The tide of victory

The Armenian officer frowned. 'It's those big guns that really keep them at bay, General. The truth is that with as few troops as I have, the Malwa could overrun our position. Not without taking great losses, of course. But Malwa is always willing to shed the blood of its soldiers. And if their commanders ever realize how much our defenses rely on the big guns, they'll pay the price.'

'Which means you can't afford to slack off your fire,' interjected Maurice, 'in order to conserve ammunition. That would give away your weakness.'

All the men in the tent turned their heads, looking to the south, as if they could see the river through leather walls.

'I hope this Menander of yours is a capable officer,' mused Khusrau. 'He seems very young.'

'He'll do the job, if it can be done,' said Belisarius firmly. 'The problem isn't him, in any case. It's whether those steam engines of Justinian's work properly. Which, unfortunately, we'll have no way of knowing until Menander gets here. Or Bouzes and Coutzes arrive with the main army.'

Maurice heaved a sigh. 'Even that last won't do it, by itself. With the twins' infantry added into the mix, of course, the Malwa will not have a chance of breaking Ashot's position. In fact, they'll have to retreat back to the Punjab. But those soldiers will need food and supplies themselves, especially if we hope to pursue. Unless Menander can get the logistics train working-which means using the river; no way to haul that much by land-we're hanging on here by our fingernails.'

For the first time since the conference began, Gregory spoke. 'True. But at least once Bouzes and Coutzes arrive, we'll be back in touch with all of our forces strung out along the river-all the way back to Barbaricum. They're laying telegraph wire as they come.'

He gave a sly little glance at Abbu. As always whenever 'newfangled ways' were brought up, the old Arab traditionalist was glowering fiercely.

'My scouts can maintain communications down the river!' he snapped. Then, reluctantly: 'If need be.'

Belisarius shook his head. 'I've got a lot better use for your men than being couriers.' He decided to toss Abbu a bone-and a rather large one at that. 'This newfangled system is fine for staying in touch with the rear. Only men can scout the front.'

Abbu's chest swelled. The more so, after Belisarius' next words: 'Which is precisely where I propose to go. Back to the front. I want to keep pushing Malwa off balance.'

Leaning over the map, Belisarius gave the Persian emperor a concise summary of his plans. To his relief, Khusrau immediately nodded agreement. Belisarius was not under the command of Khusrau, of course, but maintaining good and close relations with the Persians was essential for everything.

'Yes,' stated the emperor forcefully. 'That is the way to go. The Aryan way!'

The last, boastfully barked statement was perhaps unfortunate. The last time the Roman officers in that tent had seen an Aryan army attacking in 'the Aryan way' was when they charged Belisarius at Mindouos. And lost an army in the doing, in one of the worst defeats in Persia's long history.

Obviously sensing the little awkwardness in the room, Khusrau smiled. 'Not, of course, as stupidly as has sometimes been done in the past.'

Maurice-of all people-played the diplomat. 'You broke Malwa yourself, Emperor, not so long ago. When you led the charge in the Aryan way which cleared the road to Sukkur.'

Khusrau's smile turned into a grin. 'I? Nonsense, Maurice.' The emperor slapped the shoulder of the young Persian officer standing at his side. 'Kurush led that magnificent display of Aryan martial prowess. I assure you I stayed quite some distance behind. Arrayed in my finest armor, of course, and waving my sword about like the great Cyrus of ancient memory.'

A little laugh swept the room. For all the historic animosity between Rome and Persia, every Roman officer in Belisarius' army had long since fallen under the sway of Khusrau's magnetic personality. That little witty remark of his being a good part of the reason. Of Khusrau Anushirvan's personal courage, no man in the tent had any doubt. But it was refreshing, for once, to see a Persian monarch-any ruler, for that matter-who did not fear to speak the truth as well.

'God save us from reckless leaders,' murmured Maurice. 'Especially those who try to assume the mantle of Alexander the Maniac. Nothing but grief and ruin down that road.'

Belisarius straightened. 'Mention of your sagacity outside Sukkur, Emperor of the Aryans, leads me to the next point I wanted to raise.' He hesitated. Then, seeing no way to blunt the thing:

'Now that you have smuggled your way out of Sukkur, you should not return. If Sukkur falls, that is just a setback. If you fall with it, a disaster.'

Sagacious or not, Khusrau's back was stiffening. Before he could utter words which might irrevocably commit him to any course of action, Belisarius hurried on.

'But that is only one reason you should not return. The other-the more important-is that your people need you in the Sind.'

As Belisarius had expected, and counted on, the last words broke through Khusrau's gathering storm of outrage. The Persian emperor's eyes widened.

'My people?' he asked, confused. 'In the Sind?'

Belisarius nodded sagely. 'Exactly so, Emperor. The Sind-as we agreed-is now Persian territory. And it is filled with terrified and desperate people, fleeing from the Malwa savagery. Your subjects, now, Khusrau of the Immortal Soul. Who have nowhere to turn for aid and succor but to you. Which they cannot do if you are locked away behind a Malwa siege at Sukkur.'

Sittas-would wonders never cease? — took his turn as diplomat. 'The Malwa were not able to do that much damage to the Sind itself, Emperor, before they were driven out. Burn some crops, destroy some orchards, ravage some towns and break open a part of the irrigation network. It is not irreparable damage, and much of the land remains intact. The problem is that the people who work that land are scattered to the winds. Still alive, most of them, but too confused and terrified to be of any use.'

Belisarius picked up the thread smoothly. 'That is where you are truly needed now, Emperor. Kurush can hold Sukkur, if any man can. You are needed in the south. Touring the countryside, visible to all, reassuring them that their new ruler has their interests at heart and will protect them from further Malwa outrages. And, as you go, organizing them to return to their villages and fields.'

Khusrau swiveled his head and looked at Kurush. The young Persian officer straightened and squared his shoulders. 'I agree, Emperor. No one can replace you in that work. I can-and will-hold Sukkur for you, while you forge a new province for our empire.'

Khusrau took a deep breath, then another. Then, as was his way, came to quick decision.

'So be it.' He paused for a moment, thinking, before turning back to Belisarius. 'I do not wish to drain any significant number of the men in Sukkur. Kurush will need them more than I.'

The emperor jerked his head, pointing toward the entrance of the tent. 'Twenty Immortals accompanied me here. I will keep those, as an immediate bodyguard. But I will need some of your Roman troops. Cavalrymen. Perhaps a thousand, in all.'

Belisarius did not hesitate for an instant. He turned toward the small group of officers standing toward the rear of the tent. His eyes found the one he was seeking.

Jovius. He's steady and capable, but slow on maneuvers. An asset to Khusrau, and a bit of a headache to me.

'Take five hundred men, Jovius. All from the Thracian bucellarii. The emperor will want to start by going down the Indus'-he gave Khusrau a glance; the emperor nodded-'so you should encounter the Syrian cavalry coming north soon enough. When you do, tell Bouzes and Coutzes to provide you with another five hundred men. Or whatever number the emperor feels he might need. I'll write the orders to that effect later tonight.'

Jovius nodded. Belisarius now gave Maurice a glance, to see if the commander of the bucellarii had any objection.

Maurice shrugged stolidly. 'Five hundred Thracians won't make a difference, to us. Not where we're going. Your fancy plans will either work or they won't. And if they don't, five thousand Thracians couldn't save us from disaster.'

Another little laugh arose in the tent. 'Besides,' continued Maurice, listening for a moment to the revelry still going on outside, 'from the sound of things we won't be having too many discipline problems in the future. And those Greeks-I'll say it, just this once-are probably as good as Thracians on an actual battlefield.'