Fortune's stroke

take any other direction.'

Abbu's scowl deepened. But, again, he said nothing.

'If you don't want to hold the pass, general,' asked Bouzes, frowning, 'then why even put up a fight at all? Seems like a waste of good soldiers.' The young Thracian did not bother to add: which is not your usual style. Like all of the men in that tent, he had become very familiar with Belisarius' tactical methods. One of those methods-a very important one-was to be sparing with his men's lives, whenever possible.

Belisarius shook his head. 'I don't have any choice, Bouzes. I can't afford to make it too easy, not for commanders like Damodara and Sanga. If we fight like lions whenever they move south, but stand aside when they move north, they'll start to wonder why. Doesn't make sense. Strict military logic would be the other way around-I should be more than happy to steer them down the Zagros, toward Pars.' He winced. 'I do not want Sanga and Damodara spending much time contemplating my bad logic.'

Maurice interrupted. His own expression did not exude any great happiness. 'They're probably already doing that,' he growled.

Belisarius heaved a sigh. 'Yes, I'm sure they are. But as long as they don't think too much about the qanats, and don't know about the Kushans, I think we'll be all right.'

He cast a quick glance at the helmet which Vasudeva had placed upon the table. As always, the Kushan had removed the detested monstrosity as soon as he entered the tent and was safe from spying eyes. Belisarius' expression resumed its usual calm serenity. He even managed a crooked smile.

'My plan is, after all,' he said cheerfully, 'a bit on the crazed side.'

That announcement did not seem to bring any great cheer to the other men in the tent. But they did not protest-not, at least, beyond thinking private dark thoughts. Those men were all very familiar with Belisarius' tactical principles and methods. Many of those methods struck them as bizarre, but not the one which- always-stood at the very center.

Win the war. That's all that matters.

Chapter 8

Axum

Spring, 532 A.D.

Eon's regimental ceremony did not take place until days after the bombing of the Ta'akha Maryam. Initially, the prince had insisted on doing it at once. But calmer voices-older ones, at least-prevailed.

Foremost among those voices had been that of Wahsi, the commander of the regiment itself.

'There is no time now, King of Kings,' he insisted.

'I am not the negusa nagast!' roared Eon. 'I cannot be-not until I am accepted into the Dakuen sarwe!'

The prince-king, now; his father and brother's corpses had already been found-rose from his labors. Eon had worked through the night, along with his soldiers and most of Axum's populace, clearing away the rubble and debris. It was now mid-morning of the next day, and there was still much work to be done. The royal quarters themselves had been excavated, but the Malwa explosives had shattered well over a third of the great complex. Hundreds of corpses had been found, and as many survivors. The rescue workers could hear the faint moans of a few victims who were still alive, buried beneath the stones.

Wahsi placed a gentle hand on Eon's shoulder. 'The Dakuen can wait, King.'

The Dakuen commander gestured with his head, indicating the knot of soldiers standing just a few feet behind him. Those men were all of the officers of the regiment, other than the ones who were with Ezana in India. 'None of us are concerned about the matter.'

Hearing Wahsi's words, the regimental officers growled their agreement. Several of them glanced at the figure of Ousanas. The dawazz was just a few yards away, oblivious to the exchange. He was too busy pulling away stones.

Not even Eon failed to miss the obvious approval in those glances.

'There is no need,' repeated Wahsi softly. Then, very softly, in words only Eon could hear: 'No need, Eon. There is no question of the regiment's approval of Ousanas, and you.'

Wahsi chuckled but, again, so softly that only Eon could hear. 'They will have harsh words to say, of course, about the hunter's ridiculous philosophies, and will relish every detail of your childhood follies. But that is just tradition.' He cast a glance at the distant figure of Antonina, who was directing her own soldiers in the rescue operation. All of the Roman troops had survived the explosion, and they had immediately pitched into the work. 'They are especially looking forward to hearing about all the times Ousanas was forced to slap you silly, until you finally learned not to ogle the wife of Belisarius.'

Eon managed a smile. It wasn't much of a smile, but Wahsi was still relieved to see it. For just a fleeting instant, Eon's was the face of a young man again. For hours, since the bodies of Zaia and Tarabai had been found, his face had been that of an old man broken with grief. Zaia had been his concubine since Eon was thirteen years old. If the passion had faded, some, from their relationship, he had still loved her deeply. And he had been almost besotted with Tarabai, since he met her in India.

'You lost everyone yesterday, Eon,' said Wahsi gently. 'Your women and your only child, along with your father and brother. No man in the world-prince or peasant, it matters not-can think clearly at such a time, or deal with anything beyond his grief. So let us simply concentrate on the work before us. There will be time, soon enough, for the ceremony.'

He stepped back a pace, and raised his voice slightly.

'For the moment, you are the negusa nagast. That is the opinion of the Dakuen sarwe, as well as the Lazen and the Hadefan.'

Wahsi gestured toward two of the officers in the cluster. They were named Aphilas and Saizana and were, respectively, the commanders of the Lazen and the Hadefan sarwe. The Lazen had been the regiment of Kaleb; the Hadefan, that of Wa'zeb. Along with the Dakuen, they constituted the current royal regiments of the Ethiopian army.

'That is correct, King,' said Aphilas. Saizana nodded, adding: 'And we have spoken to all of the other sarawit. The soldiers are of one mind on this matter. All of them.'

Then, almost in a snarl: 'We will have our vengeance on Malwa. And you are the King of Kings who will lead us to it.'

Eon wiped his face with a hand, smearing dirt and rock dust. It was a weary, weary gesture. 'How is Garmat?' he asked. 'Will he survive?'

Wahsi broke into a smile of his own. And not a thin one, either.

'Be serious, King! If twenty great stones falling on that old Arab brigand couldn't kill him outright, do you really think he would die of lingering wounds?'

One of the officers-an older man, well into his fifties-laughed. 'I remember when we were chasing that bandit through the desert, years ago. Never could catch him, no matter how many ambushes we laid.'

Another officer, also middle-aged, grinned. 'Personally, I think he's malingering. Lazy half-breed! Just doesn't want to haul stones.'

A little laugh swept the small crowd. Even Eon joined in the humor, for a moment.

Finding Garmat had been the only brightness in a long, dark night. The adviser had apparently been standing some distance away from the throne, when the bombs went off. The Malwa saboteurs, of course, had set the main charges in the walls near the throne itself. When the explosion took place, King Kaleb and all of the people in his immediate vicinity-including his oldest son and heir, Wa'zeb-had been pulverized by the great blast. The rest of the people in the throne room, except for Garmat and a servant, had been crushed by the falling roof and walls. But, by a freak of fortune, some of the Ta'akha Maryam's great stones, in their collapse, had formed a sort of shelter for Garmat and the servant. The servant, in fact, had been almost unharmed, other than being frightened half out of her wits. Garmat's injuries had been severe-several broken bones, along with innumerable bruises and lacerations- but his life had been spared.

The news of Garmat's survival, as it spread, brought cheer to everyone-especially to the sarwen. Partly, that