miscegenation.
Merena's men had to restrain him.
After the unfortunate session, once Merena had calmed down enough to think clearly, he ordered his men to take informal and unofficial warnings to the boatmen plying their trade on the Tigris. As best they could, given their relatively small numbers, his soldiers tried to warn the city's fishermen and boat captains.
Approximately half of the men they were able to speak to heeded their warnings. The other half-as well as all the men they were unable to reach in time-did not.
When the tidal wave arrived, two days later, the destruction of property was immense. Few lives were lost, however. By the time the newly-released waters of the Euphrates reached Ctesiphon, they took the form of a sudden five-foot high surge in elevation rather than an actual wall of water. Most of the men caught in the river had time to scramble or swim to safety. But their boats, as well as a multitude of shore-lining structures, were pounded into splinters.
Shiroe's prestige plummeted, and, with it, the allegiance of most of his military retainers. The huge mob of enraged and impoverished boatmen whom Merena and his soldiers led to the shahrab's palace poured over the few guards still willing to defend their lord. Shiroe was dragged out, weighted down with chains, and pitched into the newly-risen Tigris. In those changed and raging waters, he vanished without a trace.
In Babylon, on the other hand, everything went smoothly and according to plan. Khusrau had been preparing for this moment for weeks. The two days' warning which Maurice gave him were almost unnecessary.
Belisarius had deliberately blown the dam in the late afternoon, calculating that the effects of the river's diversion would thereby strike Babylon the following morning. That would give Emperor Khus-rau a full day in which to take advantage of the new situation.
His calculations, of course, were extremely crude-simply an estimate of the river's current divided into an estimate of the distance between the Nehar Malka and Babylon. In the event, Belisarius' guess was off by several hours. He had failed to make sufficient allowance for the fact that the current would ebb once the built-up pressure of the backwater dropped. So it was not until noon of the next day that the effects of his work made themselves felt.
The difference was moot. The Persian Emperor's confidence in the Roman general was so great that he had decided to launch the attack at daybreak, whether or not the river level had dropped. It was a wise decision. As always, getting a major assault underway took more time than planned. Much more time, in this instance. The Persian troops, lacking the Roman expertise in engineering fieldcraft, required several hours to bring into position and ready the improvised pontoons which they would use to cross the Euphrates.
By then, alerted by the slowly-unfolding work of Khusrau's engineers, the Malwa had realized that the Persians were planning a sally across the Euphrates. But the foreknowledge did them no good at all.
Quite the contrary. Lord Jivita, the Malwa high commander, thought the Persian project was absurd.
'What is the point of this?' he demanded, watching the Persian preparations from his own command tower.
None of the half-dozen officers standing there with him made any reply. The question was clearly rhetorical- as were most of Jivita's queries. The high commander's aides had long since learned that Jivita did not look kindly upon subordinates who provided their own answers to his questions.
Jivita pointed to the Persian troops massing on the left bank of the river, just below the great western wall of Babylon.
'Madness,' he decreed. 'Even if they succeed in crossing, what is there for them to do? On the
He swept his arm. The gesture was simultaneously grandiose and dismissive.
'There is nothing on that side, except marshes and desert.'
He slapped his hands together.
'No matter! They will not cross in any event. I see the opportunity here for a great victory.'
He turned to one of his officers, the subordinate encharged with the Malwa's fleet of war galleys.
'Jayanaga! Send the entire flotilla forward! We will butcher the Persians as they try to cross!'
With a fierce glower: 'Make sure your galleys do not fire their rockets until the enemy's lead elements are almost across. I want to make sure we catch as many of them as possible on their pitiful pontoons. Do you understand?'
Jayanaga nodded, and immediately left.
Lord Jivita turned back to his examination of the enemy. Again, he clapped his hands with satisfaction.
'We will butcher them! Butcher them!'
The Malwa flotilla-forty-two galleys, in all-was almost within rocket range of the pontoon bridge when the captain of the lead ship realized that something was wrong.
His first assumption, however, was far off the mark. He turned to the oarmaster.
'Why have you slowed the tempo?' he demanded.
The oarmaster immediately shook his head, pointing to the two men pounding on kettledrums.
'I didn't! Listen! They're beating the right tempo!'
The captain's scowl deepened. Before the oarmaster had even finished speaking, the captain realized that he was right. Still-
The ship was slowing.
'Look!' cried one of the other officers, pointing to the near bank. 'The river's dropping!'
'
The captain leaned over the railing, studying the shore. Within seconds, his face paled.
'They've diverted the river upstream,' he whispered. 'It must be. Nothing else could-'
He broke off, his attention drawn by the sound of hooves pounding on wooden planks.
Like his commander, Lord Jivita, the galley captain had been puzzled by the Persian sally. There had seemed no purpose for the enemy to cross the Euphrates, especially when the crossing itself would expose the Persians to withering rocket fire from the Malwa galleys. Who was there to fight, on that side of the river? The great mass of the Malwa army was concentrated on the east bank, south of Babylon's fortifications.
Now he understood. The captain was a quick-thinking man.
'They knew about it ahead of time,' he hissed. 'They're going to burn the supply ships.'
He twisted, staring back at the huge mass of supply barges some half mile south. Already, he could see the unwieldy craft yawing out of control, driven by the rapidly ebbing waters of the river. Within a minute, he knew, they would start grounding. Helpless targets.
Especially helpless when there would be no war galleys to protect them. His own flotilla would be grounded also-not as quickly, for they had a much shallower draft-unless-
'Row toward the center of the river!' he roared. 'Signal the other ships to do likewise!'
Immediately, the drums began beating a new rhythm. The Malwa had no sophisticated signaling system for controlling their fleet. But the captain of the lead galley also served as the commodore of the flotilla. The message of the drums was simple:
But it was already too late. The drums had barely begun beating when the flotilla commander saw the first of his warships ground. There was no dramatic splintering of wood-the bed of the Euphrates was mud, not rock-just the sudden halting of the galley's motion, a slight tilt as it adjusted to the angle of the riverbed.
Nothing dramatic, nothing spectacular. But the result was still deadly.
The captain felt his own galley lurch, heard the slight hissing of mud and sand against the wooden hull. His craft jerked loose. Another hiss, another lurch. Jerked loose.
A quick-thinking man. He wasted no time trying to pry the vessel out. The muddy soil of the riverbed would hold the hull like glue. Instead, he turned his attention to preparing his defenses.
