

He decided to camp that night on the shore. True, there was a chance of being spotted, but it was so small that he decided to take the risk. He was sick of the marshes. The salt-clean air would be like a balm to his soul.

He had had nothing to eat for two days, but ignored the pangs. Fasting and austerity were old friends. Tomorrow he would begin making his way around the coast of the Kathiawar peninsula. Soon enough he would encounter a fishing village. He spoke Gujarati fluently, and had no doubt he would find a friendly reception. Jainism still retained a strong hold in Gujarat, especially in the small villages away from the centers of Malwa power. Rao was confident that he could gain the villagers’ acceptance. And their silent, quiet assistance.

Rao was not a Jain himself, but he respected the faith and knew its creed well. He had studied it carefully in his youth, and, although he had not adopted it for his own, he had incorporated many of its teachings into his own syncretic view of God. Just as he had done with the way of the Buddha.

It would take him time to work his way around the peninsula. And then more time, to find a means to cross the Gulf of Khambhat. Once across the Gulf, the labyrinth of the Great Country was easily within reach.

He began to speculate on the methods he might use, but quickly put the thoughts aside. There would be time to make plans later, based on the reality which emerged.

A smile came to his face.

Indeed, on this one point Ousanas was quite right. Good plans, like good meat, are best cooked rare. Such a marvelous man! Even if he does believe in the most preposterous notions. “Eternal and unchanging Forms,” if you would!

The smile faded. Rao wondered how the treasure of his soul was faring. She was in the best of hands, of course. But, still, she was in the very heart of the asura’s domain.

Again, he pushed the thoughts aside. He had agreed to the plan of the foreigners, and he was not a man given to useless doubts and second thoughts. Besides, it was a good plan-no, it was an excellent plan. Shakuntala was hidden in the one place the Malwa, full of their arrogance, would never think to look for her. And there had been no alternative, anyway. Remembering the past weeks, Rao knew for a certainty that he would never have been able to escape if Shakuntala had been with him. It had been a very close matter as it was.