So what was there to say?
Damodara found words. "Make yourself useful for a change, Isanavarman. Interview the surviving Ye-tai. Find out as much as you can about the handcannons."
Isanavarman began to say something, but Damodara cut him short. "Do it. I am the commander of this army, spymaster, not you."
The Malwa lord lifted his finger in a little gesture at the troops surrounding them. Rajputs, all of them, except a few hundred kshatriyas-those whose proven valor had made them welcome. Most of the kshatriyas were in the camp, knowing full well the Rajputs would not permit their presence.
Isanavarman scanned the mass of soldiers. There were perhaps a thousand Ye-tai there also. But the spymaster did not fail to notice that the Ye-tai were scattered through the mass of Rajputs in small groups. Individuals, often enough, chatting amiably with their Rajput companions. Rajputs had a certain scorn for Ye-tai barbarity. But this was a day of manliness, and no one questioned Ye-tai courage.
"Do it," repeated Damodara. Again, cold eyes went to the spymaster. "Leave now, Isanavarman. This is not a place for you."
The spymaster left, then, trailed by his three subordinates. Nanda Lal's agents did not flee, exactly, but neither did they amble. They were not oblivious to other hard, cold eyes upon them. The eyes of thousands of Rajput warriors, who had no love for Malwa spies at any time or place-and certainly not here, on this day of glory.
When they were gone, Damodara leaned toward Narses. The commander's eyes were still fixed on the combat between Valentinian and Rana Sanga, but his gaze seemed a bit unfocused. As if Damodara's thoughts were elsewhere.
"I trust he no longer has a horde of spies," he murmured.
Narses' sneer, as always, was magnificent. "He's got the three who came with him, and two others. The rest are on my payroll."
Damodara nodded. "Tonight, then. I think that would be best."
"It'll be perfect," agreed Narses. "A pitched battle was fought today. A great victory for Malwa, of course, but not without its cost. The cunning Roman general sent a cavalry troop raiding into our camp. Terrible carnage. Great losses."
Narses crooked his finger. Ajatasutra, squatting ten feet away, rose and came over.
"Tonight," whispered Narses. "Do it yourself, if possible."
Ajatasutra did not sneer. He never did. That was one of the reasons, oddly, why Narses had grown so fond of him. But the assassin's thin smile had not a trace of humor in it.
"Those arrogant snobs haven't used a dagger in years," he said softly. "Years spent lounging in Kausambi, reading reports, while poor downtrodden agents like me were having hair-raising adventures with tired old eunuchs."
Narses had a fine grin, to match his sneer. It was not an expression often seen on his reptilian face-and no more reassuring, come to it, that a cobra's yawning gape. But the grin stayed on his face, for minutes thereafter.
He was amused, thinking not of serpents but of different animals. Tigers, and men who choose to ride them.
He glanced at Damodara. The Malwa commander's eyes were riveted on the combat, now, and there was nothing unfocused in the gaze.
He might as well have stripes himself, thought Narses.
In the tales of bards, and the lays of poets, truth takes on a rosy tinge. More than a tinge, actually. The reality of a single combat between two great warriors becomes something purely legendary.
There is little place, in legends, for sweat. Even less for thirst and exhaustion. And none at all for urination.
But the fact remains that two men do not battle each other, for hours, without rest. Not even if they were fighting half-naked, with bare hands-much less encumbered by heavy armor and wielding swords. Single combat between champions, other than a glancing encounter in the midst of battle, is by nature a formal affair. And, like most formalities, has a practical core at the center of its rituals.
After the first five minutes, Sanga and Valentinian broke off, gasping for breath. By then, the area was surrounded by Rajputs. Sanga's cavalrymen were still astride their mounts, holding their weapons. One of them, seeing the first open space between the two combatants, began edging his horse toward Valentinian. The man's lance was half-raised.
Sanga bellowed inarticulate fury. The Rajput shied away.
Sanga planted his sword tip in the ground-carefully, making sure there were no stones to dull the blade-and leaned upon it. After gasping a few more breaths, he pointed at Valentinian.
"Give the man water," he commanded. "Wine, if he prefers." The Rajput king studied his opponent, for a few seconds. Valentinian was still breathing deeply, and leaning on his own sword, but Sanga saw that he was no longer gasping.
"And bring us food and cushions," added Sanga. He smiled, quite cheerfully. "I think we're going to need them."
For the next few minutes, while Sanga and Valentinian rested, the Rajputs organized the necessities. A dozen Rajputs clustered around Sanga. Four began moving toward Valentinian, after lowering their weapons. One of them carried a winesack; another, a skin full of water; the third, a rolled-up blanket to serve Valentinian as a cushion whenever he rested; the fourth, some dry bread and cheese.
Sanga nodded toward them, while keeping his eyes on Valentinian. "They will assist you," he called out to the Roman. "Anything you need."
Sanga straightened. "You may surrender, of course. At any time."
For a moment, Valentinian almost gave his natural response-fuck you, asshole! — but restrained the impulse. He simply shook his head. A gesture which, at the end, turned into a little bow. Even Valentinian, hardbitten and cynical as he was, could sense the gathering glory.
In the hours which followed, as a lowborn Roman cataphract fought his way into India's legends, the man's mind wondered at his actions.
Why are you doing this, you damned fool?
All his life, Valentinian had been feared by other men. Feared for his astonishing quickness, his reflexes, his uncanny eye-most of all, for his instant capacity to murder. Precious few men, in truth, can kill at the drop of a hat. Valentinian, since the age of ten, could do it before the hat was touched.
And so men feared him. And found, in his whipcord shape and narrow face, the human image of a vicious predator.
Because I'm tired of being called a weasel, came the soul's reply.
The end came suddenly, awkwardly, unexpectedly-almost casually. As it usually does, in the real world. The bards and poets, of course, would have centuries to clean it up.
Sanga's foot slipped, skidding on a loose pebble. For a moment, catching his balance, his shield swung aside. Valentinian, seeing his opening, swung for the Rajput's exposed leg. No Herculean stroke, just Valentinian's usual economic slice. The quick blade cut deeply into Sanga's thigh.
The Rajput fell to one knee, crying out in pain. Pain-and despair. His leg was already covered with blood. It was not the bright, crimson spurting of arterial blood, true, but it was enough. That wound would slay him within half an hour, from blood loss alone. Sooner, really. Within minutes, pain and weakness would cripple him enough for his enemy to make the kill.
Then-
All other men, watching or hearing of that battle in years to come, would always assume that Valentinian made his only mistake.
But the truth was quite otherwise. For hours, Valentinian had avoided matching strength with Sanga. He had countered the king's astonishing power with speed, instead. Speed, cunning, and experience. He could have-should have-ended the battle so. Circling the Rajput, probing, slashing, bleeding him further, staying away from that incredible strength, until his opponent was so weak that the quick death thrust could be driven home. Killing a king, like a wolf brings down a crippled bull. Like a weasel kills.