Destiny's shield b-3

by Eric Flint

  He had not even had the-so to speak-relief of personal combat. On the first day after joining his army on the dam itself, Belisarius had started to participate directly in repelling one of the Malwa attacks. Even before Anastasius and Valentinian had corraled him and dragged him away, the Syrian soldiers manning that section of the wall had fiercely driven him off. Liberius and Maurice, riding up with their cataphracts to bolster the Syrians, had even cursed him for a damned fool.

  The general's cold and calculating brain recognized the phenomenon, of course, and took satisfaction in it. Only commanders who were genuinely treasured by an army had their personal safety so jealously guarded by their own soldiers. But the man inside the general had chafed, and cursed, and stormed, and railed.

  The general bridled the man. And so, for a week, Belisarius had reconciled himself to the inevitable. He had never again attempted to directly participate in the fight at the wall, but he had spent each and every day riding up and down the Roman line of fortifications. Encouraging his soldiers, consulting with his officers, organizing the logistics, and-especially-spending time with the wounded.

  Valentinian and Anastasius had grumbled, Aide had chafed-rockets! very dangerous! — but Belisarius had been adamant. His soldiers, he knew, might take conscious satisfaction in the knowledge that their commander was out of the direct fray. But they would-at a much, much deeper human level-take heart and courage from his immediate presence.

  In that, he had been proven right. As the week wore on, his army's battle cry underwent a transformation.

  Rome! Rome! it had been, in the first two days.

  By the third day, as he rode up and down the fortifications, his own name had been cheered. That was still true, even more so, a week after the battle started. But his name was no longer being used as a simple cheer. It had become a taunt of defiance hurled at the enemy. The entire Roman army using that single word to let the Malwa know:

  You sorry bastards are fucked. Fucked.

  Belisarius! Belisarius!

  Belisarius drained his goblet and set it down on the wall with enough force to crack the crude pottery.

  He ignored the sound, swiveling his head to the west.

  His eyes glared. It being late afternoon, the sun promptly glared back. He raised a hand to shield his face.

  "Come on, Ormazd," he growled. "Make up your mind. Not even a God-be-damned Aryan prince should need a week to decide on treason."

  Maurice turned his own head to follow Belisarius' gaze.

  "You think that's what's been going on?"

  "Count on it, Maurice," said Belisarius softly. "I can guarantee you that every night, for the past week, Malwa emissaries have been shuttling back and forth between Ormazd's pavilion and-"

  For a moment, he began to turn his head to the south. Squinting fiercely, as if by sheer forth of will he could peer into the great pavilion which the Malwa had erected on the left bank of the Euphrates, well over a mile away. The pavilion where, he was certain, Link exercised its demonic command.

  Maurice grunted sourly. "Maybe you're right. I sure as hell hope so. If this damned siege goes on much longer, we'll-ah." He made a vague gesture with his hand, as if brushing dung off his tunic.

  Belisarius said nothing. He knew Maurice was not worried that the Malwa could take the dam by frontal assault. Nor was the chiliarch really concerned that the Malwa could wear out the Romans. The steady stream of barges coming down from Callinicum kept the defenders better supplied than the attackers. The Romans could withstand this kind of semi-siege almost indefinitely.

  But-it was wearing. Wearing on the body, wearing on the nerves. Since the ferocious Malwa assaults of the first day and night, which they had suspended in favor of constant probes and quick pinprick attacks, casualties had been relatively light. But "light" casualties are still casualties. Men you know, dead, crippled, wounded. Day after day, with no end in sight.

  "I hope you're right," he repeated. Sourly.

  Belisarius decided a change of subject was in order. "Agathius is going to live," he announced. "I'm quite confident of it, now. I saw him just yesterday."

  Maurice glanced upriver, at the ambulance barges moored just beyond range of the Malwa rockets. "Glad to hear it. I thought sure-" He lapsed into another little grunt. Not sour, this one. The inarticulate sound combined admiration with disbelief.

  "Never thought he'd make it," he admitted. "Especially after he refused to go to Callinicum."

  Belisarius nodded. Most of the Roman casualties, after triage, had been shipped back to Callinicum. But Agathius had flat refused-had even threatened violence when Belisarius tried to insist. So, he had stayed-as had his young wife. Sudaba had been just as stubborn toward Agathius' demands that she leave as he had been toward Belisarius. Including the threats of violence.

  In truth, Belisarius was grateful. Cyril had succeeded to the command of the Constantinople troops, and had done very well in the post. But Agathius' stance had done wonders for the army's morale, and by no means simply among the Greeks. For the past week, a steady stream of soldiers-Thracians, Syrians, Illyrians and Arabs as much as Greeks-had visited the maimed officer on his barge. Agathius was very weak from tremendous loss of blood, and in great pain, what with one leg amputated at the knee and the other at the ankle. But the man had borne it all with a stoicism which would have shamed Marcus Aurelius, and had never failed to take the occasion to reinforce his visitors' determination to resist the Malwa.

  A quiet thought came from Aide:

  "Think where man's glory most begins and ends

  And say my glory was I had such friends."

  "Yes," whispered Belisarius. "Yes."

  It's from a poet whose name will be Yeats. Many centuries from now.

  Belisarius took a deep breath.

  Let us give mankind those centuries, then. And all the millions of centuries which will come after.

  Chapter 36

  In its pavilion, at the very moment when Belisarius made that silent vow, the thing from the future which called itself Link made its catastrophic mistake.

  It had calculated the possibilities. Analyzed the odds. Gauged the options. Most of all, it had assessed the capabilities of the enemy commander so accurately, and so correctly, and in so many ways, that Belisarius would have been stunned had he ever known how well he had been measured.

  Measured, however, only as a general-for that was all that Link understood. The being from the future, with its superhuman intelligence, had burrowed to the depths of the crooked mind of Belisarius. Down to the very tips of the roots.

  And had missed the man completely.

  "Ormazd has agreed, then?"

  Link's top subordinates, four officers squatting on cushions before the chair which held the shape of an old woman, nodded in unison.

  "Yes, Great Lady Holi," said one. "He will pull his troops out of position three hours after sundown."

  Link pondered, gauged, calculated, analyzed.

  Assessed the crooked, cunning brain of the great General Belisarius.

  From long experience, the four officers sat silently throughout. It never occurred to them to offer any advice. The advice would not have been welcome. And, if Link had none of the explosive temper of the late Lord Jivita, the being was utterly merciless. The officers weren't especially afraid of the huge tulwar-bearing men who squatted between them and Great Lady Holi. Those were simply guards. But they had only to turn their heads to see the line of silent assassins who waited, as motionless as statues, in the rear of the pavilion. Link-Great Lady Holi-had used those assassins three times since the expedition began. To punish failure, twice. But there had also been an officer who couldn't learn to restrain his counsel.

  Finally, Link spoke.

  "There is a possibility. It is not likely. Were the enemy led by any other commander I would dismiss it out of hand. But I cannot. Not with Belisarius."

  Silence followed again, for well over a minute. The Malwa officers did not ask for an
explanation of those cryptic words. None would have been given if they had.

  Gauged, analyzed, assessed. Made its decision.

  "Send the Kushans first. All of them. On foot."

  The officers were visibly startled, now. After a moment, one of them ventured to ask:

  "On foot?"

  Silence. The officer cleared his throat.

  "But-Great Lady Holi, it is essential that the maneuver be made with great speed. Belisarius will realize what we are doing by sunrise at the latest. Quite possibly earlier. It is almost impossible-even with the harshest orders-to keep such a large body of men from making some noise. And we have no control over the Persians, in any event."

  Another interjected, "We must get the flanking column upriver as fast as possible. So that they can ford the Euphrates before Belisarius can block their way. That requires cavalry, Great Lady Holi."

  "Be silent. I understand your argument. But there is a possibility, if Belisarius is cunning enough. I cannot take the chance. The Ye-tai, after they cross, can race upriver to seize a bridgehead. The regular cavalry, following, can bring the Kushans' horses with them. They should still be able to reach the Ye-tai in time to hold the crossing."

  The officers submitted, of course. But one of them, bolder than the rest, made a last protest:

  "It will take the Kushans so much time, if they cross the river on foot."

  "That is precisely the point."

  "Now, do as I command."

  All opposition fled. The officers hastened from the pavilion, spreading the command throughout the great army encamped below the dam.

  Alone in its pavilion, Link continued to calculate. Gauge. Analyze.

  Its thoughts were confident. Link was guided not simply by its own incredible intellect, but also by intelligence-in the military sense of the term. Roman prisoners had been taken, here and there, in the days of fighting. Interrogated. Those of them with personal knowledge of Belisarius had been questioned under torture, until Link was satisfied that it had squeezed every last item necessary to fully assess the capabilities of its enemy.

  It would have done better, had it been in Link's power, to have interrogated a Persian survivor of the battle of Mindouos. The man named Baresmanas.

  But, perhaps not. Link would not have asked the right questions. And Baresmanas would certainly not have volunteered the information, not even under the knife.

  But he could have. He could have. He could have warned the Malwa superbeing that mercy can have its own sharp point. Keener than any lance or blade; and even deadlier to the foe.

  Chapter 37

  "Finally," hissed Belisarius.

  The general was practically dancing with impatience, waiting for his horse to be brought up to the artillery tower where he had made his headquarters for the past week.

  He was already in full armor. He had begun donning the gear the moment he heard the first katyusha volleys. As he had predicted, the Malwa were attempting to cross the Nehar Malka on a pontoon bridge. He was convinced that the maneuver was a feint, but, like all well-executed diversions, it carried real substance behind it. Thousands of Malwa troops were involved in the crossing, supported by most of their rocket troughs. By now, an hour into the battle, the scene to the east was a flashing cacophony. Katyusha rockets crossed trails with Malwa missiles. The Syrian soldiers on the rockpile added their own volleys of fire-arrows, aimed at the boats on the canal. The Nehar Malka was lit up by those flaming ships.

  In the darkness ahead, he could make out the looming shape of his horse. Maurice, he realized, was the man holding it.

  "How long ago?" were his first words.

  He could barely make out Maurice's shrug.

  "Who's to know? The Persians are being damned quiet. Much quieter than I would have expected, from a lot of headstrong dehgans. But Abbu's scouts report that they've already moved out at least half of their forces. Due west, into the desert."

  Sourly: "Just as you predicted."

  Belisarius nodded. "We've some time, then. Is Abbu-"

  Maurice snorted. "Be serious! Of course he's in pos-ition. The old Arab goat's even twitchier than you are."

  As Anastasius heaved him into the saddle, Belisarius grunted. "I am not twitchy. Simply eager to close with the foe."

  " 'Close with the foe,' " mimicked Maurice, clambering onto his own mount. "My, aren't we flowery tonight?"

  Securely in his saddle, Belisarius grinned. It was obvious that the prospect of action-finally! — had completely restored his spirits.

  "Let's to it, Maurice. I do believe the time has come to reacquaint the Malwa with the First Law of Battle."

  He tugged on the reins, turning his horse.

  "The enemy has arrived. And I intend to fuck them up completely."

  "What?" he demanded.

  Maurice took a breath. "You heard me. Abbu's courier reports that they're sending the Kushans across first. On foot, all of them. They even dismounted the Kushan cavalry. They've got their Ye-tai battalions massed on the bank, mounted, but they aren't crossing yet. Behind them, Abbu thinks they're forming up kshatriya and Malwa regulars, but he's not sure. He can't get close enough."

  Belisarius turned and stared into the darkness, raising himself up in the stirrups in order to peer over the wall. He was on the road at the eastern end of the dam, just behind the front fortifications. For a moment, he plucked at his telescope, but left off the motion almost as soon as it started. He already knew that the device was no help. It was a moonless night, and the Malwa crossing the almost-empty riverbed were a mile south of the dam. He could see nothing, not even with his Aide-enhanced vision.

  "Kushans first, and without horses," he murmured. "That makes no sense at all."

  He scratched his chin. "Unless-"

  "Unless what?" hissed Maurice.

  Scratched his chin. "Unless that thing is even smarter than I thought."

  Maurice shook his head. "Stop being so damn clever! Maybe they want to make sure they don't make any noise crossing the Euphrates. Kushans on foot will be as silent as any army could be."

  Belisarius nodded, slowly.

  "That's possible. It's even possible that they made arrangements with Ormazd to have horses left for them. Still-"

  A little noise drew their attention. An Arab courier was trotting toward them from the western end of the dam.

  "Abbu says now!" the scout exclaimed, as soon as he drew up. "Almost all the Kushans are in the riverbed. At least eight thousand of them. Probably all of them, by now. Their first skirmishers will have already reached the opposite bank."

  Belisarius scratched his chin.

  "God damn it to hell!" snarled Maurice. "What are you waiting for? We can't let those men cross, general! After all our casualties, we don't have much better than eight thousand left ourselves. Once they get on dry land-on the south bank-they can ford upstream any one of a dozen places. We'll have to face them on-"

  "Enough, Maurice." The chiliarch clamped shut his jaws.

  Scratched the chin.

  The general thought; gauged; calculated; assessed.

  The man decided.

  His crooked smile came. He said, very firmly:

  "Let the Kushans cross. All of them."

  To the scout:

  "Tell Abbu to send up the rocket when the Ye-tai are almost across. And tell that old maniac to make sure he's clear first. Do you understand? I want him clear!"

  The Arab grinned. "He will be clear, general. By a hair, of course. But he will be clear."

  An instant later, the man was gone.

  Belisarius turned back to Maurice. The grizzled veteran was glaring at him.

  "Look at it this way," Belisarius said pleasantly. "I've just given you what you treasure most. Something else to be morose about."

  Glaring furiously. To one side, Valentinian muttered: "Oh, great. Just what we needed. Eight thousand Kushans to deal with."

  Belisarius ignored both the glare and the mutter. He began to scratch his c
hin, but stopped. He had made his decision, and would stick with it.

  It was a bad decision, perhaps. It might even, in the end, prove to be disastrous. But he thought of men who liked to gamble, when they had nothing to gamble with except humor. And he remembered, most of all, a man with an iron face. A hard man who had, in two lives and two futures, made the same soft decision. A decision which, Belisarius knew, that man would always make, in every life and every future.

  He relaxed, then. Confident, not in his decision, but in his soul.

  "Let them pass," he murmured. "Let them pass."

  He cocked his head, slightly. "Basil's ready?"

  "Be serious," growled Maurice.

  Belisarius smiled. A minute later, he cocked his head again. "Everyone's clear?" he asked.

  "Be serious," growled Maurice.

  "Everybody except us," hissed Valentinian. "We're the only ones left. The last Syrians cleared off five minutes ago."

  "Let's be off, then," said Belisarius cheerfully.

  As he and his three cataphracts walked their horses off the dam-moving carefully, in the dark-Belisarius began softly reciting verses.

  The men with him did not recognize the poem. There was no way they could have. Aide had just given it to him, from the future. That future which Belisarius would shield, from men who thought themselves gods.

  Those masterful images because complete

  Grew in pure mind but out of what began?

  I must lie down where all the ladders start

  In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.

  Chapter 38

  The moment the signal rocket exploded, Link knew.

  Its four top officers, standing nearby on the platform of the command tower overlooking the river, were simply puzzled. The rocket, after bursting, continued to burn like a flare as it sailed down onto the mass of soldiers struggling their way across the bed of the Euphrates. Ye-tai, in the main, swearing softly as they tried to guide their horses in the darkness through a morass of streamlets and mucky sinkholes. But there were at least five thousand Malwa regulars, also, including a train of rocket-carts and the kshatriya to man them.