Fortune's stroke b-4

by Eric Flint

  The camels did not suffer greatly from physical damage, that is. But the beasts were completely unaccustomed to artillery fire, and immediately began to panic. The sound and fury of the explosions caused most of that terror. But even the sputtering flare of a burning fuse caused camels to stumble and shy away.

  Camels are large animals, heavier than horses. Once started on a charge down a hill, they were impossible to stop. But the charge, as hundreds of camels either collapsed from wounds or simply stumbled from fear, turned into something more in the nature of an avalanche. An avalanche is a fearsome thing, true. But it has no brains at all. By the time thousands of bedouin piled up at the foot of the hill, not fifty yards from the Roman front lines, they had about as much coordination and conscious purpose as a snowdrift blown by the wind.

  Euphronius gave the order. Level! Antonina held her breath. Fire!

  Fifty yards was within range of the smoothbore arquebusses. Some of the bullets went wide, and many simply buried themselves in the sand. But of the hundreds of rounds fired in that first volley, almost a fourth found a human target.

  It mattered hardly at all whether the bullets struck a head, a torso, or a limb. Round shot loses muzzle velocity quickly. But, within fifty yards, the loss was not enough to offset the weight of the.80-caliber lead drop shot. The heavy projectiles, at that range, caused terrible wounds-and struck with incredible force. Arms were blown off, not simply wounded. Thigh bones were pulverized. Men died from shock alone.

  The first line of musketeers stepped back, replaced by the second. Antonina expected Euphronius to give the order to fire immediately, but the Syrian waited for the dense cloud of gunsmoke to clear away. She began dancing impatiently, until she realized what she was doing and forced herself to stand still.

  Restraint was difficult, even though Antonina understood Euphronius' inaction. It was impossible to see more than a few yards from the front line-and would have been, even in broad daylight. Even the crest of the hill was obscured by the gunsmoke. Until the smoke cleared, the musketeers would be guessing at their target.

  A few gaps began appearing in the clouds. Enough, apparently. Euphronius gave the order, and the arquebusses roared again.

  The second line stepped back, and the third line came forward. By now, Antonina saw, the first line was already reloaded and ready to fire again.

  She felt a certain female smugness. Her troops could manage a much better rate of fire, she knew, than those of her husband. Despite the fact that they were using the same type of firearms, her troops had wives, standing with the men. The Theodoran Cohort carried twice as many handcannons as they had gunners. The women kept the spares ready and loaded. As soon as the men stepped back, a freshly loaded gun was in their hands, while their wives set to work reloading the fired pieces.

  With that advantage, Antonina's cohort could manage a rate of fire which approached that of Wellington's men. As a battle wore on, of course, the rate would drop quickly. After a few rounds had been fired through the crude arquebusses, gunpowder residues fouled the bores. The weapons had to be cleaned before they could be reloaded, and even efficient Syrian wives could not do that instantly.

  Still-

  Fire! she heard Euphronius shout. The third line discharged their pieces.

  The only reason her troops were not maintaining a faster rate of fire was simply to let the clouds of gunsmoke clear away sufficiently to aim. Had there been a strong wind blowing, they could have been hammering the Arabs almost ceaselessly.

  Antonina cursed the light desert breeze. The curse seemed to be effective. A sudden gust blew a great hole in the clouds.

  The gap was closed, within seconds, by the first rank's second round of fire. But in those seconds, Antonina saw the carnage.

  By now, just as she had experienced in her fight in the kitchen, Antonina was feeling nothing beyond controlled fury. But even with battle-lust burning in her veins, she was glad that the scene was filtered through dim moonlight. The shrieks coming out of that murky mass of struggling men were bloodcurdling enough.

  That's got to be pure horror.

  The thought was at the edge of her mind, however. At the forefront came recognition that the enemy had recovered enough to change tactics. Wails of agony were overridden by frantic shouts and commands. Murky movement blurred, poured to the sides.

  "They're going to the flanks!" bellowed Ashot, loud enough to be heard all through the Roman camp. On the heels of that baritone shout, Antonina heard Menander's high tenor. The young cataphract was shifting his pikemen, shoring up all four sides of the camp.

  Seconds later, Euphronius did the same. The commander of the Cohort had concentrated half his musketeers on the southern flank of the camp, facing the hill. Now, he began moving units to the other three sides.

  Within two minutes, the Roman formation was that of a classic infantry square, bristling like a hedgehog with muskets and pikes. The Arabs were swirling all around the camp, attacking on every side in small lunges and sallies.

  For the first time, the pikemen went to work. Euphronius, for all his youth, was too canny to waste entire salvoes on small clots of enemy cavalry. The threat of those shattering salvoes, in the long run, was all that was holding the enemy at bay. If the Roman musketeers fired too often, their weapons would become hopelessly fouled.

  So he waited, patiently, until he saw a large enough cluster gathering. Then, and only then, did the gunsmoke clouds fill the air. In the meantime, the pikes were busy, keeping at bay the small groups of Arabs-sometimes one man alone-who tried to rush the Roman lines.

  "Keeping busy" meant, for the most part, simply standing their ground. Not often were the blades of the pikes actually needed.

  That was not due to cowardice on the part of the men facing those pikes. No one doubted the courage of the bedouin, or their willingness to hurl themselves onto the Roman lines. But it is a simple fact, often glossed over by historians and always by poets and bards, that horses and camels-level-headed, sensible, sane, rational creatures-can not be forced onto a wall of spears. Any number of camels, either from accident or from being half-crazed by wounds, did stumble against the pikes. The pikes brought them down, and their riders with them. But the great mass of the beasts shied away, despite the shrieking commands of their supposed masters.

  Antonina, after a few minutes, felt her tension easing. She had been told-assured-by her husband, and by Maurice and Ashot, that this would be true. Still, seeing is believing.

  Stand your ground, love, her husband had told her. Just stand your ground, with pike and handcannon. No cavalry in the world will be able to break you, unless they break your will. Artillery could, but you won't be facing that where you're going.

  Many things about herself Antonina had doubted, over the years. Never her will. She was a small woman, but she had a spine to match Atlas.

  So, as the battle raged, Antonina found herself doing exactly what Ashot-and her husband and Maurice before him-had told her to do. Just stand there, looking calm and confident. Shout the occasional words of encouragement; whistle a tune; whatever-as long as it's not a giggle.

  She only had to fight down a giggle once. Her maid, Koutina, having no duties of her own in battle, had still insisted on staying at Antonina's side. The time came when Koutina nodded sagely, as if some inner suspicion had been confirmed.

  "I knew it," she said. The young Egyptian maid glanced at the wall of pikes and muskets, dismissing them serenely. "They're scared of your giant tits, is what it is. That's why they won't come any closer.

  At the very end, Antonina learned another lesson. Her husband-and Maurice, and Ashot-had told her of this one, too. But she had forgotten, or never quite believed.

  Battles are unpredictable things. Chaos incarnate.

  The bedouin finally broke, screaming their frustration. Thousands of Arabs pounded away from the camp, fleeing into the desert. But, by some strange eddy, a large cluster of enemy cavalrymen suddenly hammered into the southern flank of
the Roman square.

  Since the first few moments of the battle, when the soldiers facing the hill had borne the brunt of the attack, their fight had been easy. If nothing else, the great mound of human and camel bodies in front of them kept most of the Arabs at bay. Now, coming from God-knows-where-or-how, a knot of some twenty bedouin thundered at the line.

  The line had been thinned, too far. The Roman flank did not break, but it did crack. Three bedouin made it into the camp itself. Ashot's cataphracts, mounted and held in reserve, started moving toward them.

  Before the cataphracts could reach them, two of the Arabs were felled by gunshots. The third Arab's mount was brought down by a pike. The bedouin warrior sprang off the collapsing camel, like a nimble acrobat, and rolled to his feet.

  Not six yards from where Antonina was standing, alone except for Koutina.

  The maid screamed and scuttled behind Antonina. Drawn by the sound, the nomad turned his head. An instant later, he bounded toward them, his curved sword held high. The man was shrieking like a berserk.

  Antonina never even thought to draw her cleaver. Against street thugs, that trusty blade had done wonders. But it would be as effective as a whittling knife against the man charging her now.

  She snatched the handcannon off her shoulder. For a moment, she fumbled with the dual hammers and triggers, until John of Rhodes' endless hours of training bore fruit. With her finger firmly on the rear trigger, she cocked the left-side hammer, leveled the gun, and fired.

  As always, the blast was deafening and the recoil half-spun her around. But she ignored the pain-was not even aware of it, in truth.

  Frantically, she brought the weapon to bear again. She was astonished to see that the Arab was still standing. Her first shot had smashed his rib cage. The man's right side was covered with blood. Antonina could see a jagged rib protruding, glistening in the moonlight.

  The bedouin did not even grimace. He had stopped shrieking, now. His face seemed calm, like a death mask. The man reached across his body with his left hand and pressed the horrible wound, holding his ruptured side in place. Then he began plodding toward her. His sword was still in his right hand.

  For an instant, Antonina was paralyzed by the incredible sight. Then she went berserk herself.

  "Fuck you!" she screamed. She sprang forward and jammed the muzzle against the Arab's chest. The fury of her charge was so great that the small woman actually forced the man back two paces. Driving him with the handcannon by rage of body, while her mind-as cold as a kitchen icebox-went through the trained sequence.

  The bedouin raised the sword. Finger on front trigger. Cock the right-side hammer.

  She pulled the trigger. Again, the recoil hammered her aside.

  Antonina was oblivious to the pain. Still shrieking obscenities, she spun back and swung the heavy barrel at the Arab's head.

  The gun swept through thin air. The momentum of the frenzied swing spun Antonina clear around. She stumbled, off balance, and fell on her butt. The heavy cuirass drove her down.

  She stared at her opponent. The man was lying on his back, just a few feet away. She had swung at nothing, she realized. The second shot had ruptured the Arab's heart, and probably his spine with it. He had fallen even before she spun around.

  Finally, pain registered. Her hands hurt. Her arms hurt. Her shoulders hurt. Her ass hurt. Even her breasts hurt, where the brass armor had impacted them in her fall.

  "Ow," she muttered. A moment later, Koutina was at her side, kneeling, clutching her. The clutch, unfortunately-the desperate squeeze of a terrified kitten-was right across her breasts, pressing the armor further into the poor bruised things.

  "Ow." Almost desperate herself, she tried to pry Koutina loose. Or, at least, to shift the girl's anaconda grip a little lower down.

  Ashot loomed above her. Antonina stared up at him.

  "Well, the battle's won," announced the cataphract. "Total victory. We won't see those Arabs again. Neither will Abreha."

  Ashot did not seem ecstatic at the news. To the contrary. His expression was grim and condemnatory.

  "I told you so," he snarled, glaring at the body of the dead Arab.

  Two more cataphracts came up behind Ashot. They seemed to loom over the stubby Armenian as much as he loomed over Antonina. Huge men.

  Antonina recognized them. They were named Matthew and Leo. They were the two cataphracts whom Ashot had proposed as her bodyguards, when the expedition left Alexandria.

  Antonina had spurned the proposal. She had not been able to explain why, at the time, even to herself. Or had not wanted to, at least. She knew that her husband had bodyguards. Valentinian and Anastasius, as a matter of fact, who were universally considered the best fighters in the Thracian bucellarii. But for Antonina-

  No. It had not been necessary, she felt. Unlike Belisarius, who led his men in combat, Antonina had no intention of actually fighting. And there was a stubborn, mulish part of her which had resented the idea.

  What am I, a little girl who needs chaperones?

  "Does that offer still stand?" she croaked.

  Ashot snorted. He gave Matthew and Leo a wave of the hand. "You've got a new job, lads."

  " 'Bout time," she heard Matthew mutter.

  Leo said nothing. He almost never did. He just reached down his bear-paw-sized hand and lifted Antonina to her feet.

  Antonina stared up at him. Leo was the ugliest, scariest-looking, most brutish man she-or anyone else-had ever seen. His fellow cataphracts called him "the Ogre." When they weren't calling him "the Ox," that is, on account of his extremely limited intellect.

  But they never called him either name to his face.

  Such a handsome man, thought Antonina. I can't think of better company.

  Antonina's maid was still clutching her. Leo had lifted both of the women, with one hand. Koutina's grip shifted again.

  "Ow," hissed Antonina. But she didn't pry the girl off. She just patted her hand reassuringly, while she took her own comfort staring at an ogre.

  Her ogre.

  Chapter 17

  Kausambi

  Summer, 532 A.D.

  "You are disturbed, Nanda Lal," said Great Lady Sati. The young Malwa noblewoman leaned back in her plush, well-upholstered chair. Her ring-heavy fingers stroked the armrests, but her austerely beautiful face was completely still. "Something is troubling you."

  The Malwa emperor started, hearing those words. Skandagupta rolled his fat little body side to side on his ornate throne, shifting his eyes from Lady Sati to Nanda Lal. As always when the Malwa Empire's highest council met, the room was unoccupied except for those three people and the special guards. The guards, recruited exclusively from the distant land of the Khmers, were all devotees of Link's cult. Seven of them were giant eunuchs, kneeling in a row against a far wall of the chamber. Their immense bodies were naked from the waist up. Each held a bare tulwar in his hands. The remaining two guards were assassins. Those, garbed in black shirts and pantaloons, stood on either side of the chamber's entrance.

  Nanda Lal was frowning, but silent. Emperor Skandagupta prompted him. "If something is troubling you, cousin, speak up," he commanded. "I can't imagine what it is."

  Skandagupta reached for the cup of tea resting on a side table next to his throne. "Best news we've had in months. Belisarius has finally been beaten!"

  Lady Sati shook her head. The gesture carried a certainty far beyond her years-as if she were already possessed by the divine being which would someday inhabit her body. But the certainty was simply born of habit and training. Sati had spent more time in the company of Link than any other person in the world. (Other than her aunt Holi, of course. But Great Lady Holi was no longer a human being. Holi was nothing, now, beyond Link's sheath.)

  "He has not been beaten," she said. "Simply driven off, for a time. There is a difference."

  Finally, Nanda Lal spoke. "Quite a difference," he growled in agreement. The spymaster took a deep breath. "But it is not Belisarius who con
cerns me, at the moment. It is Damodara."

  The emperor's eyes widened. Lady Sati's did not. "You are concerned about the arms complex in Marv," she stated.

  Nanda Lal extended a thick hand, wobbling it back and forth. "In itself-no. Not much, anyhow. We discussed that matter weeks ago, you recall, when we first discovered the fact."

  "Yes, we did," interrupted the emperor. "And we agreed that it was not worth making an issue over." Skandagupta shrugged. "It is against Malwa law, true. But we gave Damodara a most thankless task, and can hardly complain when he improved his odds."

  The emperor fixed narrow, fat-shrouded eyes on Nanda Lal. "So why the sudden concern?" Forcefully: "I myself am very partial to Damodara. He is far and away our best military commander. Energetic and practical."

  "Which is precisely what bothers me," countered Nanda Lal. "Your Majesty," he added, almost as a casual afterthought.

  Nanda Lal reached to another side table and picked up a scroll. He waved it before him.

  "This is a report from a man named Pulumayi, which supplements Lord Damodara's account of the recent battle in the Zagros where Belisarius was beaten."

  The emperor frowned. "Pulumayi? Who is he? Never heard of him." He raised his cup toward his mouth.

  Nanda Lal snorted. "Neither had I! I had to check my records, to verify his claim." He drew air into his nostrils. "Apparently, Pulumayi is now my chief spy in Damodara's army."

  Skandagupta's cup paused before reaching his lips. "What happened to Isanavarman?" he demanded.

  "He is dead," came Nanda Lal's harsh reply. "Along with all my top agents. Pulumayi succeeded to Isanavarman's post because he is the most highly ranked survivor-" Again, that deep-drawn breath. "It seems that Belisarius' cavalry raided Damodara's camp during the battle."

  Nanda Lal tapped the scroll in the palm of his left hand. "So, at least, this report claims. I do not doubt the claim-not insofar as the casualties are concerned, that is. Their actual cause may be otherwise."