The Tide of Victory (34 page)

"And then what? You're sliding over the fact that we will
also
be caught between two armies," countered Maurice. He set his feet like a wrestler beginning a match. "You can be certain that the Malwa will bring every soldier they've got in the upper valley to hit us at the Chenab—keep
us
pinned down—while they bring that army up from Sukkur to crush us. And they've got a huge army in the Punjab, all the spies say so. Leaving aside the fact that by the time we get to the Chenab our logistics train won't be 'fragile.' It'll be in complete tatters. They don't even have to crush us. They can starve us out."

As if they were one man, the eyes of Maurice, Belisarius and Sittas came to rest on the figure of Menander. Menander had left Eusebius behind in newly conquered Barbaricum and followed Belisarius' flotilla up the Indus on the steam-powered warship named after its designer. He and the
Justinian
had caught up with Belisarius' army in time for Menander to participate in this staff meeting. The young officer had been standing a few paces back from the table in Belisarius' command tent where the argument between the general and his top staff had been occurring.

Belisarius was a bit amused—and very pleased—to see that the young Thracian managed to speak without any of the flushed embarrassment which had often characterized Menander in times past when he was called upon to give his opinion. The inexperienced cataphract who had accompanied Belisarius on his scouting expedition into the Malwa heartland had been transformed, during the four years which followed, into a self-confident officer. A commander in his own right. Uncertainty-covered-by-braggadocio had been replaced by relaxed assurance.

"I can do it, Maurice," he said firmly. "
Provided
we move at once. We're still catching the tail end of the monsoon winds. For a few more days—although it'll be hit-or-miss any given day—we can use the wind to move the ships upriver and the current to bring us back down. But once rabi settles in—"

Without a second thought, Menander used the Indian term for the cool, dry season where the winds came out of the Himalayas. India was no longer an exotic and foreign place to him.

"—it'll be a different story," he continued. "After that, moving supplies upriver will be a matter of pure sweat. The sailing ships will be almost useless, unless we can tow them with oxen. Eusebius is already starting up the river with the
Victrix,
but that hurried reconversion he did to turn her into a steam-powered paddle wheeler isn't . . . all you could ask for. So I doubt he'll be able to tow more than one barge behind him. That means we'll have to use galleys, for the most part, which aren't anywhere near as good for supply ships because so much space has to be taken up by the rowers."

"There's always your ship," said Belisarius. His smile was now more crooked than ever. "The
Justinian.
"

Menander was startled. Then, running fingers through his straw-colored hair: "Yes, I suppose. Wouldn't even really require much in the way of refitting to enable it to tow several barges. And a courier vessel just brought word from Queen Rukaiya that the
Justinian
's sister ship has left the shipyards at Adulis. So the
Photius
ought to be available to us also, before too long. Between the two of them—"

The young officer winced. "Jesus, when Justinian finds out . . ."

A little burst of laughter erupted in the tent. The new steam-powered warships were Justinian's pride and joy. The former emperor had spent years overseeing a large team of artisans to build those engines and design the ships which they would drive.

Drive into
combat,
not—not—

"Glorified tug boats!" barked Maurice, grinning. "Justinian will have apoplexy, if he finds out. Probably demand that Theodora have Menander flayed alive."

Menander did not seem to find that last particularly amusing. Neither Justinian nor Theodora was famous for their sweet temper.

"Have to keep it a secret . . ." he muttered, grimacing with anxiety.

"Don't worry about it!" boomed Sittas, taking two steps and buffeting Menander with a hearty backslap. The young officer staggered a bit under the blow. Sittas was built like a boar; his idea of a "hearty backslap" was on the excessive side. "You won't even have to lie about it. If those supply ships being towed upstream by your fancy new boats aren't forced to fight their way through every time, it'll be a miracle. Guns blazing the whole way. According to our spies, there's even a big new Malwa fortress in the Sukkur gorge they'll have to run if they try to get into the Punjab."

The fact that Menander so obviously found the prospect of desperate river battles a great relief brought another round of laughter to the tent.

Maurice, still smiling faintly, went back on the offensive. "All right, but that still leaves the critical moment up in the air." His stubby finger jabbed at the map. "You know as well as I do, General, that this 'lightning strike' of yours is most likely to come apart at the seams right at the start. In order for it to work, we've got to get the expedition through open terrain. Six thousand Arab and Syrian light cavalry can probably do it easily enough. But fifteen thousand cataphracts and two thousand artillerymen and combat engineers? And don't forget we'll be
crossing
rivers and canals, not using them for supply routes."

Scowling again, all trace of humor gone: "That's a recipe for disaster, young man. They always said Julian was a military genius too, when he was hacking his way into Persia. Until the damn fool burnt his ships and tried to march overland through Mesopotamia."

Belisarius shrugged. "Julian had four or five times as many soldiers as I'm taking. And—if I say so myself—my logistical methods are better than his were."

He paused for an instant, giving Maurice a level gaze. The chiliarch tightened his lips and looked away. Years earlier, when Maurice had been training a brilliant but inexperienced Thracian officer, he had convinced the youth to adopt the logistical methods of the great Philip of Macedon. Use mules as much as possible for his supply train, instead of the cumbersome wagons preferred by other Roman armies. The methods had proved themselves in action since, over the course of many campaigns.

"Still . . ." he grumbled, staring at that portion of the map which showed the terrain in question. "We don't know how good the foraging will be. Mules can only carry so much, and you
have
to use some wagons for the artillery supplies. And if that territory is all that fertile, you can be sure the Malwa will have plenty of troops stationed there."

Belisarius scratched his chin. "I doubt it, Maurice. Not now. The Malwa commanders have probably pulled most of their soldiers back to the river. They'll be expecting us to use the Indus as our marching route, not the Nara. The more so since—"

He fell silent, groping for a way to explain. Over the years, fighting Link, Belisarius had come to have a certain sense for how the monster's mind worked. The same superhuman intelligence imparted to Link by those "new gods" of the future was also, often enough, a gap in its armor.

Aide understood. It always knows so much, but the knowing comes from recorded history. Not experience. And it doesn't
listen
, really. It hears, but it does not pay attention. Because it "knows" already. History—the records Link will have, which are the same as I do—will tell it that the Indus valley is largely arid. But that's because of the environmental degradation caused by the later centuries of human habitation. Its subordinates may have told it otherwise, but . . . 

The thought trailed off for a moment, then came back as firm as ever. It will not really think about it. I have been surprised myself, many times, by how much more life there is in lands which my "knowledge" told me was half-barren. But I am not Link. I do not think the way it does. So I have learned to listen, not just hear. 

Belisarius nodded. To his subordinates, the gesture carried that certain solid air about it which they had come to recognize and respect deeply even if they were not privy to its origin.
Aide agrees with me.
 

"I doubt they stationed a large force there to begin with," he stated firmly. His officers, recognizing the weight of Aide's opinion which nestled inside that confident statement, nodded their acceptance. Even Maurice.

The chiliarch sighed. "All right, then. But we should take all the mitrailleuse with us. And all the sharpshooters." He gave Mark of Edessa, standing well back in the tent, a glance of approval. "They've been trained as dragoons, so they'll be able to keep up."

Belisarius eyed him skeptically. Maurice snorted. "
All
of them, dammit. Ashot will be counter-besieging the Malwa at Sukkur, with a supply route as wide as the Indus—literally—and a fortified position guarded by our entire infantry once Bouzes and Coutzes arrive."

Another look of approval came to Maurice's face, as he thought of the twin brothers who, in the course of the Mesopotamian and Zagros campaigns, had hammered Belisarius' infantry into shape. If there was one thing in the world that Maurice treasured, it was
veteran
troops. True, most of the soldiers in the gigantic Roman army which was now taking the war to the Malwa were recent recruits, pouring into military service in hopes of sharing the spoils which smaller armies of the famous Belisarius had gleaned from earlier campaigns. But every branch of that army had been built around a core of veterans, experienced against the Malwa.

Bouzes and Coutzes' Syrian infantry and cavalry, Gregory's artillerymen, Felix's musketeers and pikemen, Mark of Edessa's new force of sharpshooters, Belisarius' own Thracian bucellarii directly commanded by Maurice himself—and, not least, the magnificent Greek cataphracts who had broken the Malwa at Anatha and the Dam, and held off Rana Sanga's ferocious cavalry charges at the Battle of the Pass.

For a moment, Maurice exchanged glances with Cyril, the man who had succeeded to command of the Greek cataphracts after Agathius was crippled at the Battle of the Dam. The glance was full of mutual approval.

Sittas suddenly laughed. "And will you look at those two? As if I don't know what they're thinking!"

He bestowed another "hearty backslap," this time on the shoulder of Cyril. The Greek cataphract, more sturdily built than Menander, did no more than flinch.

"Don't worry, my lowborn comrade. I'll see to it that my haughty noble cataphracts follow your lead." Sittas frowned. "Even if I can't say I'm too thrilled myself at the idea of fighting dismounted behind fortifications."

His face lightened. "But—who knows? There's bound to be the need for an occasional sally, now and then. History may still record that the last great charge of heavy lancers was led by Sittas the Stupendous."

Again, laughter filled the tent. This time, not so much with humor as simple satisfaction. Whether Belisarius' daring maneuver would lead to victory or defeat, no one could say. But all hesitation and doubt would now be set aside. If the plan
could
work, these men would see to it.

Kungas studied Irene carefully. The sly humor which was normally to be found lurking somewhere in his eyes was totally absent.

"You are certain?" he demanded.

She nodded. Quite serenely, she thought. Such, at least, was her hope. "What is there to fear, Kungas? The fact that the Malwa put up only a token fight to hold Begram tells us that Belisarius must be hammering them in the south. They are apparently withdrawing all their troops into the Punjab."

Kungas said nothing in response. Instead, he stepped over to the edge of the roof garden and planted his hands on the wide ledge which served it for a railing. From there, atop the palace that his men had seized to serve as the residence for the reborn Kushan monarchy, he gazed onto the streets of Begram. He swiveled his head slightly, studying the scene below. Listening to it, for the most part.

The city was awash in sound and moving color, almost rioting with celebration. After the Ye-tai had destroyed Peshawar long years before, Begram had become the major city of the Kushans. Four fifths of the population, approximately, was either Kushan or part-Kushan by descent. And the Pathans who formed most of the remaining population had no great allegiance to Malwa. None at all, truth be told. So if the Pathans were not exactly joining the Kushan festivities, they were not huddling in fear from it either. And there was certainly no indication that they were planning any sort of countermoves.

No expression at all could be read on his face. It was a pure mask. But Irene, now long experienced in what she jokingly called "Kungas interpretation," could tell that her husband was not happy with the situation.

On a purely personal level, she found that knowledge warming. More than warming, really—she felt a little spike of passion race through her body. But she suppressed that spike even more firmly than the warmth. Not so much from the old habits of a spymaster but from the new habits of a woman who had come to think like a queen. Thoughts which were, in truth, even more cold-blooded.

Although she did feel a moment's regret that there would be no time to satisfy her passion. Time was of the essence, now.

"Stop this, Kungas," she said firmly. "You know as well as I do—more than I do, for you are a general and I am not—that you
must
march on the Khyber pass immediately.
Now.
Today!"

Kungas did not look at her. The only sign that he had heard her words was that his fingers began tapping the ledge on which his hands were planted.

"Move fast," he mused. "Yes, I should. All signs point to a Malwa empire in panic. Their troops are racing out of the Hindu Kush, not making an orderly withdrawal." He snorted wryly. "They certainly aren't doing so in fear of my small army. They are not being
forced
out of the mountains—they are being
sucked
out. As if, somewhere in the Indus valley, a great whirlpool has erupted into existence. A greater monster than Charybdis has arrived. Belisarius, at his work."