Air and Darkness (35 page)

“We can't fight so many!” Hedia said. Bacchus swept his thyrsus forward and the chariot bounded ahead.

The throng in the god's train followed crying, “Io Bacchus!” from a thousand throats. Hedia clung to her lover and cheered along with the others.

The wall of elephants before them crumbled as the great beasts rose onto their hind legs and began to dance, spilling their riders and shaking off the platforms. The chariots swept through the line. Centaurs, most of them bearing riders waving thyrsi, were almost as swift. The Indian army disintegrated at contact.

Bacchus drew his chariot in a curve to the left, leaving in its wheel tracks masses of grapevines to snake through the sere grass. “Io Bacchus!” Hedia cried, squeezing a wine-filled grape into her upturned mouth. “Io Bacchus!”

They drove through the Indian army's open camp, teeming with families and servants in numbers even larger than those of the men in arms. Shelters of cane and dry grass bloomed; tendrils of vine burgeoned from the ends of the poles that stretched silken tents.

Hedia plucked grapes from the bunches growing from the chariot's railing and hurled them to the Indians. A vine sprang from each spilled droplet when the ripe fruit burst in the hands of startled camp followers. The grapevines grew, flowered, and fruited as Bacchus rolled on.

People were making love, and not only people: an ox coupled with a centaur, and birds tumbled from the sky to tread one another among the spreading vines. Cries of joy and triumph rang out, musical and clear.

Bacchus wheeled the chariot to a halt on the banks of a creek. From the wan appearance of the fringing reeds it must have been nearly dry in this season, but now it foamed and bubbled with red wine.

A section of bank crumbled. The head of a great crocodile pushed out of its summer lair, called back to life not by rains but by the arrival of the god. The crocodile opened its jaws to the stream; wine tumbled into and past them.

Hedia fell into Bacchus' arms. Her universe was peace and joy and love like nothing she had ever known before.

 

CHAPTER
XI

Raguram's palace was a sprawling collection of low buildings. An old woman carrying a bundle of reeds called cheerfully when she saw Bhiku and Varus approaching. The sage called back and waved.

“That's the third person I've heard greet you,” Varus said. “You're popular here.”

“Well, I've been gone for four months, you'll recall,” Bhiku said. “Nona there had been afraid that I was dead.”

Would anyone notice if I disappeared for months?
Varus wondered. But of course they would: it would be something for the hundreds of servants at Saxa's town house to discuss. For a few days it would replace love affairs, chariot races, and the unjust behavior or this or that other servant as the main topic of conversation.

But after that, the interest would melt away. The only people who would really care were his immediate family and Publius Corylus. The peasants greeting Bhiku had been genuinely friendly, though none of them appeared to be intimates of his.

The palace compound wasn't surrounded by a wall, but a squad of soldiers waited under a palm-thatched awning near the road. Bhiku called to them. The leader, who wore a brown silk tunic and a curved sword, called back.

“I asked Motara where the prince was,” Bhiku said to Varus in Greek. “Lord Raguram was in the stables when Motara came on duty an hour ago. He has an office there, so we'll try it before we go into the main palace.”

“The feel of this place is different from that of Ramsa Lal's compound,” Varus said as he followed the sage through the bustling community. “Better. Though it's all the same things going on and the same sort of people.”

“I liked it,” said Bhiku. “That's why I settled here when I decided I had traveled long enough.”

Varus and Bhiku had mostly discussed geography during their trek to Raguram's palace. The sage's knowledge didn't come from writings. Rather, over many decades he had hiked from the Island of Taprobane in the far south to the mountains rising to the heavens north of Govinda's kingdom, and recently back here to settle with Prince Raguram.

Bhiku chirped a laugh and added, “Whereupon our lord Govinda decided I should go to Italy because I have some small skill in magic. Well, the gods choose what we humans shall do.”

Raguram's stables were similar to those of Ramsa Lal, but they were thatched instead of having a tile roof. There was a barrack for the attendants on one side of the central entrance. On the other side was an office guarded by a pair of swordsmen who straightened when they saw Bhiku.

Instead of barring the sage and his companion, one guard greeted Bhiku and gestured him into the room, then bowed.

“Thank you for your welcome, Gol Singh,” Bhiku replied in Greek. “My friend and I need to talk with Lord Raguram.”

The man sharpening his sword on a bench inside was too well dressed to be a steward, but only context suggested that he was the prince himself. Bhiku said in Greek, “My lord, I've come with a learned man from Carce who has become my friend during our travels. He is Lord Varus, and he is a powerful magician.”

Raguram wiped the oil from his curved blade; he got quickly to his feet and sheathed it. Bowing, he said, “Greetings, my teacher. I have missed your wisdom during these past months.”

To Varus' surprise, the prince then bowed to him also. “And greetings, Lord Varus,” Raguram said. “A man whom my teacher calls learned is learned indeed.”

Varus bowed in response, since that appeared to be the polite custom in this country. “Greetings, Prince Raguram,” he said. “I should warn you that your neighbor Ramsa Lal may be looking for me. Ah, with a degree of anger against me.”

Raguram laughed. He was well into his forties, older than Ramsa Lal, but he was fit and radiated powerful good health. “I haven't begun worrying what my neighbor may think since you left me, Teacher,” he said. “And that's even more true since our Lord of Lords Bacchus made a procession through Lal's northern provinces. There's thirty villages that won't be paying taxes for years, and the half of his troops garrisoning the region are now scattered or drunk on their backs.”

Varus frowned, remembering what had happened at Polymartium before he stepped into the Otherworld. “What does Bacchus do?” he asked. “Does he slaughter the people he comes across?”

“There are some deaths,” said Bhiku, “but not many.”

“Probably not as many as snakebite kills in a year,” Raguram said with another laugh, “and only the ones who actually try to fight him and his followers. Mostly they just worship the god—or join him. A lot of the peasants go off in Bacchus' procession. Particularly the women.”

“Even the soldiers aren't generally killed,” Bhiku said. “But they stop being, well, interested in soldiering. Fruit trees give so abundantly that the branches crack, and the wine is much stronger than that of ordinary grapes. To say nothing of the fermented palm sap that serves for the peasants.”

A troop of cavalry approached the stables and dismounted with a great deal of loud banter. Varus used the commotion as an opportunity to think while he framed his next question. As the troopers led their mounts in single file, he said, “Do these incursions by the god harm the land, then? Or are they just, well, entertainment?”

“The soil is more productive,” Bhiku said. “Even for grains, though of course it needs to be replanted if you want grain instead of grapes and fruit trees.”

“The peasants are happy,” said Raguram with a wry smile. “I don't mind that, of course … but they're too happy to work. Indeed, they're generally too drunk to work. Bacchus went through two of my villages seven years ago, and my taxes from the region still aren't up to half what they were before that happened.”

“Bhiku,” Varus said. “Why does Govinda want to spread Bacchus' rule to Italy? Because that's what you and your fellows were doing at Polymartium, wasn't it?”

“Lord Bacchus doesn't need a vine shoot to enter the Waking World,” said Raguram.

“Yes,” said Bhiku. “The portal which we opened—Rupa opened, really, though I might have been able to do it with the shoot itself as a focus. That portal was to allow Ampelos into Italy—and us to return, of course, but there would have been no need for us to be in Italy had we not planted the vine.”

He shrugged and added, “Lord Arpat and his fellows did not—could not, I think—tell me why Govinda wanted that, and I kept my distance from Rupa.”

“But what could Govinda gain by spreading disruption to Italy?” Varus said. “His kingdom doesn't compete with the Republic. There's all of Parthia and the Gedrosian Desert keeping us apart.”

“King Govinda gains nothing by harming you…,” Raguram said thoughtfully. “But he would gain if the god's activities in Italy meant that he spent less time here. Govinda would gain very greatly if the god spent all his time in the Waking World in a place other than here.”

Raguram grinned again. “For that matter, the king's vassals, myself included, would gain,” he said. “Though I have no ambitions beyond what I have now. King Govinda has more general extensive dreams, or so I have gathered.”

“Lord Govinda is a great king and a great magician,” Bhiku said. “I believe he thinks he would not have an equal on earth, were it not for the god's processions through his kingdom. And Govinda may be correct in that belief.”

Varus remembered what the Sibyl had said before he stepped into the portal that Govinda's delegation had opened. “Peasants may not be harmed by the god's incursions,” he said, “and…”

He paused and smiled at his companions, in much the same black humor as Lord Raguram had shown a moment earlier.

“… given that I'm not worried about either of you gentlemen informing on me to the Praetorian Prefect, the well-being of the Emperor and his legions isn't a great concern to me, either. Literature and the transmission of knowledge more generally require organization, however. I do care about them.”

Varus cleared his throat. He wondered how much what he was about to say would put him in oppoosition to the men who stood before him. Regardless, he said it anyway: “I will prevent Lord Bacchus from extending his incursions to Italy if I am able to do so.”

Raguram shrugged. “I don't see what you can do against King Govinda,” he said. “He's made sure that all his vassals know how great a wizard he is. But as you said about your emperor, Govinda isn't
my
concern.”

There was a commotion outside. Raguram frowned and looked past his visitors to the open doorway. Varus turned his head also.

A servant, not armed but wearing silk garments heavily embroidered with gold wire, stopped panting just outside the office. He babbled to Raguram, obviously upset.

Raguram's face became as expressionless as a rock. “Master Bhiku,” he said in Greek. “Who else in my household knows who your friend is?”

“No one save yourself, Lord Raguram,” the sage replied.

“Take him to your dwelling and change his clothing,” said Raguram. “At once.”

The prince strode out of the office, speaking forcefully to the servant as they both headed for the main building.

“Come,” murmured Bhiku. “The chamberlain informs us that King Govinda has arrived. He and his entourage were concealed by a cloud so there was no warning of his approach. Govinda informed the chamberlain that he is looking for a Western magician.”

Varus matched his step to that of the sage, the same brisk walk that had carried them from Princess Teji's garden to this palace. The sprawling complex was filled with commotion, but the attention seemed to be directed toward the king's arrival.

“Is this safe?” Varus said. He spoke quietly, though he doubted whether any of the peasants and low-ranking servants running about nearby could speak Greek. “For Prince Raguram, I mean.”

“That is a matter for my master himself to decide,” Bhiku said, “and no one has accused him of cowardice. Even so, I don't expect a pair of scruffy wise men like ourselves to attract much attention. I will give you a tunic.”

He chirped his laughter.

“I will give you my other tunic, and you will not dazzle our visitors with magnificence, I assure you. And a pair of straw sandals in place of that very impressive leather pair of your own. Then we will discuss philosophy until someone gives us further directions.”

Bhiku's house was a single room with cane walls and a thatched roof under the shade of a giant fig. The creek nearby was dry, but leakage from the reservoir that supplied the community in the hot season kept the tree flourishing. A low platform raised it above the fig's roots, so the floor was cane rather than dirt.

“I have few amenities to offer,” Bhiku said, taking a cotton tunic from a peg beside the door. There was no furniture; a bowl and a water jug, both of earthenware, were the only objects visible. The lower two-thirds of the jug's surface was dark with moisture, showing that someone had refilled it no later than this morning, even though the sage had been gone for months.

“All the better for our purpose,” Varus said as he stripped off his wool tunic. Though it was woven very fine, he would still be pleased to exchange it for the worn cotton garment that the sage offered. “Though I'm a little surprised, since you're obviously held in high regard by your, ah, fellows as well as by the prince himself.”

“This hut is my choice,” Bhiku said. “As it was my choice to settle with Lord Raguram. I would guess that your own choice is more … full, if I may put it that way?”

“My normal life is vastly more luxurious,” Varus said, amused at the sage's delicacy. Varus handed his tunic and sandals to a boy who appeared—without being summoned, as best Varus could tell—with a pair of worn straw sandals in exchange. “This is much closer to what my personal
choice
would be, though I would want books. Many more books.”