by Eric Flint
His lips pursed, as if he had eaten a lemon. "No enemy is so—"
"Yes, they are," interrupted Belisarius. The humor was still apparent on the general's face, but when he spoke, his tone was utterly serious. He addressed his words not to Abbu alone, but to all the commanders.
"Understand this enemy. They are immensely powerful, because of their weapons and the great weight of forces they can bring to bear on the field of war. But the same methods which created that gigantic empire are also their Achilles heel. They trust no-one but Malwa. Not even the Ye-tai. And with good reason! All other peoples are nothing but their beasts."
He scanned the faces staring at him, ending with Abbu's.
"They have scouts as good as any in the world, Abbu. The Kushans, for instance, are excellent. And the Pathan trackers who serve the Rajputs are even better. But where are the Kushans? At the rear. Where are the Rajputs?" He gestured to the northeast. "Being bled dry in the mountains, that's where. Here, in Mesopotamia, they are using common cavalrymen for skirmishers." He shrugged. "Without Ye-tai to shepherd them, those soldiers will shirk their duty at every opportunity."
"They're arrogant bastards, all right," chimed in Coutzes. "It's not just that their vanguard elements are sloppy—they've got almost no flankers at all."
Belisarius glanced at the rising sun. "How soon?" he asked.
Coutzes' reply was immediate. "An hour and a half, general. Two, at the most." The young Thracian gave Abbu an approving look.
"Despite all his grumbling, Abbu and his men did a beautiful job last night. The Malwa are headed directly for us, and they've assumed a new marching order. A battle formation, it looks like to me—although it's like none I've ever seen."
"Describe it," commanded Belisarius.
"They've got their regular cavalry massed along the front. It's a deep formation. They're still in columns, but the columns are so wide they might as well be advancing in a line."
"Slower than honey, they're moving," chipped in one of Coutzes' tribunes. Coutzes nodded. "Then, most of their barbarians—Ye-tai—are on the flanks. But they're not moving out like flankers should be. Instead, they're pressed right against—"
"They're not flankers," interrupted Belisarius, shaking his head. "The Ye-tai are used mainly as security battalions. The Malwa commander has them on the flanks in order to make sure that his regular troops don't break and run when the battle starts."
Coutzes snorted. "I can believe that. They're some tough-looking bastards, that's for sure."
"Yes, they are," agreed Belisarius. "That's their other function. The Malwa commander will be counting on them to beat off any flank attack."
One of the other tribunes sneered. "They're not that tough. Not against Thracian and Illyrian cataphracts, when the hammer comes down."
Belisarius grinned. "My opinion—exactly." To Coutzes:
"The Kushans are still in the rear? Pressed up close, I imagine, against the formation in the center—the war wagons with the priests and the kshatriya?"
Coutzes nodded. Belisarius copied the gesture.
"It all makes sense," he stated. "The key to that formation—the reason it looks odd to you, Coutzes—is that the Malwa approach battle like a blacksmith approaches an anvil. Their only thought is to use a hammer, which, in this case, is a mass of cavalry backed up by rocket platforms. If the hammer doesn't work"—he shrugged—"get a bigger hammer."
"What about the Lakhmids?" asked Maurice.
Coutzes and the tribunes burst into laughter. Even Abbu, for the first time, allowed a smile to creep into his face.
"They're no fools," chuckled the scout leader. Approvingly: "Proper good Arabs, even if they are a lot of stinking Lakhmites. They're—"
Coutzes interrupted, still laughing.
"They are assuming a true flank position—way out on the flank. The left flank, of course, as near to the desert as they can get without fighting an actual pitched battle with the Ye-tai."
"Who are not happy with the Lakhmids," added one of the tribunes. Another chimed in, "They'll break in a minute, general. It's as obvious as udders on a cow. You know how those Arabs think."
Abbu snorted. "Like any sane man thinks! What's the point of riding a horse if you're not going to run the damn beast? Especially with an idiot commander who maneuvers his troops like—" the scout nodded at Belisarius "—just like the general says. Like a musclebound, pot-bellied blacksmith, waddling up to his anvil."
Belisarius clapped his hands, once.
"Enough," he said. "Coutzes, start the attack as soon as you can. By now, the Constantinople men will be up and ready. I'll be with them, when the time comes."
Coutzes peered at him. The look combined hesitation and concern. "Are you sure about that, general? The casualties are going to be—"
"I'll be with them," repeated Belisarius.
Coutzes made a little motion with his shoulders, like an abandoned shrug. He turned his horse and trotted off. His tribunes and Abbu immediately followed.
Once they were gone, Maurice glanced at Belisarius.
"Odd," he remarked. "Hearing you make such sarcastic remarks about blacksmiths, I mean. I always thought you admired the fellows."
"I do," came the vigorous response. "Spent half my time, as a kid, hanging around the smithy. Wanted to be a blacksmith myself, when I grew up."
The general turned and began walking through the gate back to the villa, Maurice at his side.
"I wasn't poking fun at blacksmiths, Maurice. I was ridiculing generals who think they're blacksmiths."
He shook his head. "Smithing's a craft. And, like any craft, it has its own special rules. Fine rules—as long as you don't confuse them with the rules of another trade. The thing about an anvil, you see, is that it's just a big lump of metal. Anvils don't fight back."
A half hour later, after parting company with Maur-ice, Belisarius rode his horse into the Constantinople encampment. Valentinian and Anastasius accompanied him, as always, trailing just a few yards behind.
The Greek troops were already up and about. Fed, watered, fully armed and armored—and champing at the bit. The soldiers greeted him enthusiastically when he rode up. Belisarius listened to their cheers carefully. There was nothing feigned in those salutations, he decided. Word had already spread, obviously, that Belisarius would be fighting with them in the upcoming battle. As he had estimated, the news that their general would be sharing the risks of a cavalry charge had completed the work of cementing the cataphracts' allegiance.
I've got an army, finally, he thought with relief. Then, a bit sardonically: Now, I've only got to worry about surviving the charge.
Aide spoke in his mind:
I think you should not do this. It is very dangerous. They will have rockets.
Belisarius scratched his chin before making his reply.
I don't think that will be a problem, Aide. The Syrians should have the enemy cavalry confused and disorganized by the time we charge. If we move in fast they'll have no clear targets for their rockets.
Aide was not mollified.
It is very dangerous. You should not do this. You are irreplaceable.
Belisarius sighed. Aide's fears, he realized, had nothing to do with his estimation of the tactical odds. They were far more deeply rooted.
No man is irreplaceable, Aide.
That is not true. You are. Without you, the Malwa will win. Link will win. We will be lost.
The general spoke, very firmly. If I am irreplaceable, Aide, it is because of my ability as a general. True?
Silence.
Belisarius demanded: True?
Yes, came Aide's grudging reply.
Then you must accept this. The risk is part of the generalship.
He could sense the uncertainty of the facets. He pressed home the lesson.
I have a small army. The enemy is huge. If I am to win—the war, not just this battle—I must have an army which is supple and quick to act. Only a united, welded army can do that.
He
paused, thinking how best to explain. Aide's knowledge and understanding of humanity was vast, in many ways—much greater than his own. But the crystalline being's own nature made some aspects of human reality obscure to him, even opaque. Aide often astonished Belisarius with his uncanny understanding of the great forces which moved the human race. And then, astonished him as much with his ignorance of the people who made up that race.
Humanity, as a tapestry, Aide understood. But he groped, dimly, at the human threads themselves.
We are much like Malwa, we Romans. We, too, have built a great empire out of many different peoples and nations. They organize their empire by rigid hierarchical rules—purity separated from pollution, by carefully delineated stages. We do it otherwise. Their methods give them great power, but little flexibility. And, most important, nothing in the way of genuine loyalty.
We will only defeat them with cunning—and loyalty.
He closed in on his point, almost ruthlessly. He could feel Aide resisting the logic.
It is true, Aide. I am the premier general of Rome because of my victories over Persians and barbarians. I won those victories with border troops—Thracians, of course, but also Syrians and Illyrians. The Greek soldiers who form the heart of the Roman army know little of me beyond my reputation.
That is too abstract. For the war against Malwa, those men are key. I must have their unswerving loyalty and trust. Not just these men, today, but all the others who will follow.
Firmly, finally:
There is no other way. A general can only gain the loyalty of troops who know he is loyal to them, also. I have already shown the garrison troops that I cannot be trifled with. Now I must show them that I will not trifle with them. Their charge is the key to the battle. If it is pressed home savagely, it will fix the enemy's attention on the Greeks. They will not dream that there might be others—even more dangerous—hidden in the woods.
Silence. Then, plaintively:
It will be very dangerous. You might be killed.
Belisarius made no answer. By now, he was approaching the center of the Constantinople encampment. He could see Agathius astride his armored charger, fifty yards away, surrounded by his tribunes and hecatontarchs. The young chiliarch was issuing last-minute instructions. He was not bellowing or roaring those commands histrionically, however, as Belisarius had seen many Roman officers do on the morning of a battle. Even at a distance, the relaxed camaraderie of the Con-stantinople command group was obvious.
Aide's voice cut through the general's satisfaction.
I would miss you. Very much.
Belisarius focussed all his attention on the facets. He was dazzled, as so many times before, by the kaleidoscopic beauty of that strangest of God's creations. That wondrous soul which called itself Aide.
I would miss you, also. Very much.
A small part of his mind heard Agathius' welcoming hail. A small part of his mind raised a hand in acknowledgement. For the rest—
Whimsy returned.
Let's try to avoid the problem, shall we?
The facets flashed and spun, assuming a new configuration. A shape—a form—Belisarius had never sensed in them, before, began to crystallize.
I will help, came the thought. Firm, solid—lean and sinewy.
Almost weaselish.
Those sorry bastards are fucked. Fucked!
Belisarius started with surprise. Aide's next words caused him to twist in his saddle, to make sure that he had not heard Valentinian himself.
Mutter, mutter, mutter.
"I didn't say a thing," protested Valentinian, seeing the general's accusing eyes. With an air of aggrieved injury, he pointed a thumb at the huge cataphract riding next to him. "Ask him."
"Man's been as silent as a tomb, general," averred Anastasius. "Although I doubt he's been thinking philosophical thoughts, as I have. I always contemplate before a battle, you know. I find the words of Marcus Aurelius particularly—"
Valentinian muttered. Anastasius cocked an eye.
"What was that? I didn't catch it."
Belisarius grinned.
"I think he said 'sodomize philosophy.' But, maybe not. Maybe he said 'sod of my patrimony.' Praying to the ancestral spirits of Thrace, you understand, for their protection in the coming fray."
Mutter, mutter, mutter.
Mutter, mutter, mutter.
Chapter 18
Belisarius ordered the charge as soon as he saw the first units of the Syrian light cavalry pouring back from the battlefield.
The battlefield itself, directly to the east, was too distant to make out clearly. From a mile away, it was just a cloud of dust on a level plain—fertile fields, once—further obscured by the little copses of trees which were the outposts of the imperial hunting park. But the general, from experience, had been able to gauge the tempo of the battle by sound alone.
Based on what he had heard, he thought the situation was progressing very nicely. He was particularly pleased—if he had interpreted the sounds correctly—by the situation on his right. There, Abbu and his men had concentrated their attentions on their Arab counterparts.
Abbu's scouts were bedouin tribesmen, pledged to the service of the Ghassanid dynasty. The Ghassanids were Rome's traditional allies in northwest Arabia. More in the way of vassals, actually, but Rome had always been careful to tread lightly on their prickly Arab sensibilities. The Lakhmids had served Persia in the same capacity, in northeast Arabia, until switching their allegiance to the Malwa.
The Malwa were a new enemy, for Rome and its Ghassanid allies. But their Arab skirmishers were same Lakhmids that Abbu and his men—and their ancestors—had been fighting for centuries. That conflict had ancient, bitter roots.
Both sides in that fray ululated in the Arab manner, but there were subtleties which were quite distinct to the general's educated ear. For a time, the ululations had swelled and swayed, back and forth. Now, there was a different pattern to the chanting rhythm of that battle.
Unless Belisarius missed his guess badly, Abbu and his men had fairly routed the Lakhmids—and with them, the only competent scouts in the enemy's army besides the Kushans.
He was pleased—no, delighted. Many things Maurice had taught him until the general, finally, outstripped his tutor, but one of the earliest lessons had been simple and brutal:
First thing you do, you blind the bastards.
The "charge" which Belisarius ordered was more in the nature of a vigorous trot. The enemy was still almost a mile away, even if, as he expected, they were advancing toward him. A mile, especially in the heat of a Syrian summer, was much too far to race a warhorse carrying its own armor and an armored man.
So he simply trotted forward. At first, he kept a vigilant eye on the garrison troopers, making sure that the hotheads among them didn't spur the rest into a faster pace. His vigilance eased, after a bit, once it became obvious that Agathius' sub-officers were a steady and capable lot. Veterans all, they did an excellent job of restraining the overeager.
Even in a trot, two thousand cataphracts—along with Persian dehgans, the heaviest cavalry in the world—sounded like distant thunder. The Syrian light horsemen, scampering away from the enemy they had goaded into a furious charge, heard that sound and knew its meaning. Knew that their mightier brothers were coming to their aid. Knew, most of all, that their general—once again—had not failed them.
The first Syrians who galloped through the gaps left for them by the oncoming cataphracts were whooping and grinning ear to ear. Shouting their cheerful cries.
Belisarius! Belisarius!
Some—then more and more, as the battlecry gained favor: Constantinople! Constantinople!
Throughout, as the retreating Syrians poured through their ranks, chanting and hollering, the capital troopers maintained a dignified silence. But Belisarius could sense the hidden satisfaction lurking beneath those helmeted faces. All memories of town brawls and executed comrades vanished; all resentments of sharp-tongued borderers fled; al
l bitterness at aristocratic units lounging in Constantinople while they sweated in the desert were forgotten.
There was nothing, now, but the fierce pride of the toughest fighters the world had ever known.
Greeks.
Latin armies had outfought them, centuries before, with superior organization and tactics. Beaten them so thoroughly, in fact, that they had even adopted the name of their conquerors. The Empire was Greek, now, at its core. But they called it the Roman Empire, still, and took pride in the name.
Persian armies, in modern cavalry battles, had outmaneuvered and outshot them, time after time. Until the proud Greeks, who called themselves Romans, had finally imitated their ancient Medean foe. The cataphracts were nothing but a copy of the Persian dehgans, at bottom.
In war, others had been better than the Greeks, many times. But no-one had ever been better in a fight. The Greek hoplite had been the most terrible of foes, on the ancient battlefield. They had introduced into warfare a style of bloody, smashing, in-your-face combat that had shocked all their opponents.
Achilles come to life; Ajax reborn. The same blood flowed in the veins of the grim men riding alongside Belisarius that day. The armor was different. The weapons had changed. They rode forward on horseback rather than striding on phalanx feet. But they were still the same tough, tough, tough Greeks.
A half mile, now. Syrian cavalrymen were still swirling in the ground between Belisarius and the oncoming Malwa. "A Hunnish kind of sally," the general had asked for—and Huns couldn't have done it better. Advance. Volley. Retreat—but with the "Parthian shot," firing arrows over the shoulder. Counter-attack. Volley. Retreat. Swirl forward; swirl away. Kill; cripple; wound—and evade retaliation.
Belisarius could finally see a few of the advancing Malwa. He could sense their frenzied rage at the Syrian tactics. Full of their own arrogance, the Malwa thought only of closing with this infuriating army of skirmishers. Their lead units were pushing ahead, maintaining no battle order. The Ye-tai "enforcers" scattered among them were not driving the troopers forward. There was no need. The Ye-tai themselves were seized up in that same heedless fury.
