"Commanded by a man named Kungas, as I recall," croaked Damodara. "I am not certain."
Sanga snorted. "You can be certain of it now, Lord Damodara. Investigate! You will find, I imagine, that these Kushans were removed just before Shakuntala escaped. And just before Belisarius himself arrived at the palace, if memory serves me correctly."
"It does," hissed Nanda Lal. The spymaster almost staggered.
"Gods in heaven," he whispered. "Is it possible? How—there was no connection, I am certain of it. But the—coincidence." He looked to the Rajput, appeal in his eyes. "How could any man be so cunning as to manage that?" he demanded.
Sanga made a chopping gesture with his hand. "If any man could, it is Belisarius. Investigate, Nanda Lal. For the first time, assume nothing. Look for treasure, and mysterious Ye-tai and Kushans who appear and disappear. And, most of all—look for the Princess Shakuntala." He turned away, growling: "But that is your job, not mine. I have a Roman to catch."
"A fiend!" cried Nanda Lal.
"No," murmured Sanga, leaving the room. "A fiendish mind, yes. But not a fiend. Never that."
* * *
Nanda Lal did investigate, thoroughly and relentlessly. He was an immensely capable man, for all his Malwa arrogance. And his natural tenacity was fueled by a burning hatred for all things remotely connected to Belisarius. Once Nanda Lal set himself to the task—and, for the first time, without careless prior assumptions—he solved the riddle within two days. Most of it, at least. All of it, he thought.
Some weeks later, an inn beside the Ganges was blessed beyond measure. It was a poor inn, owned by a poor Bengali family. Their only treasure, the innkeeper liked to say, was the sight of the mighty Ganges itself, pouring its inexorable way south to the Bay of Bengal.
(The sacred Ganges, he would say, in the presence of his immediate family, as he led them in secret prayers. He and his family still held to the old faith, and gave the Mahaveda no more than public obeisance.)
That poor family was rich tonight, as northern Bengali measured such things. The nobleman was most generous, and his wife even more so.
She spoke little, the noblewoman—properly, especially for a wife so much younger than her husband—but her few words were very kind. The innkeeper and his family were quite taken by her. The nobleman, for all his cordiality and good manners, frightened them a bit. He had that pale, western look to his features. That Malwa look. (They did not think he was Malwa himself, but—high in their ranks. And from western India, for certain. That cruel, pitiless west.)
But his wife—no, she was no Malwa. No western Indian. She was as small as a Bengali, and even darker. Keralan, perhaps, or Cholan. Whatever. One of them, in some sense. Bengalis, of course, were not Dravidians, as she obviously was. More of the ancient Vedic blood flowed in their veins than in the peoples of the southern Deccan. But not all that much more; and they, too, had felt the lash of purity.
The next morning, after the rich nobleman and his retinue departed, the innkeeper told his family they would close the inn for a few days. They had not been able to afford a vacation for years. They would do so now, after bathing in the sacred Ganges.
The innkeeper and his wife remembered the few days which followed as a time of rare and blessed rest from toil. Their brood of children remembered it as the happiest days of their happy childhood.
Happy, too, was the innkeeper and his wife, after their return. When their neighbors told them, hushed and fearful, of the soldiers who had terrorized the village the day before. Shouting at folk—even beating them. Demanding to know if anyone had seen a young, dark-skinned woman accompanied by Kushan soldiers.
Something stirred, vaguely, in the innkeeper's mind. But he pushed it down resolutely.
None of his business. He had not been here to answer any questions, after all. And he certainly had no intention of looking for the authorities.
So, in the end, Nanda Lal would fail again.
Partly, because he continued to make assumptions even when he thought he wasn't. He assumed, without thinking about it, that a fleeing princess and her soldiers would seek the fastest way out of the Malwa empire. So he sent a host of soldiers scouring north India in all directions, looking for a young woman and Kushans on horseback.
Neither a pious innkeeper on vacation, nor a young officer hiding his humiliation, nor any of the other folk who might have guided the Malwa to Shakuntala, made the connection.
And the one man who could, and did, kept silent.
When Malwa soldiers rousted the stablekeeper in Kausambi, and questioned him, he said nothing. The soldiers did not question him for very long. They were bored and inattentive, having already visited five stables in the great city that morning, and with more to come. So the stablekeeper was able to satisfy them soon enough.