The tide of victory

'They won't have much choice,' snorted Abbu. 'Even Greek noblemen aren't that stupid. Dig or die. Once we cross the Chenab, those are the alternatives.'

'I just hope they don't argue with me about the details,' grumbled Gregory. 'Those hide-bound bastards of Sittas'-on the rare occasions when they think about fieldworks at all-still have their brains soaked in legends about Caesar. The first time I use the words 'bastion' and 'retired flank' and 'ravelin' they're going to look at me like I was a lunatic.'

Sittas grinned. 'No they won't.' He gestured with a thick thumb at Belisarius' chest. 'Just tell them the Talisman of God gave you the words. That's as good as saints' bones, far as they're concerned.'

Gregory still looked skeptical, but Belisarius was inclined to agree with Sittas. Even the notorious conservatism of Greek noble cataphracts could be dented, on occasion. And all of them, by now, were steeped in the Roman army's tradition of awe and respect for the mysterious mind of Aide.

'If I need to,' he chuckled, 'I'll give them a look. Aide can put on a dazzling show, when he wants to.'

Great, muttered Aide. I travel across the vastness of time in order to become a circus sideshow freak.

Belisarius was back to scratching his chin. And his crooked smile was making an appearance.

'I like it,' he said firmly. 'Let's not get too preoccupied with logistics. There's also the actual fighting to consider. And I can't imagine better defensive terrain than the triangle.'

'Neither can I,' chimed in Gregory.

All the men in the tent turned their attention toward him. Other than Agathius-who was far to the south in Barbaricum, organizing the logistics for the entire Roman army marching north into the Sind-no one understood the modern methods of siege warfare better than Gregory.

The young artillery officer began ticking off on his fingers.

'First-although I won't be sure until we get there-I'm willing to bet the water table is high. Flat terrain with a high water table-those are exactly the conditions which shaped the Dutch fortifications against the Spanish. Whom they held off-the most powerful army in the world-for almost a century.'

The names of future nations were only vaguely familiar to the other men in the tent, except Belisarius himself, but those veteran officers could immediately understand the point Gregory was making.

'Earthen ramparts and wet ditches,' he continued. 'The hardest things for artillery to break or assaulting infantry to cross. Especially when there's no high ground anywhere in the area on which the Malwa could set up counterbatteries.'

He stroked his beard, frowning. 'We can crisscross that whole area with ditches and fill them with water. Biggest problem we'll have is keeping our own trenches dry. Raised ramparts-using the same dirt from the ditches-will do for that. The Dutch used 'storm poles'-horizontal palisades, basically-to protect the ramparts from escalade. I doubt we'll have enough good wood for that, but we can probably use shrubbery to make old-style Roman hedges.'

The mention of old methods seemed to bring a certain cheer to Sittas. He even went so far as to praise modern gadgetry. 'The field guns and the sharpshooters will love it. A slow-moving, massed enemy, stumbling across ditches. What about cavalry?'

'Forget about cavalry altogether,' said Gregory, almost snapping the response. He gave Sittas a cold eye. 'The truth is-like it or not-we'll probably wind up eating our horses rather than riding them.'

Both Sittas and Abbu-especially the latter-looked pained. Maurice barked a laugh.

'And will you look at them?' he snorted. 'A horse is a horse. More where they came from-if we survive.'

'A good warhorse-' began Sittas.

'Is worth its weight in silver,' completed Belisarius. 'And how much is your life worth?'

He stared at Sittas, then Abbu. After a moment, they avoided his gaze.

'Right. If we have to, we'll eat them. And there's this much to be said for good warhorses-they're big animals. Lots of meat on them.'

Sittas sighed. 'Well. As you say, it's better than dying.' He cast a glance to the south. 'But I sure hope Menander gets here before we have to make that decision.'

* * *

The Justinian and the Victrix encountered the first Malwa opposition barely ten miles from Sukkur. Menander could hear, even if dimly, the guns firing in the north.

It was nothing more than a small cavalry force, however. A reconnaissance unit, clearly enough. The Malwa, perched on their horses by the riverbank, stared at the bizarre sight of steam-powered warships chugging upriver, towing four barges behind them. Menander, perched in the armored shell atop the bridge which held one of the Justinian's anti-boarding Puckle guns, stared back.

For a moment, he was tempted to order a volley of cannon fire, loaded with canister. The Malwa were close enough that he could inflict some casualties on them. But-

He discarded the thought. The cavalry patrol was no danger to his flotilla, except insofar as they brought word of his approach back to the Malwa forces besieging Sukkur. And since there was no possibility of killing all of them, there was no point in wasting ammunition.

Quickly, Menander did some rough calculations in his head. The result cheered him up. By the time the cavalry patrol could return and make their report, Menander's flotilla would already have reached Ashot's positions. Thereafter, freed from towing all but one or two of the barges, Menander could make better time up the Indus. The Malwa would have a telegraph line connecting their army around Sukkur with their forces in the Punjab, of course. But-assuming that Belisarius had succeeded in his drive to reach the fork of the Chenab-the Malwa were probably too confused and disorganized, too preoccupied with crushing this unexpected thrust into their most vital region, to organize a really effective counter against Menander's oncoming two-ship flotilla.

So, he simply watched as his ships steamed past the foe. A rare moment, in the midst of bitter war, when enemies met and did nothing about it. He even found himself, moved by some strange impulse, waving a cheerful hand at the Malwa cavalrymen. And three of them, moved by the same impulse, waved back.

Odd business, war.

* * *

The Malwa did make a feeble attempt to intercept his flotilla when he was less than a mile from Ashot's fortifications. Two river boats, crammed with soldiers, came down the Indus toward him. Their movement was slow, however, because the wind was fitful at best. The Malwa boats were sailing ships, not galleys, so they were forced to rely mainly on the sluggish current.

Menander gave the order to prepare for battle. He and Eusebius had planned to leave such work to the Victrix, but the Victrix's engine-every bit as balky as the one in Menander's ship-had broken down a few miles back. By the time Eusebius could repair the problem and arrive, the battle would be over. Menander was not overly concerned.

One boat, soon enough. Ashot, ever alert to the possibility of an amphibious attack on his flank, had two field guns stationed on the river. A few well placed shots were enough to sink one of the boats.

Menander, stationed next to one of the long twenty-four-pounder bowchasers was fascinated by what happened next. So fascinated, in fact, that he paid little attention for a time to the enemy ship still approaching him.

The Malwa commander was quite clearly doing his best to steer the vessel to the bank before it foundered completely. Right into the waiting arms of the Roman forces. He almost made it before his men were forced into the water. But the swim was short-many of them were actually able to wade ashore. And, sure enough, Roman troops were there to accept their surrender.

There was no fighting, no resistance of any kind. The wet and bedraggled Malwa troops seemed quite resigned to their new condition.

Menander looked away. The surviving enemy warship was almost within range of his forward guns, and soon he would give the order to fire. But he took the time, before concentrating all his attention on the coming little battle, to ponder over his great commander's methods of war. Methods which were sometimes derided-but never by those who had witnessed them.

Mercy can have its own sharp point. Keener than any lance or blade; and even deadlier to the foe.

'Will you look at the sorry bastards scramble!' laughed one of the gunners. 'Like ducklings wading to