The Dance of Time

Epilogue

A father and his concerns

Belisarius emerged from the palace just before sundown. In what had become something of a daily custom for him, whenever he could manage it, he went to sit on the bench where he could watch the sun set. The same bench where Aide had left him.

To his surprise, Rana Sanga was already on the bench. Waiting for him, clearly enough.

Belisarius took a seat next to the Rajput king. "May I be of service, Sanga?"

"Perhaps. I hope so. I am concerned for my son."

Belisarius frowned. "He is ill? He seemed quite healthy when I saw him last. Which was just yesterday, now that I think about it."

"His health is excellent. No, it's. ." The tall king took a slow, deep breath. "He fought beside me, you know, the day we took Kausambi. All the way to the imperial palace, and even into it."

"Fought extremely well, I was told."

"Belisarius, he frightened me. I have never seen a thirteen-year-old boy who could fight like that. He was deadly beyond belief. And suffered not so much as a scratch himself."

He shook his head. "Thirteen! At that age, I could certainly wield a sword with great strength and vigor. But I doubt I was much of a threat to anything beyond a log, or a cutting post. My soldiers are already spreading stories about him."

"Ah." Belisarius thought he understand the nature of the Rajput's worries. "He was trained by Valentinian, Sanga. Meaning no disrespect to your own prowess, but-being honest-much of that prowess is simply due to your incredible strength and reflexes. Valentinian is actually a more skilled fighter than you. For a boy like Rajiv, who is not and will never be his father's physical match, he was the perfect trainer."

Sanga started to say something, but Belisarius forestalled him with a raised hand. "That is simply an explanation. As for what I think concerns you, there are many stories about Rajiv. The one I think personally is the most significant is Valentinian's story. Told, mind you, with considerable exasperation. The story of your son's lunacy when he saved the lives of the soldiers garrisoning the southern gate."

There was an odd expression on Sanga's face, one that Belisarius couldn't decipher. Then the Rajput king chuckled, quite warmly.

"That! Ha! The truth is, Belisarius, I tend to agree with Valentinian. It's certainly not something I'd have done-at that age or any other."

He shook his head again. "You misunderstand. I am not concerned for my boy's soul. He is no budding monster, simply. . what he is. A thirteen-year-old boy who is deadly beyond his years because he was born a Rajput prince but then-for long months, in the most intense period of his life-raised by a Roman soldier. A very unusual Roman soldier, at that. 'Stripped to the bone,' as my wife describes him."

He turned to look at Belisarius directly. He was frowning slightly, but there was no anger in his eyes. "You understand, now? He is no longer Rajput, Belisarius. Not really. Something. . else. Not Roman, either, just. . else. So. How am I to raise him? I have been pondering that, these past weeks."

The sun was setting. Belisarius paused, to watch it do so. For his part, Sanga simply waited.

By the time the sun was down, Belisarius understood. "You think he would do better being raised by someone else. The rest of the way, so to speak. And that someone would be me."

"Yes. I have thought about it, a great deal. If I tried to force him back into the Rajput mold, he would rebel. Not because he wanted to-he is a very dutiful son, I have no complaint-but simply because he could do no other. Not now, when he is already thirteen. But neither do I want him to drift, not really knowing who he is or why he lives. I can think of no man in the world I would trust more than you, to see him safely through that passage."

"Have you spoken to your wife about the matter?"

Sanga had a smile on his face that was almost as crooked as a Belisarius smile.

The Roman general chuckled. "Stupid question."

"It was her suggestion, actually. I wouldn't have thought of it on my own, I don't think."

That was probably true. Belisarius admired and respected Sanga enormously, but it was a simple fact that the man was on the stiff side. Very unlike his wife, from the sense Belisarius had gotten of her these past weeks.

He probed himself, to see how he felt about the idea. And was a little shocked by how strongly he reacted.

"I knew someone once," he said, very softly, "who was much like Rajiv. Neither this nor that. Great-souled, but also very deadly even at a very young age. Yes, Sanga, I will be glad to do it."

The Rajput king looked away, then nodded. Stiffly.

"We need to find a way to persuade Rajiv, however," he cautioned. "I do not want him to think-not for a moment-that his father is rejecting him."

When Belisarius said nothing, Sanga turned back to look at him.

"I have missed that crooked smile of yours. It's nice to see it back."

"Leave it to me," Belisarius said.

A wife and her worries

"I don't have anything to wear!"

"Of course, you do," Calopodius said. "Wear your usual uniform."

"To an imperial reception? Don't be absurd! There are going to be-wait a moment, I actually have to count-"

Anna did so, quickly, on her fingers. Then: "Three emperors, an empress-ruling empress, mind you, not the usual wife business-more kings than I can remember since every realm in India is sending their monarchs-the highest official of Axum short of the negusa nagast himself-thank God he's not coming, what would we do with a babe less than a year old? — and-and-and-"

She threw up her hands. "More royal officials than sages, more sages than generals, and more generals than there are leaves on a tree." Scowling, now: "I leave aside the presence of heroic figures of legend. You know, the sort of people who have nicknames like 'the Mongoose' and 'the Panther' and bards write verses about them. And you want me to wear a uniform?"

Antonina came into the chamber just in time to hear the last few sentences.

"Well, of course. What else would you wear? You're hosting it-one of the hosts, at least-as the leader of a medical order. Naturally, you should wear your uniform."

Anna glared at her. "Is that so? Well, then. Since the same applies to you, may I assume you'll be wearing that obscene brass-titted cuirass of yours?"

"To an imperial reception? Don't be absurd!"

A husband and his observations

"I think the reception is going splendidly, Belisarius," commented Khusrau. "Much better than I thought it would, to be honest. Given that this salon is packed with people who were killing each other just a few months ago."

The two men took a moment to gaze out over the milling crowd.

"Such a relief, to be able to stand instead of sit for change," the Persian emperor continued, "and without a thousand courtiers swarming over me. A wonderful idea, this was, to hold the reception in a salon instead of an official audience chamber."

Belisarius grinned. "No room for courtiers. And no need for bodyguards, of course. Not with the room sprinkled with people who have nicknames like 'the Panther' and 'the Mongoose.' It was my wife's idea, by the way."

Khusrau shifted his gaze, to look upon the woman in question.

"Such a magnificent, brilliant woman."

" 'Brilliant' is right. I recommend taking care if you happen to be in her vicinity. If she turns around suddenly, those brass tits would sink a warship."

The Emperor of Iran and non-Iran shared a chuckle with Rome's most famous general.

"But she's always been flamboyant," Belisarius added. "Or else she would have chosen a sensible uniform like Anna Saronites."

Both men took the time to admire the woman in question, who was standing not too far away. At the moment, engaged in an animated discussion with two sadhus from. . Bengal, Belisarius thought. He wasn't sure. Whoever they were, they were famous in their circles, or they wouldn't have been here at all.

They were wearing nothing but loincloths. Anna's severe costume looked positively glamorous in comparison.

"The courtiers must have gnashed their teeth, seeing them pass through the guards," Belisarius commented.

"I'm told several of them required medical assistance. Fortunately, there wasn't any. It's all concentrated in this room."

That was good for a shared belly laugh.

A father and his frets

"I have no objection, personally," said Dadaji Holkar. "None at all. There even seems to be a genuine attachment between Dhruva and Valentinian. None, perhaps, between Lata and Anastasius. But my wife tells me Lata is content with the situation. What else does a marriage need, at the beginning? But. ."

He and Belisarius were standing in a small alcove, apart from the throngs. Now that the reception was over, the festivities had spread throughout the palace. Relieved beyond measure, the courtiers had come into their own.

"You are concerned over possible gossip," Belisarius said. "Dadaji, I will point out that with husbands like that-not to mention you being the peshwa of Andhra-"

"Yes, yes, yes." Holkar waved his hand, impatiently. "We can add the fact that-I have no doubt-you will have your son shower Valentinian and Anastasius with ranks in the Roman nobility and Rana Sanga's clan has already officially adopted them and pronounced them both kshatriya. Give it ten years, and-I have no doubt-someone will discover ancient records that prove both men are descended from the most illustrious lines. Somewhere."

His face looked weary. "The fact remains, Belisarius, that people will talk. And I really don't think we need to have the streets of Bharakuccha running with the blood of gossiping merchants. Which-Valentinian? — will most certainly happen."

The Roman general scratched his chin. "But who would start the talk, Dadaji?" He hesitated, for a moment, before deciding that brutal honesty was the only sensible course. "Look, here's the simple truth. Within a week-a day-a prostitute's customer doesn't even remember what she looked like. He'll remember her name-if he even asked at all-no longer than that. As for the other prostitutes, by now they'd be scattered to the winds. And nobody listens to such women, anyway."

Holkar didn't flinch from the bluntness. "Who cares about them? Belisarius, their pimps will remember them. And the line between a pimp and a blackmailer can't be wedged open by a knife. They might even be remembered by the slavers who originally sold them-who are still in business, I remind you, here in Bharakuccha."

Belisarius kept scratching his chin. "That's your only concern?"

"Oh, yes. Otherwise, I think the marriages would be splendid. The best things to happen to my daughters since they were taken away, other than being reunited with me and my wife. I like Valentinian and Anastasius, Belisarius. Most men see nothing in them but warriors, and brutal ones at that. But I was with them, you remember, for quite some time."

"Yes, I remember." He lowered his hand. "Will you trust me to handle the matter, if I tell you I can?"

Holkar didn't hesitate for more than an instant. "Yes, of course."

"These things can be handled. Leave it to me."

An emperor and his decision

A week after the reception, Narses was summoned to appear before Emperor Damodara.

To his surprise, however, the meeting was not held in the audience chamber that was part of the huge suite assigned to the Malwa delegation in the former Goptri's palace. It was held in a small private chamber. The only other man in the room, besides the emperor himself and Narses, was Rana Sanga.

When Narses saw that, he tried not to let the relief show in his posture. It was still possible that Sanga was there to escort him, afterward, to the executioners. But he wouldn't do the work himself. So Narses still had some time left.

Apparently, however, his efforts were not entirely successful.

Damodara smiled, thinly. "Relax, Narses. I decided not to have you assassinated over a month ago. I decided not to have you officially executed even before that."

"Why?" Narses asked bluntly.

Damodara did not seem to take umbrage at being questioned. "Hard to explain. Simply accept that I feel it would be a bad start, for a new dynasty, and leave it at that. Whatever else, both Sanga and I are in your debt."

The Rajput king nodded. Stiffly.

"Then why-oh. You've spent the time figuring out what else to do with me. I take it the answer was not: keep him in my service."

Damodara's smile widened, considerably. "That would be foolish, would it not?"

"Yes. It would."

"So I surmised. As it happens, however, I am-in a way-keeping you in my service." The emperor pointed to a chest over in a corner. "Open that."

Narses went over and did so. Despite himself, he couldn't stifle a little gasp, when he saw the contents.

"A king's ransom, yes. It's yours, Narses. Officially, the funds to set you up and maintain you in your new position. There's a good mixture of coins, jewels, rare spices-other valuables-that you should be able to use anywhere."

"Anywhere." Narses considered the word. "And where would that 'anywhere' be found? If I might ask?"

"Well, of course you can ask!" Damodara actually grinned. "How could you possibly get there, if you didn't know where you were going? China, Narses. I find myself possessed by a burning desire to establish an embassy in China. And to appoint you as my ambassador."

"There are sixteen kingdoms in China, the last I heard. Which one?"

Damodara waved his hand. "I believe the situation has simplified some. It doesn't matter. I leave those decisions to you."

He leaned forward and planted his hands firmly on the armrests of the big chair he was sitting in. There was neither a smile nor a grin on his face, now.

"Go to China, Narses. I send you with a fortune and with my good wishes. Believe it so. Set yourself up wherever you choose, once you get there. Send me reports, if you would. But whatever else. ."

"Don't come back."

Damodara nodded. "Don't come back. Ever. Or the man-men-in the room with me won't be Rana Sanga."

Narses felt a combination of emotions. Relief, that he would live. Interest, because China would be interesting, for a man of his talents and inclinations. Sorrow, because. .

It dawned on him that Damodara hadn't said anything about that.

"I would miss Ajatasutra," Narses said quietly. "The rest is fine."

"Yes, I know. Sanga already discussed the matter with him, and Ajatasutra says he is willing to accompany you. Probably even willing to stay there, although he insists on reserving his final decision until he reaches China and can assess the situation. He claims to have finicky tastes in wine and women."

"He's lying through his teeth," Narses grunted. But he was almost overjoyed to hear it.

"When do we leave?" he asked.

"No great hurry. Can't be, anyway. Ajatasutra will be leaving the city in a few days, and won't be back for a time."

Narses frowned. The assassin hadn't said anything about leaving, and the eunuch had spoken to him just a few hours earlier.

"Where. .?"

"Don't ask," said Damodara. "Ever."

Sanga was a bit more forthcoming. "Just a personal errand, for Belisarius."

"Ah."

He said nothing more, since doing so would be stupid. Almost as stupid as Damodara thinking Narses wouldn't figure it out anyway.

But once he reached the safety of the corridors, Narses sneered. As if he'd care!

An assassin and his whims

"Not the customers?"

"The customers don't matter. Neither do the whores. But not a single pimp leaves that brothel alive."

"Easy, then," said the captain of the assassination team. Killing the customers and whores would have been easy, too, except there'd be enough of them that one or two were bound to escape.

After all, five assassins-no, six, since Ajatasutra was joining them in the assignment-can only do so much. Especially since Ajatasutra had instructed them to leave the bombard behind.

Thankfully. Hauling the heavy damn thing from Bharakuccha to Pataliputra would have been a monstrous pain.

Bad enough he'd made them haul it to Bharakuccha from Kausambi. They couldn't refuse, of course. Ajatasutra was the only reason they were still alive.

That had been an awkward moment, when they presented themselves before the new emperor and asked for the reward. Only to find that Ajatasutra-of all people! — was now in Damodara's service.

He recognized the captain and the lieutenant just as readily as they recognized him. Hardly surprising, since they'd all been officers in Malwa's elite assassination unit.

"You're grinning, Ajatasutra," the emperor said, after he took his eyes from the severed head of Skandagupta. "Why?"

"Your Majesty, these five men have approximately the same kinship to a trade delegation as I have to a cow."

Damodara's eyes went back to the head, sitting on a leather apron to protect the floor. "It struck me I'd never seen a head severed that neatly, except in a butcher shop."

He lifted his eyes and stared at the assassins. "Give me one reason I shouldn't have them executed. After paying them the reward, of course. I'm not dishonest."

"I can use them, Your Majesty. They're not bad fellows. For Malwa assassins."

"That's like saying a crocodile isn't a bad animal. For a voracious man-eating reptile."

"True. But cows make inferior assassins."

"A point. All right, Ajatasutra. But if they disobey you-if anything-"

The rest of the emperor's speech would have been tediously repetitious, except that men whose lives hang by a thread are not subject to tedium of any sort.

* * *

Still, it hadn't worked out badly. The work wasn't much of a challenge, any longer. So far, at least. Killing all the slavers in a slave emporium in Bharakuccha had been almost laughable. The worst part of their current assignment was simply the long journey to Pataliputra, which would be followed by a long journey back. Hundreds of miles added to thousands.

There was no rhyme or reason to the assignment, either. But they'd found there often wasn't, with Ajatasutra as their boss. He seemed to be a man much given to whimsy.

So it never occurred to them to press him for a reason. They just did the job, as instructed. When it was over, which didn't take long, India was shorter by a brothel. With all of its pimps dead, the whores would drift elsewhere, and the customers would simply find another one.

They returned to Bharakuccha just in time to witness-from a considerable distance, of course-the wedding of the daughters of Andhra's peshwa to two Roman noblemen.

It was a grand affair, attended by royalty from half the world. The city practically vibrated with gossip. Incredible stories. The two young noble ladies, rescued from imperial captivity by daring Roman knights-or dukes, or senators, nobody was quite sure since Roman ranks were mysterious anyway-some sort of connection with Rajput royalty-apparently the Roman nobles were also kshatriya, as strange as that seemed but who could doubt it since one of them was the famous Mongoose and both of them had also rescued Sanga's wife at the same time-even the empress, it was said-

On and on and on. The five assassins participated in the gossip just as cheerfully as everyone else, in the city's inns and taverns. By then, they'd half-forgotten the brothel hundreds of miles to the east. It had been erased from their memories almost as thoroughly as they had erased it from the world.

Alas, all good things come to an end. A week later, Ajatasutra informed them that they were to accompany him on a new assignment.

There was good news, and there was bad news, and there was terrible news.

"An ambassadorial guard?" The captain and the lieutenant looked at each other, then at their men. The chests of all five swelled. What a promotion!

"China? How far is China?"

"Some considerable miles," Ajatasutra informed them.

It was all they could do not to groan. By now, they knew Ajatasutra well enough to translate "considerable" into more precise terms. At least two thousand miles, that meant.

"Look on the bright side," he told them. "The Kushans have also decided to set up an embassy in China, so we'll be accompanying their party. It's a big party. Several hundred soldiers."

That did brighten them up. No fear of being harassed by bandits. Still a horrible lot of miles, but easy miles.

But their spirits were only lifted for a moment. The terrible news crashed down.

"Of course, we're bringing the bombard. In fact, I'm having several others made up."

A friend and his quandaries

Belisarius finally got to see Rao dance, at the wedding. Not the dance of time, unfortunately, since that wouldn't have been appropriate for this occasion. But it was a magnificent dance, nonetheless.

It was an unsettling experience, in a way, just as meeting Rao had been unsettling. Through Aide, and the memories of another universe he'd given him, Belisarius knew Rao as well as he knew any man in the world. He'd lived with him-officially as master and slave, but in reality as close friends-for decades, after all. And he'd seen him dance, many times.

Had even, through Aide's mind, seen Rao's great dance after he'd sent Belisarius himself to his death.

Yet. .

In this universe, he'd never actually met him before.

What did you say to a man, who'd once-as an act of supreme friendship-pushed you into a vat of molten metal?

Fortunately, Belisarius had been coached by Antonina, who'd faced the same quandary earlier. So he managed to avoid the inane words nice to finally meet you.

Instead, feeling clever, he said: "Please don't do it again."

He felt less clever after a blank-faced Rao replied: "Do what?"

* * *

"It's not fair," he complained to Antonina later. "I can-usually-keep my own memories separated from the ones Aide gave me. But it's a bit much to expect me to remember that nobody else remembers what I remember when I remember what Aide remembered."

By the time he was done, Antonina was looking cross-eyed. But since they'd just entered their bedroom, she was also looking cross-eyed at the bed.

"I hope you haven't forgotten everything."

"Well. Not that."

An emperor and his queries

The next morning, it was his son Photius who was complaining.

"Theodora's going to have a fit, when we get back. She always appoints my bodyguards. Well, not Julian and his men. But they're real bodyguards. Not, you know, fancy imperial appointments."

"Stop squirming," his wife hissed at him. "People are coming in. The audience is about to begin."

"I hate these stupid imperial robes," Photius muttered. "You know that."

"I hate mine, too," Tahmina whispered in return. "So what? It's part of the job. And so what if Theodora has a fit? It won't be worse than a Sour Beta."

"You're crazy."

"Am not. First, because Justinian's coming back with us on the same ship, and however much she shrieks and hollers she actually does love the man. God knows why, but she does."

"Well, that's true." Since the audience room was now filling up, Photius lowered his voice still further. "What're the other reasons?"

"Belisarius and Antonina are coming back too, all at the same time. She'll be too busy hollering at Belisarius and trying to stay on Antonina's good side at the same time to worry much about what you've done."

"Well, okay. But that only knocks it down to a Sour Gamma, at best. How do you figure Beta?"

"Because-"

But she had to break off. A Roman courtier was stepping forward. The official audience was about to begin.

Photius forgot about his complaints, then, because he was too busy worrying about remembering the lines he was supposed to speak, when the time came.

Especially because it didn't come very quickly. Roman courtiers giving speeches extolling the virtues of emperors were almost as long-winded as Persian ones. Even more long-winded than Indian ones, if you subtracted all the silly parts about divinity that nobody listened to anyway.

But, eventually, he got to the point.

"— first time by the emperor himself to the ranks of the imperial bodyguards. A body whose august members, in times past, have included the great general Belisarius himself."

Photius took a gleeful satisfaction in being able to start his speech by correcting the courtier. It was the first time he'd ever done that, too.

"This is not an appointment," he said forcefully. "I can't do that here. It's a request, not a command."

Alas, in his glee, he'd forgotten the rest of his speech. He fumbled, for a moment, and then decided to continue on with the same course.

Call it free will. He was the emperor, wasn't he?

So he just looked at the son of Rana Sanga, standing by his father's side, and said: "I'd like it very much if Rajiv would accept the offer. It is, in fact, very prestigious. Although it does mean that Rajiv would have to accompany us back to Constantinople. And, well, probably stay there for some years."

Since he'd veered wildly off the planned course, anyway, he decided to end with a note that might seem lame, from one angle, but wasn't lame at all from the angle he looked at things.

"And it would be really nice for me, to have an imperial bodyguard who was my own age. Well, pretty close."

The courtier had turned an interesting color. Photius thought it was the one called "puce." He'd have to ask his wife later. She knew about that stuff. She knew about most stuff, in fact.

Rajiv, on the other hand, just looked solemn. He stared at Photius, for a moment; then, at his father. Then, at a Roman soldier standing off to the side.

"Ask him," Sanga said, quietly but firmly.

Valentinian didn't wait for the question. "Do it, boy. The experience will be good for you. Besides, every one of Photius' bodyguards-the real ones, I'm talking about, my sort of men-like him. He's a nice kid. Especially for an emperor."

The courtier's color got even more interesting. Sort of a cross between liver and old grapes. Photius wondered if he might have died, standing on his feet.

No, he couldn't have. He was still quivering.

Pretty badly, in fact.

Fortunately-or maybe not, depending on how you looked at it-the courtier seemed to start recovering after Rajiv accepted. By the time the audience ended, his color had returned to that first weird shade.

"Is that 'puce'?" Photius whispered.

"No. 'Puce' is when he looked like he was dead. This is magenta."

"You're so smart. I love you."

As soon as they entered their private chambers, after the audience, Tahmina turned to him. "That's the first time you've ever said that."

"No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is. That way."

"Oh. Well. I'm getting older."

She sat down on a divan, sighing. "Yes, you are. Awfully fast, actually, when I look at it cold-bloodedly. Which I never do, any more."

"Maybe that's because you're getting older, too."

She smiled, almost as crookedly as Belisarius might. "My dear husband. The difference between 'puce' and 'magenta' is absolutely nothing, compared to the difference between 'getting older' and 'can't wait.' "

Photius thought he was probably a pretty interesting color himself, then.

His father walked in, that very moment. After looking back and forth between the two of them, Belisarius said: "Why are you bright pink? And why are you smiling like that?"

Tahmina gave no answer. Her smile just got more crooked.

Photius, rallying, said: "I did what you asked me to, Father. About Rajiv, I mean. Is there something else I can do?"

Belisarius seemed to get sad, for just an instant. But then, he rallied too, and the smile that came to his face made it clear that Tahmina still had a long way to go when it came to "crooked."

"Yes, as a matter of fact. As soon as you can manage it, I'd like a lot of grandchildren."

"Oh."

"That's called 'scarlet,' " Tahmina said, to Photius.

To Belisarius, she said: "Consider it done."

An empress and her distractions

Tahmina proved to be quite right. After they finally returned to Constantinople, whatever empress regent fury might have fallen on Photius for his presumptuous appointment was almost completely deflected. Photius and Tahmina never had to suffer worse than a Sour Beta. Maybe even Sour Alpha.

First, as Tahmina had foreseen, by Theodora's joy at being reunited with her husband.

Second, by the time and energy Theodora spent hollering at Belisarius for: a) putting her husband at risk; b) keeping him away from her for an unholy length of time, and c) giving away half of her empire-sorry, your son's empire-in the course of his fumble-fingered so-called "negotiations."

Third, by the time and energy she spent mollifying her best friend Antonina's anger over the preposterous way she was treating the man who had won the greatest war in history and saved her empire for her three times over-against the Medes, internal rebellion, and the Malwa.

And, finally, of course, as Tahmina had also foreseen. .

"You agreed to be a business partner in a manufacturing scheme? Are you out of your mind?"

"I'm not the Emperor any longer, dear," Justinian pointed out mildly. "Photius is."

"Still!"

"I'm the Grand Justiciar. And you know how much I love to play with gadgets." He tried to dampen the gathering storm: "Besides, I'll have to keep it quiet anyway. Otherwise it might look like a conflict of interest."

Theodora frowned. " 'Conflict of interest'? What in the world is that?"

"It's a new legal concept I'm about to introduce. I thought of it while I was in India."

That wasn't really true. He'd gotten the original idea from Aide. But since the jewel wasn't around any longer, Justinian saw no reason to give him credit. He'd never much liked the creature anyway.

It took him a while to explain the concept of "conflict of interest" to the Empress Regent. When he was done, Theodora burst into laughter.

"That's the silliest thing I ever heard of! My husband!"

A husband and his promise

Ousanas delayed his return to Ethiopia, long enough to ensure that a full year had passed since Eon's death. When he arrived at Adulis, he discovered that Rukaiya had already overseen the transfer of the capital there from Axum.

He was surprised. True, this had been planned for some time, but he hadn't thought Rukaiya would be bold enough, in his absence, to push the matter through. Many of the Ethiopians were not happy at the prospect of sharing their capital with Arabs.

Ezana met him at the docks, and provided part of the reason.

"Why not? And it gave me the chance to demonstrate that the queen had the full support of the royal regiments."

Ousanas eyed him sidewise. "And just how vigorous was this 'demonstration'?"

"Not vigorous at all," Ezana said, sounding disgruntled. "Didn't need to be. Everybody kept their mouth shut. In public, anyway."

When Ousanas arrived at the palace-a new one, still being built-Rukaiya provided him with the other reason.

"I thought it would be best, when you returned. Eon never lived here. His ghost does not walk these halls, or hover in these rooms. We will remember him always, of course, and keep him in our hearts. But this palace belongs to us alone."

By then, they had entered their private chambers. Night was falling.

Rukaiya turned to face him squarely. "You are home, Ousanas. Finally and truly home. No more the hunter, no more the rover, no more the stranger. You are a husband, now-mine-and will soon be a father."

He wasn't able to return that gaze, yet. His eyes avoided hers, roaming the room until they spotted the bookcase. Which they did quickly. It was a very large bookcase.

He moved over to examine the titles. Then, for the first time since his ship docked, was able to smile.

"How long-"

"I began assembling it the day you left. There are still a few titles missing, but not many."

"No, not many. Although I'll want to be adding some new titles I discovered in India. I can read Sanskrit well enough, by now."

His fingers drifted across the spines. "This must be the finest collection of books on philosophy in the whole world."

"That was my plan. Home should not mean abstinence. Look at me, Ousanas."

He could, then. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Or, perhaps, it was simply that he was looking at her for the first time as his wife.

"I am good at loving," she said. "That, too, I learned from Eon. Do not waste that gift he gave you, husband. His ghost is not here. His gift remains."

"I won't," he promised.

A man and his memories

For the rest of his life, sundown was always a special time for Belisarius. Sadness, mostly, in the beginning. As the years passed, fading into a sort of warm melancholy.

Watching the sunset never really became a ritual for him, however, although he did it more often than most people. He saved ritual for an annual occasion.

Every year, on the day that Aide died, he would go alone into the night and stare up at the stars. If the night was overcast, or if it rained, he would keep coming until the skies cleared.

Antonina never accompanied him, although she would always see him to the door when he left, and be there to welcome him when he returned in the morning. She, too, grieved Aide. So, as the years passed, did millions of people the world over, as the Talisman of God became incorporated, one way or another, into the various religions. But for all of them other than Belisarius, with only the partial exception of Ousanas, it was an abstract sort of grief. They had lost a talisman, or a saint, or a symbol, or an avatar. Belisarius had lost a person.

So, she felt that night belonged to him alone, and he loved her for it.

All night, he would spend, just staring at the stars and watching them twinkle. Looking out into a universe whose heavens reminded him of the way a jewel's facets had flashed once in his mind. Looking up at the universe that jewel had guaranteed, by sacrificing his life.

Many monuments were erected to Aide, over the years, in many lands. Belisarius visited none of them, except the grove of sal trees on those occasions he returned to India. Even then, he went to spend his time at Ashot's grave. He would barely glance at the memorial devoted to Aide.

Others might need stones to remember Aide. Belisarius had the heavens.

The memories of the man

His ritual was reciprocated, although he would never know it. Aide had transformed his crystalline branch of humankind, by the same sacrifice, and they never forgot. Neither Aide nor the man who had enabled his life.

They did forget the man's name, eventually. But by they time they did, it hardly mattered. A ritual had emerged-perhaps the only thing that could really be called a ritual, for them. They were, as a rule, a more practical-minded folk than their protoplasmic kin. Certainly more so than the Great Ones.

No matter where they went, to whatever star system-in time, to whatever galaxy-the crystals would select a constellation from the skies. It was their only constellation. Often enough, simply adopted from a constellation named by the fleshy humans among whom they lived.

But if they adopted the star pattern from their neighbors, they did not adopt the name. The crystals had their own name for that one and only constellation. As if the ritual of the invariant name was a great talisman of their own, protecting them from whatever horrors might lurk in the universe.

They would call it, always, The Craftsman.