Fortune's stroke

Belisarius remembered the first time he met Mark, almost four years earlier. The general had just taken command of the army at Mindouos. His predecessor had let that army rot, and Belisarius had found it necessary to purge many of the existing officers. A number of men had been promoted from the ranks. Mark had been one of them, recommended by Belisarius' cataphract, Gregory.

He saw two more figures scuttling up the trench.

'Speak of the devil,' he murmured. Gregory himself was arriving. He and Mark had become good friends, and had shown they could work together well in combat. That was one of the reasons that Belisarius had put Gregory in command of another new unit, the pikemen who served as a bulwark for the handcannon soldiers.

Call them 'musketeers,' came Aide's thought. Technically, it would be more accurate to call them arquebusiers, but-

'Arquebusiers' is ridiculous. Musketeers it is!

Belisarius broke into a smile. The new name was a minor triumph, true. Picayune, perhaps. But he was a firm believer in the axiom that large victories grow out of a multitude of small ones.

Gregory had arrived, now. He and Mark were eyeing their general quizzically, wondering why he was smiling. Almost grinning, in fact.

'I've got a new name for your men, Mark,' he announced. 'From now on, we'll call you musketeers.'

Mark and Gregory looked at each other. It was almost comical the way each began mouthing the word.

'I like it,' pronounced Gregory, after a moment's experimentation. Mark nodded his head. 'So do I!'

The third man came up, and now Belisarius did break into a grin.

'And what have we here?' he asked. 'The three musketeers?'

Oh, that's gross! There followed a mental, crystalline version of a raspberry. Low, low.

Gregory gave the new man, whose name was Felix Chalcenterus, an unkind look. The same little glare was transferred to Mark of Edessa.

'Give me a break, general,' he growled. 'You won't find me fighting with these new-fangled gadgets. Cold steel, that's still my business.'

Mark and Felix matched Belisarius' grin. 'He's hopeless, General,' stated Mark. 'Set in his ways, like an old village woman.'

Belisarius chuckled at the quip, even though it was quite unfair. For the past year, Gregory had served as Belisarius' chief artillery officer. In this campaign of fluid maneuver, Belisarius had left his cumbersome artillery behind, so Gregory had been free to take on another assignment. The main reason Belisarius had put the man in charge of the new unit of pikemen was that Gregory was one of those officers who seemed almost infinitely flexible. He was one of the very few Thracian cataphracts who didn't squeal like a stuck pig when asked to fight on foot, with a pike instead of a lance. The pikemen were an elite unit, true, but Gregory had still been hard-pressed to find enough Thracians to volunteer. In the end, he had relied heavily on the new Isaurians who were enlisting into the general's corps of bucellarii.

Belisarius got down to business. 'Are you ready?' he asked. The question was directed at all three men simultaneously. Felix Chalcenterus served Mark as his executive officer.

'We're set, general,' came Mark's reply. Gregory and Felix nodded their agreement.

'Good. Remember-don't start up the slope until I signal for you.' Belisarius made a little head toss toward the east. 'You can be damned sure that Sanga will have some of his Pathan scouts perched on the nearby hilltops, watching everything we do. They'll have some means of signaling Damodara-mirrors, if the sun's right. If not, they'll have something else. Banners, maybe smoke. It's essential that they can't see you until the time comes for your countercharge.'

Belisarius gave the three men a quick scrutiny. Satisfied that they understood the point, he added: 'You'll have to come up the hill in a hurry, mind. I won't give the signal until the last minute. In a hurry-and in good formation. Can you do it?'

There was no verbal reply. Just three self-confident smiles and nodding heads.

'All right,' said Belisarius. He gave out a little sigh. 'The moment's come, then. It's my turn to climb that damned hill.'

He turned and set off, slogging his way. Every step forward was marked by half a step backward, sliding in the loose soil. Progress was marked by the soft, crunching sounds of semifutility. Within a few yards, his armor and weapons felt like the burden of Atlas.

'Some day,' he muttered. 'If this war goes on long enough. I'll be skipping through the meadows with nothing but a helmet and a linen uniform. Not a care in the world.'

Except frying in napalm, or being shredded by high explosive shells, came Aide's unkind thought. Not to mention being picked off at five hundred yards by a sniper armed with a high-velocity rifle. And while we're at it, let's not forget-

Not a care in the world! insisted Belisarius. His thought was perhaps a bit surly. Death is a feather. Cataphract gear is the torment of Prometheus.

Then, very surly: Spoilsport.

By the time he reached the trench at the crest of the pass, Belisarius was exhausted. He half-collapsed next to Maurice. Valentinian and Anastasius were still in the trench, a few feet to his right.

Maurice gave him no more than a cursory glance before resuming his study of the enemy troops on the slope below. 'You'll get over it soon enough,' he said. The words were unkind but the tone was sympathetic. 'You'd better,' added Maurice grimly. 'The Ye-tai aren't wasting any time.'

Wearily, Belisarius nodded. Fortunately, his exhaustion was simply due to heavy, but brief, exertion. It was not the kind of fatigue produced by hours of relentless labor. He knew from experience that his well-toned muscles would recover in a few minutes-even if, at the moment, he didn't feel as if he could ever walk again.

The general's head was below the parapet, resting against the sloped wall of the trench. He was too tired to lift it. He could hear the faint sounds of orders being shouted in Hindi, coming from far down the slope.

'What are they doing, Maurice?' he asked.

'The Ye-tai will be making the main assault. Nothing fancy, just a straight charge up the slope. On foot. They've just about finished dressing their lines.' He gave a little half-incredulous grunt. 'Good lines, too. Way better than I've ever seen barbarians do before.'

'They're not exactly barbarians,' said Belisarius. He made a brief attempt at raising his head, but gave it up almost instantly. 'They act like it, sure enough. The Malwa encourage them to behave barbarously, not that the Ye- tai need much encouragement. But they've been an integral part of the Malwa ruling class for three generations, now. All of their sub-officers, to give you an idea, are literate. Down to a rank equivalent to our pentarchs.'

Maurice emitted another grunt. From Belisarius' other side came Valentinian's half-incredulous (and half- disgruntled) exclamation: 'You've got to be kidding!'

Belisarius smiled. Valentinian's attitude was understandable. Even in the Roman army, with its comparatively democratic traditions, not more than half of the sub-officers below the rank of hecatontarch could read and write.

Valentinian himself carried the rank of a hecatontarch. That was the modern Greek equivalent of the old Latin 'centurion'-commander of a hundred. But in his case, the rank was a formal honor more than anything else. Valentinian didn't command anyone. His job, along with Anastasius, was to keep Belisarius alive on the battlefield.

Valentinian was literate, just barely. He could sign his name without help, and he could pick his way through simple written messages. But he had never even thought of trying to read a book. If someone had ever suggested it to him-

'You should read a book sometime,' commented Anastasius mildly. 'Be good for you, Valentinian.'

'You've got to be kidding,' came the instant, hissing response.

He's got to be kidding, echoed Aide.

Listening to the exchange, Belisarius' smile widened. Anastasius was literate-and not barely. The giant Thracian cataphract read any book he could get his hands on, especially if it dealt with philosophy. But his attitude, for a Roman soldier, was unusual-it might be better to say, extraordinary.

Anastasius himself ascribed his peculiarity to the fact that he had a Greek father. But Belisarius thought