- Chapter 37




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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 chin, 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. 

 
 
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