"David Drake - Belisarius 2 - In The Heart Of Darkness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Drake David)

Holkar shrugged. "Who is to say? At sundown, they decided honor had been
satisfied. So they called upon their followers to carry them away and tend
their wounds, and the armies themselves never clashed. All the Rajputs and
Marathas present felt the duel had been so glorious that any further combat
would only sully the memory. As the years passed, both Rao and Sanga became
famous commanders, although they never met on the field of battle again,
neither as warriors nor as generals. But from that day forward, Raghunath Rao
has always stated that there exists no greater archer in the world than Rana
Sanga, and not more than four or five who are his equal with a sword. For his
part, Sanga makes the equal claim for Rao's clawed gauntlet and his fists, and
swears he would rather fight a tiger with his own teeth than face Rao again on
the field of philosophy."
Belisarius' chuckle became an outright laugh.
"What a marvelous tale! How much truth is there in it, do you think?"
Holkar's face was solemn. "It is all true, master. Every word. I was at that
battle, and helped bind Rao's wounds myself."
The Roman general stared down at his slave. Dadaji Holkar was a small man,
middle-aged, grey-haired, and slightly built. In his appearance as well as his
demeanor he seemed every inch the highly literate scribe that he had been
before the Malwa enslaved him. Belisarius reminded himself that, for all his
intellect, Dadaji Holkar was from Majarashtra. Majarashtra, the Great Country.
A land of volcanic stone, harsh and unforgiving. The land of the Marathas,
who, if they were not India's most noble people, were certainly its most
truculent.
"I do not doubt you, Dadaji," he said softly. The Roman general's large and
powerful hand, for just an instant, caressed the slender shoulder of his
Maratha slave. And the slave knew, in that moment, that his master was
returning his own cherishment.
Holkar left abruptly then, leading Belisarius' horse to its feeding trough. He
squeezed his eyes, shutting back the tears. He shared his master's tent, and
had listened, night after night, while his master spoke softly to the divine
presence in his mind. He knew, from those muttered words, that Belisarius had
met Rao himself -- had met Rao, not in this world, but in the world of a
vision. In that world of vision, all of India had fallen under the Malwa
talons, and Rome had eventually followed. In that world, Rao had failed to
save Majarashtra and had become, through the strange workings of fate, the
Maratha slave of the greatest of Roman generals.
Gently, Dadaji Holkar stripped the horse of her saddle and began wiping the
mare down. He was fond of horses and, by her nuzzle, knew the fondness was
reciprocated. He knew, also, that Belisarius' invariable kindness to him was
partly the transference of his feelings for Rao onto another of his
countrymen. Belisarius had said to him, once, that in a lifetime where he had
met many fine men, he had never known a finer than Raghunath Rao. But Dadaji
Holkar had come to know his new master well, in the months since he had been
purchased in Bharakuccha to train a newly arrived foreigner in India's tongues
and scripts. And so he knew that he was himself a man to Belisarius, not
simply a surrogate for another, and that the heart of the Roman's love for him
belong to he himself. He, and his loyalty, and his service, and the memory of
his broken people and his shattered family.
The slave Dadaji Holkar began feeding his master's horse. There were none to