The tide of victory

There was nothing of childlike curiosity in those wide eyes. Just a terror so deep that the lad was like a paralyzed rodent, facing a cobra.

'Oh, Christ,' muttered Maurice.

Belisarius sighed. He dismissed any thought of trying to interrogate the peasants. They would tell him nothing, in any event. Could tell him nothing, even if he spoke their language. The war had smote the peasants as war always does-like a thunderstorm cast down by distant and uncaring deities, sweeping them aside like debris in a river raging in flood. They would understand nothing of it, beyond chaos and confusion. Troop movements, maneuvers, terrain as a military feature rather than just a path of panic-stricken flight-these were beyond their ken and reckoning.

'Let them go,' he ordered. 'Make sure you have our own Thracians escort them to the rear. I don't expect there'd be any trouble with other soldiers, but. '

'There's no reason to risk the temptation,' finished Maurice, scowling a bit. 'Not that these have anything worth stealing, but some of the Greeks-the new ones, not Cyril's men-are starting to complain about the lack of booty.'

He eyed one of the peasant girls. Older, she was-perhaps sixteen or seventeen. 'They might take out their frustration with other pleasures. And then-' He grated a harsh little laugh. 'You'd give the army another demonstration of Belisarius discipline, and we'd look a bit silly charging into battle dragging executed cataphracts behind us.'

Belisarius nodded. 'The fact these people are here at all tells me what I need to know. The Malwa have started their massacre.'

He gathered up the reins of his horse. His brown eyes, usually as warm as old wood, glinted like hard shells in a receding tide. 'Which means they'll be spread out and disorganized. So it's time for another demonstration.' The next words were almost hissed. 'I will put the fear of God in those men. Old Testament fear.'

* * *

He fell on the Malwa less than two hours later. Early afternoon it was, by then. The Arab scouts had begun bringing in further reports, this time based on direct observation of the enemy. As Belisarius had expected, the Malwa soldiers were spread out across miles of terrain.

'Some burning, not much,' summarized Abbu. The old desert chief's face was tight with anger. 'Probably they plan to do the burning later. Now it is just the killing.'

That too, Belisarius had also deduced. As they marched forward, the Roman army had encountered other refugees since the first group. The trickle had become a stream, until the entire countryside seemed to have little rivulets of frantic people pouring through it. The Malwa were butchering everyone in the area they could catch. A scorched earth campaign Tamerlane would have been proud to call his own. Tear out the ultimate roots of the land by destroying the work force itself, not simply the products of its labor.

'Is there a depression in the land we can drive them toward?' he asked.

Abbu pointed east by north. 'Yes, General. That way, not far-maybe five miles. A little riverbed, almost dry. Runs northwest by southeast.'

The scout leader's face tightened still further. The anger was still there, but it was now overlaid with anticipation. He understood immediately Belisarius' purpose.

'Good killing ground,' he snarled. 'The opposite bank will channel them downriver. Not high, but sharp and steep.'

He pointed again, this time more east than north. 'There. A small rise slopes down toward our bank of the river, which is shallow.'

Belisarius nodded. Then:

'Sittas, take all your cataphracts and flank them on the west. Take Cyril's, too. Roll the bastards up. Don't try to smash them, just herd them toward Abbu's river. As disorganized as they are, they'll run, not fight.'

He gave the big Greek general a hard stare. 'Run, not fight. As long as you don't corner them.'

Sittas returned the stare with a grin. 'Stop fussing at me. I do know how to do something other than charge, you know.' He began turning his horse. 'Besides, I like this plan. We'll show these swine how to run a real slaughter.'

Before Sittas had finished, Belisarius was issuing new orders. 'Gregory, set up the artillery on that rise. But don't use the mitrailleuse or the mortars unless I give the command. In fact, keep them covered with tarpaulins. I want to keep those weapons a secret as long as possible, and they require special ammunition anyway. Which we need to use sparingly, this early in the campaign. Abbu, guide them there-or have one of your men do it.'

As Gregory and Abbu peeled off to set their troops into new motion, Belisarius continued to issue orders. They were obeyed instantly, with one exception.

'No, Mark,' said Belisarius forcefully. 'I know you want to give your sharpshooters their first real taste of battle, but this is not the time and place. We can't replenish your ammunition from the general stock, and we'll need it later.'

He eased any sting out of the rebuke with a slight smile. 'You'll have plenty of combat, soon enough. At Sukkur and elsewhere. For today, I just need you to guard the guns. They'll do the killing.'

Mark, as always, was stubborn. It was a trait Belisarius had managed to wear down some, over the years. But not much, because in truth he had never really made much of an effort to do so. If there was any single word which captured the spirit of Mark of Edessa, it was pugnacious-a characteristic which Belisarius prized in his officers.

At the Battle of the Pass, that pugnacity had broken a Ye-tai charge like so much kindling. That it would do so again, and again-or die in the trying-was one of the lynchpins of Belisarius' entire campaign.

'The damn artillery doesn't have much ammunition either,' grumbled Mark. 'And they chew it up like a wolf chews meat.'

'They can also chew up enemy troops like a wolf,' pointed out Belisarius. 'Especially at close range, with canister. And I can keep them restocked from any kind of gunpowder. Even that cruddy Malwa stuff, if I have to. I can't replace your special cartridges easily.'

Mark of Edessa knew he had pushed the general as far as he could. Stubborn he was, yes, but not insubordinate. So, still scowling, he trotted off on his horse, venting his resentment by barking his commands to the sharpshooters. He sounded like a wolf himself.

'God help the Malwa if they try to overrun the batteries,' said Maurice, smiling grimly. 'Mark's been wanting to test the bayonets, too. And don't think he won't, if he gets half a chance.'

Maurice too, it seemed, had caught the general bloodlust. 'Not that I wouldn't enjoy watching it, mind you. But, you're right-this is not the time and place.' He sighed with happy satisfaction. 'This is just a time and place for butcher's work.'

* * *

By the time the real butchery began, the Malwa were already badly blooded. Sittas, if he had not violated the letter of his orders, had obviously stretched the spirit of them as far as he could. Watching the Malwa soldiers pouring down the river bed in complete disorder, Belisarius knew that Sittas and his Greek cataphracts had 'rolled them up' the way a blacksmith rolls a gun barrel-with hammer and flame.

Belisarius had chosen to take his own position with the artillery and the sharpshooters. These were his least experienced troops-in the use of these weapons, at any rate-and he wanted to observe them in action.

The slant of the terrain gave him a view of at least half a mile of the riverbed. The first Malwa units had almost reached the slight bend where he intended to hold them. Behind, moving more like fluid water than solid men, came enough enemy soldiers to fill the riverbed from bank to bank.

'How many, do you think?'

Maurice shook his head. 'Hard to say, exactly, with a mob like that. At a guess, we'll wind up facing maybe twelve thousand.'

That was a little higher than Belisarius' own estimate, but not by much. He nodded, continuing to study the oncoming enemy. Some of the Malwa soldiers, perhaps instinctively sensing a trap, were trying to clamber out of the riverbed over the shallow southwestern bank. But Sittas-who, for all the fury with which he could drive home a charge, was as shrewd as any cataphract commander in the Roman army-had foreseen that likelihood. So he had