Belisarius II-Storm at Noontide

by Eric Flint

  He rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "No, no. It worked just like you planned. Four hundred sarwen, some Syrian gunners disguised as slaves, and one Roman woman have completely distracted an army ten times their number. Stopped them in their tracks, diverted their attention, disintegrated their formations—"

  His eye caught movement to the north. He barked a laugh. "Look! Even some of the troops dragging the guns are trotting our way."

  "Oh, marvelous," hissed Irene. Gloomily: "At least I'm not a virgin." She eyed the leering mob, and the artillery soldiers hastening down the road to join them. "Step aside, Messalina," she muttered. "I think I'm about to exceed your exploits. Put them completely in the shade, in fact."

  Ezana chuckled. "I'm not sure who Messalina was, but if—" Humor remained, in his eyes, but Ezana's face was suddenly stern and solemn.

  "You are a bold woman, Irene Macrembolitissa. Hold fast to that courage, and set aside your fears. No one will harm you. Kungas would never have agreed to this, if he did not think we Ethiopians could shield you when the hammer falls." The stiff face became a black mask; as hard and unyielding as Kungas' own. "Which it will, and very soon."

  Irene's eyes began to move toward the ridge above them, but she forced them aside.

  Ezana, seeing the movement, nodded. "He will be there, Irene. Kungas will come."

  Irene, trying to settle her nerves, fastened on that image. Kungas, and his hard face, coming toward her. Kungas, smiling with his eyes as she corrected his grammar. The little twitch in his lips, before he made a jest about thick-headed Kushans, even though she herself had been astonished by his ability to learn anything quickly. Kungas, day after day after day, sitting by her side in a chamber, learning to read. Never complaining, never grumbling, never angry at her for his own shortcomings.

  The memory of a hard face, and clear almond eyes, and a heart beating hidden warmth and humor, and a mind like an uncut diamond, steadied her. She took a few deep breaths. Kungas will come. A few more breaths. He will. A few more. Kungas.

  She felt herself return. To the memory of a hard face she added her own irrepressible humor.

  "What do you think, Ezana?" she asked, gesturing with her chin toward the cluster of officers not more than thirty yards away. The Malwa were still staring at her, exchanging unheard quips. "Will they start the seduction with fine wine? Some music, perhaps?"

  Ezana chuckled. Irene snorted. "Not likely, is it?" Her sour gaze fell on one particularly gross Malwa officer. The man had his tongue sticking out, wagging it at her.

  "Will you look at—"

  The officer's eyes bulged. Blood coughed out of his mouth, coating the obscene tongue. An arrowhead was protruding through his throat.

  An instant later, the clustered officers were swept off their horses as if struck by a giant sickle. Irene gaped. Part of her mind identified the objects which had turned men into shredded meat. Arrows. But most of her brain simply went blank.

  Dimly, she heard Ezana shouting. Her mouth still wide open from shock, she turned her head. The Syrian gunners had abandoned their servile toil and were already hurling grenades. The missiles were joined in mid-flight—and then overtaken—by four hundred javelins. Ethiopia's spearmen were also in action.

  The javelin volley swept the front ranks of the Malwa mob like another great sickle. The second volley was on its way before the grenades even landed. Again, Death swung its sickle—and then again, as the grenades began exploding in the packed crowd. Some of the grenades were smoke bombs. Within seconds, the bloody scene began to disappear behind streaked and wafting clouds.

  She was in a daze. Irene had never been in a battle before. She had never been near a battle before. Part of her shock and confusion was produced by simple fear. But most of it was an even simpler collapse of intelligence.

  Irene's well-trained, logical mind stumbled and tripped, trying to find order and reason in the bedlam around her. Everything seemed pure chaos. An inferno of unreason. Through the eddying smoke, she caught glimpses of: men dying; sarwen locking their shields; the flight of arrows and javelins, and grenades; yelling Kushans charging down the slope; bellowing Ye-tai, desperately trying to rally confused troops. Shouts of confusion; shrieks of agony; screams of death and despair; cries of victory and triumph.

  Noise, noise, everywhere. Steel and wood and flesh breaking. She clapped her hands over her ears, in her own desperate struggle to rally intelligence. Half in a crouch, sheltered under a canopy, she forced her eyes to watch. Desperately—desperately—trying to find a place where reason could set its anchor.

  The anchor scraped across stone, finding no place.

  How can men stand this? she wondered. Her eyes recognized purpose in the chaos. Her eyes saw the discipline of the sarwen, the way their shield wall held like a dike—and no pitiful child's castle of sand, this, against the coming tide. Her eyes saw—she had been told, but had never really believed—how the Malwa broke against those shields and spears. Men—enemies, yes, but still men—using their own flesh like water, trying to break the reef. Flesh became red ruin; blood everywhere; a severed arm, here; a coil of intestines, there; a piece of Malwa brain, crushed under an Ethiopian sandal.

  Irene's eyes watched Satan spread his carpet across a dusty road in India. She saw, but her mind could not encompass the seeing.

  A powerful hand seized her shoulder and drove her to her knees.

  "Down, woman!" Her ears heard Ezana's voice, shouting further commands. Her eyes saw five sarwen, surrounding her like a wall. Her mind understood nothing. She was no more than a child, now, recognizing shelter.

  She closed her eyes and pressed her hands over her ears. Finally, darkness and relative quiet brought back a modicum of reason. In that small eye of the storm, Irene sought herself.

  After a time—seconds? minutes? hours?—she began to recognize herself.

  Courage, foundation of all virtues, came back first.

  I will not do this. Firmly, she opened her eyes and removed her hands from her ears.

  She could see nothing, on her knees, except a few glimpses through the legs of the sarwen standing guard over her. And what little she could see was still obscured by smoke. After a moment, she stopped trying to make sense of the battle. She simply studied the legs of the soldiers shielding her.

  Excellent legs, she concluded. Under the black skin, powerful muscles flexed calves and thighs. The easy movement of men watching, not fighting themselves, but ready to spring into action at an instant's notice. Human leopards. Horny, calloused feet rested firmly in sturdy sandals. Toes shaped in Ethiopia's mountains fit stony Majarashtra to perfection.

  She listened to their banter. Her Ge'ez was good enough, now, to understand the words. But her mind made no attempt to translate. Most of the words were profanity, anyway—nothing more than taunting curses hurled down on the invisible enemy. She simply listened to the confidence in those voices. Human leopards, growling with predator satisfaction.

  Two phrases, only, did she ever remember.

  The first, howled with glee: "And will you look at those fucking Kushans? God—damn!"

  And the response, growling bemused wonder: "I'm glad Kungas is on our side, boys. Or we'd be so much dog food."

  So am I. Oh, dear God, so am I.

  * * *

  In the time which followed, as a Malwa army was ripped to pieces between Ethiopia's shield wall and a Kushan avalanche, Irene went away. This was not her place. She had no purpose here.

  She needed to find herself, again. For perhaps the first time in her life.

  Herself appeared, and demanded the truth. Don't ask why you came, woman. You know the answer. And don't tell me lies about clever stratagems, and ruses, and battle plans. Tell others, but not me. You know why you came.

  "Yes," she choked, closing her eyes. Tears leaked through the lids. "I know."

  A sarwen, hearing the soft sobs, glanced down at her. For a moment, no more, before he looked away. A woman, her wits shattered. Nothing to
puzzle over. Women were fragile by nature.

  But he was quite wrong. The tears streaking Irene's cheeks were tears of happiness, not fear. Fear there was, of course, and fear aplenty. But it was not fear of the moment. No, not at all. It was the much greater fear—the deep terror, entwined with joy—of a human being who had finally, like so many others before her, been able to give up a hostage to fortune. A woman who, finally, understood her friend Antonina and could—finally—make the same choice.

  "He would have gone into the fire, anyway," she whispered to herself. "No matter what I did."

  Herself nodded. And you could not bear the thought. Of staying behind, staring at a horse.

  * * *

  Then, he was there. She saw the legs of the sarwen around her ease and stretch. Saw them move aside. Heard the shouts of greeting and glee. In the distance, a muted roar. The first of the Malwa guns was being destroyed—overcharged powder blowing overcharged shot, rupturing the huge weapon like a rotten fruit.

  He squatted next to her, where she knelt. "Are you all right?"

  Irene nodded. Smiled. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

  He had never touched her before. She reached up and caressed the hand with her own. Feeling, with her long and slender fingers, the short ones, heavy with flesh and sinew, which held her shoulder so gently.

  She pressed her face into his thick chest. His hand slid down her arm, his arm became a shield, his touch an embrace. Suddenly, fiercely, she pressed open lips against his muscular neck. Kissing, nuzzling. Her breath came quick and short. She flung her arms around him and drew him half-sprawling across her. Her left leg, kicking free of the long tunic, coiled down his out-thrust right leg. Her sandal scraped the bare skin of his calf.

  For a moment—pure heat, bolting out of a stable like a wild horse—Irene felt Kungas respond. His hard abdomen pressed her own, desire meeting desire. But only for a moment. Kungas chuckled. The sound carried more delight than humor. Much more. Much more. It was the choked laugh of a man who discovers, unexpectedly, that an idle dream has taken real form. Yet, despite that little cry, his strong arms and body went rigid, pinning her—not like a wrestler pins an opponent, but simply like a man restrains a child from folly. Seconds went by, while his lips nuzzled her lovely, thick, chestnut hair. Irene felt his breath; heavy, hot at first, but cooling quickly.

  She chuckled herself, then, as his restraint brought her own. "I guess it's not a good idea," she mumbled. "The Ethiopians would probably insist on watching."

  "Worse, I'm afraid," he responded dryly, still kissing her hair. "They'd accompany us with drums. Placing bets, all the while, on when we'd stop."

  Irene laughed outright. The sound was muffled against his chest.

  "No," whispered Kungas gently. "Not for us, and not now. Passion always comes, after death's wings flap away. But it is cheap, and gone with the morrow. And you will wonder, afterward, whether it was you or your fear."

  He chuckled again. Delight was still in that sound, but it was warm rather than ecstatic. "I know you, Irene. You would resent me. And what's worse, you would study books trying to find the answer."

  "Think I couldn't find it?" she demanded.

  She heard his soft laugh, rustling through her hair. Felt the little movement of his chest. Knew the economic subtlety she had come to cherish so. "I don't doubt you would. But reading takes so much time. I don't want to wait that long."

  Smiling, she raised her head. The clear brown eyes of Greek nobility, looking past a long and bony nose, stared into eyes of almond, in a flat and barbarous face. "How long, then?" she asked.

  Another muted roar swept the pavilion; and then another. But the Kushan's eyes never left her own. The destruction of Venandakatra's guns—the rubble of Malwa's schemes—the salvation of a dynasty—these were meaningless things, in that moment, for those two people embracing on a road.

  "First, I must learn to read," he said. "Not before." His face was stiff, and solemn, but Irene did not miss the little twitch in his lips.

  She smiled. "You are a good student, you know. Amazingly good."

  Kungas' smile could have been recognized by anyone, now. "With such an incentive, who could fail?"

  There was another roar, as a siege gun ruptured; and another. This time, Kungas did look.

  "That's the last of them," he said. "We must be off, now, before they rally and Venandakatra sends more. We can make the coast, if we don't dawdle."

  With easy grace, he rose to his feet and extended his hand. A moment later, Irene was standing at his side.

  The realities of war had returned. Irene could see the sarwen and the Kushan troops forming their columns in preparation for the forced march to the sea, and the Ethiopian ships waiting there to carry them back to Suppara.

  But Kungas did not immediately relinquish his grip on her hand. He took the time to lean over and whisper: "We will know."

  Irene, grinning, squeezed his hand. "Yes. We will always know."

  She burst into laughter, then. Riotous, joy-filled laughter. Ethiopian and Kushan soldiers nearby, hearing that bizarre sound on a bloody battlefield, looked her way.

  For a second or two, no more. A woman, her wits frayed by the carnage. Nothing to puzzle over. Women were fragile by nature.

  Chapter 19

  PERSIA

  Summer, 532 a.d.

  "Can you disguise the entrance afterward?" asked Belisarius. He waved his hand, in a gesture which encompassed the valley. "The whole area, actually. Keep in mind, Kurush, there'll be more than ten thousand soldiers passing through here—and as many horses."

  The Roman general turned his head, looking down at the river. The river flowed west by northwest. Like the valley itself, the river was small and rather narrow. The pass where it exited the valley was barely more than a gorge. They were almost in the foothills of the western slope of the Zagros, but the surrounding mountains seemed to have lost none of their usual ruggedness.

  "I assume you'll be taking the horses out that way," Belisarius said, pointing toward the gorge. "By the time they pass through, the whole valley will be churned into mush. No way to disguise the tracks."

  Kurush shook his head, smiling. "We won't try to hide the tracks, Belisarius. Quite the opposite! The more Damodara's mind is on that gorge, the more he'll be diverted from the real exit."

  Belisarius scratched his chin. "I understand the logic, Kurush. But don't underestimate Damodara and Sanga—and their scouts. Those Pathan trackers can trail a mouse. They won't simply trot after the horses, salivating. They'll search the entire valley."

  Belisarius turned his head and studied the entrance to the qanat. The timber-braced adit was located about a hundred yards up the mountainside, not far from the small river which had carved out this valley. The sloping ramp, after a few feet, disappeared into darkness.

  He hooked a thumb in that direction. "There'll be tracks there too," he pointed out. "No way to disguise them, either. Even if you collapse the entrance, the tracks will be all over the area. Ten thousand troops leave a big trail."

  Kurush's smile widened. He shook his head. "You're worrying too much. We can cover the soldiers' tracks by running the horses through afterward. Everywhere except this immediate area. Then—"

  The Persian nobleman leapt onto a small rock a few feet away. From that perch, he leaned over and pointed along the steep slope of the mountain. "This is mining country, Belisarius. Silver, mostly. There are small deposits in this valley."

  He spread his hands apologetically. "Nothing more than traces, really, according to the miners I brought with me. But the miners will be gone before Damodara arrives. And I doubt very much if an army of Rajput cavalrymen will be able to tell him that the ore in the area isn't worth mining."

  Aide made a mental snort. Rajputs?

  Belisarius chuckled. "Hardly! And their Pathans, outside of hunting, consider all forms of labor to be women's work."

  The Roman general nodded. "Yes, that'll work. After we pass through, yo
u'll have this whole slope turned into a mining operation. Cover our tracks with tailings." He pointed at the adit. "And I assume that you'll have your miners cover our tracks well into the qanat. Fifty yards should do it. Pathans are outdoorsmen. They won't be comfortable more than a few feet into that blackness."

  Again, Belisarius studied the gorge at the far end of the valley. "All that will be left, after a few days," he mused, "are the tracks of Roman horses. Passing, by pure coincidence, through a mining area on their way into Mesopotamia."

  He paused, thinking. "One thing, however. Those Pathans know their business, Kurush. You'll have to make sure—"

  Kurush was grinning. "Yes, yes!" he interrupted. "I'll have the horses carrying sacks filled with dirt. Weighing about what a Roman soldier does. Their tracks will be deep enough."

  Belisarius returned the grin with one of his own. "You've thought of everything, I see."

  Kurush shrugged. Belisarius almost laughed. The modest gesture fit the Aryan sahrdaran about as well as a curtsy fits a lion.

  His humor faded. "You understand, Kurush, that the hammer will fall on you? Once Damodara understands what has happened—and it won't take him long—he won't waste time trying to chase after me. He'll strike directly into Mesopotamia."

  Kurush shrugged again. The gesture, this time, did not even pretend at modesty. It was the twitch of a lion's shoulders, irritated by flies.

  "That is only fair, Roman, after all you've done for the Aryans."

  Kurush sprang off the rock and strode over to Belisarius. He jabbed his chin toward the south, using his stiff Persian-cut beard as a pointer. "As soon as he gets the word, the emperor will begin retreating toward Babylon. He's on the verge of doing it, anyway, so it won't seem odd at all." Kurush scowled. "The Malwa have been pressing him very hard."

  Belisarius eyed the sahrdaran. The Roman general had no difficulty interpreting Kurush's frowning face. He could well imagine the casualties which Emperor Khusrau's soldiers had taken over the past months. While Belisarius had been maneuvering with Damodara in the Zagros mountains all through the spring, Khusrau had been keeping the huge main army of the Malwa invasion penned up in the Tigris–Euphrates delta. The task would have been difficult enough, even without—