by Eric Flint
Maurice made a fist, and inspected his knuckles. "That'll be too late. Way too late. By the day after tomorrow, we'll be able to hold Charax against them. For three weeks, at the very least. A month and a half wouldn't surprise me. Although I don't want to think about our casualties, by then."
And now, all eyes were on Belisarius.
He smiled. Widely, not crookedly. All rage and fury vanished, as he remembered that other—much deeper—side of life.
"She'll come," he said. "She'll come."
Chapter 33
THE TIGRIS
Autumn, 532 a.d.
In the event, Lord Damodara lost Sanga's services for only nine days. On the morning of the tenth, the Rajput king strode into Damodara's pavilion and slammed the truth onto his commander's table.
Damodara stared at the object resting before him. At his side, he sensed Narses' start of surprise. A moment later, the eunuch hissed.
The "truth" was a helmet. A great, heavy, ungainly contraption of segmented steel plates. A Goth helmet, Damodara vaguely realized.
"We found a small mountain of the things," said Sanga, "along with all the other gear those mercenaries were wearing."
Damodara looked up. "Where?"
Sanga glowered at the helmet. "Do you remember that small valley we passed through, where the Persians had been mining?" He snorted. "I remember noticing how fresh the mine tailings were. I was impressed, at the time, by the courage and determination of the Persian miners—to have kept working till the last minute, with a war raging about their heads."
"The tunnel!" explained Narses. "There was a tunnel there. A mine adit."
Sanga shook his head. "That is no mine, Narses. They disguised the first few dozen yards to make it look like one, but it is really an entrance to a qanat." He pointed at the helmet. "We found those about fifty yards in. Piled in a heap, as I said. It took us an hour to move the stuff aside, and go beyond. Thereafter—"
He pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. "From that point on, the trail is as clear as the one we have been following. Belisarius' entire army—I am as certain of it as I am of my own name—took that route. Hidden from sight underground, they marched to the south. They probably emerged, miles away, in another valley. Their Persian allies would have had fresh horses waiting for them."
He slapped the map with his hand. "That is why Belisarius was always willing to let us move north, but was so stubborn an opponent to the south. He was protecting the location of the tunnel. It must have taken them weeks—months—to prepare everything, even with help from the Persians. He could not afford to have us stumble upon his secret by accident, in the course of our maneuvers."
Damodara's eyes were wide open. His next words were almost choked out.
"Are you telling me that—" He waved his hand, weakly, as if to encompass all of time and space. "Everything we've done, for months—all the maneuvers and the fighting—even the battle at the pass—was a feint?"
Sanga nodded. "Yes, Lord. It was all a feint. Belisarius was buying time, yes. But he wasn't buying time for Emperor Khusrau, or his man Agathius in Peroz-Shapur. He was buying it for himself. Until the time was right, and the preparations were finished, and he could finally strike at his true target. Now that Emperor Khusrau's retreat has drawn our main army out of Charax, the Roman can drive home the death stroke."
"Here," said Sanga. His finger speared a point on the map. "At Charax."
Damodara's eyes, already wide, were almost bulging.
"That's insane!" he cried. "Charax is the most fortified place in the world! Even without the main army there, the garrison is still the size of Belisarius' army. Bigger! There's no way on earth he could storm the place—not even if he had siege guns."
Narses interrupted. His voice was dry and cold, like arctic ice.
"Have you ever heard of the Trojan Horse, Lord Damodara?" he asked. The Malwa lord twisted his head, transferring the incredulous gaze to Narses.
The old eunuch chuckled humorlessly. "Never mind. I will tell you the tale some other time. But you can trust me on this, Lord. That—"
He jabbed a finger at the helmet resting on the table. "That is a Trojan helmet." Narses laughed. There was actual humor in that laugh, mixed with rueful admiration.
"God, has the world even seen such a schemer?" He laughed again. "Those helmets, Lord Damodara, tell you the truth. They were discarded by Belisarius' two thousand Goth mercenaries, now that they no longer needed them to maintain the disguise. For those men were never Goths to begin with."
Damodara's mind finally tracked the trail. His eyes remained wide. His jaws tightened. The next words came between clenched teeth.
"There were two thousand Kushans in the army which Belisarius destroyed at Anatha last year. We always assumed they were slaughtered along with the rest."
Rana Sanga ran fingers through his thick hair. Then he, too, laughed—and, like Narses, his laugh was mixed rue and admiration.
"He used the same trick against us in India," mused Sanga. "Turned the allegiance of Kushans, and then left a false trail, so that the Kushans could do his real work."
Damodara was back to staring at the map. After a moment, his eyes narrowed.
"This still doesn't make sense," he said softly. He tapped his finger on the location of Charax. "I can see where he might get into Charax, using Kushans as his entry. And, certainly, once he got in—" Damodara snorted. "His soldiers, against garrison troops, would be like wolves in a sheep pen."
Slowly, the Malwa lord rose up, leaning on the table. His eyes went back and forth from Sanga to Narses.
"But then—how does he get out?"
Again, Damodara's finger tapped the map. This time, very forcefully, like a finger of accusation.
"Our main force is still not more than a few days' march away from Charax. Before Belisarius could finish his work of destruction, he would be surrounded by the largest army in the world. No way to escape. He couldn't even sail out on the cargo ships in the harbor. He couldn't get through the screen of war galleys stationed in the outer harbor. And not even Belisarius—not even behind those fortifications—can hold more than a few weeks against fifteen-to-one odds. Two months, at the outside."
Again, the jabbing finger. "It's a suicide mission!" he exclaimed. "Impossible!"
Sanga shook his head. "Why so, Lord? Belisarius is as courageous as any man alive. I would lay down my life for my country and honor. Why would not he?"
Damodara was shaking his head before the Rajput even finished. "That's not the point, Sanga. For honor and country, yes. But for this?"
Sanga stared up at Damodara, as if he were gazing at a unicorn. Or a cretin.
"Lord Damodara," he said, speaking slowly, "do you understand what Belisarius will do? Once he is in Charax—"
Damodara slammed the table angrily. "I am not a fool, Sanga! Of course I know what he will do. He will destroy the entire logistics base for our invasion of Persia. He will leave a hundred and fifty thousand men stranded without food or supplies—and without means of escape. He will certainly destroy the fleet at anchor there. He will not be able to touch the war galleys outside the harbor, of course, but even if he could—" Damodara threw up his hands. "Those ships could not possibly transport more than two thousand men. Even including the supply ships on the Euphrates, we couldn't evacuate more than—"
Abruptly, Damodara sat down. His face was drawn. "It would be the worst military disaster in history. A death stroke, just as you said. Our army would have no choice. They would have to retrace the route taken by Alexander the Great, when he retreated from India to the west. Except they would have no provisions at all, and far more men to feed and water. Even for Alexander, that road was disastrous."
Gloomily, Damodara stared at the map. His eyes were resting on what it showed of the lands bordering the Persian Gulf. The map showed very little, in truth, because there was nothing there of military interest. Mile after mile after mile of barren, arid coastline.
His eyes moved up. "They can't even try to retrace the route we've taken, through the plateau. We're too far north. They'd have to fight their way through Khusrau's army. With no way to replenish their gunpowder."
"We could help," interjected Sanga quickly. "With us striking in relief, we could open a route for them into the Zagros. Then—" His words trailed off. Sanga, unlike Damodara, was not an expert in logistics. But he knew enough to realize the thing was hopeless.
"Then—what?" demanded Damodara. "An army that size—through the Persian plateau and the Hindu Kush? We had a difficult enough time ourselves, with a quarter that number of men and all the supplies we needed."
He was back to staring at the map. "No, no. If Belisarius drives home that stroke, he will destroy an army of one hundred and fifty thousand men. Not more than one in ten will ever find their way back to India. The rest will die of thirst or starvation, or surrender themselves into slavery."
Again, he slammed the table. This time, with both hands.
"If! If!" he cried. "It still doesn't make sense! Belisarius would not pay the price!"
Sanga began to speak but Damodara waved him silent.
"You are not thinking, Sanga!" Damodara groped for words, trying to explain. "Yes—Belisarius might commit suicide, to strike such an incredible blow. But I do not think—"
He paused, and took a few breaths. "One of the things I noticed about the man, these past months—noticed and admired, for it is a quality I like to think I possess myself—is that Belisarius does not throw away the lives of his soldiers. Some generals treat their men like so many grenades. Not he."
Damodara gave Sanga a piercing gaze. "You say you would give up your own life, King of Rajputana. For honor and country, certainly. But for the sake of a strategic masterstroke?" He waited. Sanga was silent.
Damodara shrugged. "Possibly. Possibly. But would you condemn ten thousand other men as well?"
Sanga looked away. "I didn't think so," said Damodara softly. "Neither would Belisarius."
Not a sound was heard, for perhaps half a minute. Then, Narses began to chuckle.
"What is so funny?" demanded Damodara angrily. Sanga simply glared at the eunuch.
Narses ignored Damodara. He returned Sanga's glare with a little smile, and a question.
"Whom do you trust most of all in this world, King of Rajputana? If your life depended on cutting a rope, in whose hands would you want the blade?"
"My wife," came the instant reply.
Narses grinned. A second later, the eyes of Sanga and Damodara were riveted back to the map. And, a second after that, moved off the map entirely—as if, somewhere on the floor, they could find the portion which displayed Egypt, Ethiopia, and the Erythrean Sea.
They barely registered Narses' words. Still chuckling: "Now we know—now, at last we understand. Why Belisarius put his own wife in charge of the Roman expedition to Egypt and Ethiopia. You remember? We wondered about it. Why risk her? Any one of his best officers could have commanded that expedition. But if your life depended on it—yours and ten thousand others—oh, yes. Then, yes. Then you'd want a wife, and no other."
"How can any man think that far ahead?" whispered Damodara. "And even if he could—how could they coordinate their movements?"
Sanga crossed his heavy arms, and closed his eyes. Then, speaking slowly: "As to the first, he did not have to plan everything down to the last detail. Belisarius is a brilliant tactician as well as a strategist. He would have relied on himself to create the openings, where needed. As to the other, they have their semaphore stations. And—"
All traces of anger left his face. His eyes reopened. "I have often noticed, from my own life, how closely the thoughts of a man and his wife can run together. Like the thoughts of no other person."
He took a deep breath and exhaled. "I believe Narses is right, Lord Damodara. At this very moment, I think Belisarius is destroying Charax. And—this very moment—his wife is bringing a fleet to clear away the war galleys and escort her husband and his men to safety."
The Rajput king stared at the map. "The question is—what do we do?"
He uncrossed his arms and leaned on the table. A long, powerful finger began tracing the Tigris. "We can do nothing to help the main army in the Delta. But the one advantage we have now is that Belisarius is no longer barring our way. We can strike north, into Assyria, and—"
"No!"
Startled, Sanga stared at Narses. The old eunuch rarely intervened in purely military discussions. And then, with diffidence.
Narses arose. "I say—no." He looked to Damodara. "This army is the best army in the Malwa Empire, Lord. Within a month—two, at the outside—it will be the only Malwa army worth talking about, west of the Indus. I urge you, Lord, not to throw that army away."
Narses pointed to the map. "If you go north to Assyria—then what? You could wreak havoc, to be sure. Possibly even march into Anatolia. But you are not strong enough, with your army alone, to conquer either Persia or Rome. And your army will suffer heavy casualties in the doing. Very heavy."
Damodara was frowning. "Then what do you suggest, Narses?"
The eunuch shrugged. "Do nothing, at the moment." He cast a glance at Sanga. The Rajput king was scowling, but there was no anger in the expression. He seemed more like a man puzzled than anything else.
"Do nothing, Lord," repeated Narses. "Until the situation is clarified. Who knows? The emperor may very well want you to return to India, as soon as possible. Not even the Malwa Empire can withstand the blow which Belisarius is about to deliver, without being shaken to its very roots. The Deccan rebellion rages hot. Others may erupt. You may be needed in India, very soon—not in Assyria. And, if so, best you should return to India—"
The last words were spoken with no inflection at all. Which only made them the more emphatic.
"—with the best army in the possession of the Malwa dynasty. Intact, and in your hands."
Damodara's eyes seemed to widen, a bit. Then, his eyelids lowered.
"Narses raises a good point, Sanga," he murmured, after a moment's thought. "I think we must give it careful consideration."
His eyes opened. The lord straightened in his chair and issued commands.
"Have the men make camp, Rana Sanga. A strong camp, on the near bank of the Tigris. Not permanent, but no route-camp either. We might be here for several weeks. And begin the preparations for a possible march back across the plateau."
His eyes closed again. "It is true, what Narses says. Who knows what the future will bring? We might, indeed, be needed back in India soon."
Sanga hesitated, for perhaps a second or two. Then, with a little shrug, he rose and left the pavilion.
When he was gone, Lord Damodara opened his eyes and gazed at Narses. The gaze of a Buddha, that was.
"I have been thinking," he said serenely, "of what Belisarius said to me. When he swore that what he wished to discuss with you in private would cause no harm. To me, that is. As I think back, I realize it was a very carefully phrased sentence. Would you agree?"
Narses nodded immediately. His own face was as placid and expressionless as Damodara's. "Oh yes, Lord. That's the nature of oaths, you know. They are always very specific."
Damodara gazed at him in silence. Still, like a Buddha.
"So they are," he murmured. "Interesting point."
He looked away, staring at nothing. His eyes seemed quite unfocused.
"We will do nothing, at the moment," he mused softly. "Your advice is well taken, Narses. Nothing, at the moment. So that, whatever the future brings, Malwa's best army will be available for—whatever is needed."
"Nothing," agreed Narses. "At the moment."
"Yes. That is the practical course. And I am a practical man."
Chapter 34
CHARAX
Autumn, 532 a.d.
Belisarius peered between the shields which Anastasius and Gregory were holding up to shelter him. They themselves were crouching far enough below the battlem
ents to be protected from the swarm of incoming arrows, but Belisarius had insisted on observing the siege personally. That meant sticking his head up, despite the unanimous disapproval of his officers.
"You were right, Gregory," he murmured. "They'll have their siege guns ready by tomorrow evening. But no sooner. As it is, they'll have to work through the night. If they try to fire them now, before they've laid stone platforms, the recoil will probably spill the guns."
Gregory refrained from any comment. Maurice, in his place, would have already been uttering sarcastic phrases. I told you so would have had been cheerfully tossed with What? I am blind? and A commanding general has to risk his neck to play scout?
But Maurice had a unique relationship with Belisarius. Gregory did not feel himself in a position to reprove his general. Even if the damned fool did insist on taking needless risks.
Belisarius ducked below the ramparts. Gregory and Anastasius lowered their shields, sighing with relief.
"We could sally," said Gregory. "Try to spike the guns. Probably couldn't get close enough, but we might be able to fire the carriages."
Belisarius shook his head. "It'd be pure suicide. The main body of the Malwa army hasn't arrived yet, but there are at least thirty thousand men out there. Ye-tai and Kushans, most of them, along with a few Rajput cavalry contingents."
Belisarius shook his head again. The gesture was almost idle, however. Most of the general's mind seemed to be concentrated elsewhere.
"Not a chance, Gregory. Not even if we sallied with every man we've got. The Malwa know as well as we do that those guns are the key to smashing their way into Charax quickly. That's why they cannibalized most of their supply ships in order to get them down here as quickly as they could. They probably hope they might retake the city before we destroy it completely."
Belisarius fell silent. His eyes were now turned completely away from the enemy beyond the walls. He was studying the interior of Charax. The city, like most great ports, was a labyrinth. Other than the docks themselves and the small imperial quarter where, in times past, the Persian viceroys had held court, Charax was a jumbled maze of narrow streets. At one time, from what he could tell, the city had been blessed with a few small squares and plazas. But over the years, the necessities and realities of commerce had made themselves felt. Charax was a city of tenements, warehouses, bazaars, entrepôts, hostels, inns, brothels, and a multitude of other buildings designed for handling sailors and their cargoes. The construction, throughout, was either mud brick or simple fill, plastered with gypsum.
