Fortune's stroke b-4

by Eric Flint

  "Some of them couldn't even do that!" snapped Bouzes. "Half the garrison was already drunk, before we even started the assault. The sun hadn't gone down yet!" His scowl became a thing purely feral. "They won't walk now, for sure. Not ever."

  "I would like as many prisoners as possible, Bouzes," said Belisarius. As before, his tone was mild.

  Yes, agreed Aide. The more enemy soldiers we can shove out the gates, the more mouths Link will have to feed. With nothing to feed them with.

  Bouzes flushed under the implied reproof.

  "I tried, General." He gave a quick, appealing glance at the other commanders in the room. "We all tried. But-"

  Maurice levered himself off the wall with a push of the shoulder and took two steps forward. Bouzes gave a small sigh of relief.

  "Forget it, General," said Maurice harshly. "If there's five hundred of that scum left tomorrow morning to push out into the desert, I'll be surprised. There'll be no mercy for Malwa, this night. Not after the men found the torture chambers, and the brothels. Any Mahaveda priest or mahamimamsa who died by the blade can count himself lucky. The men are dragging most of them to the torture chambers, to give them a taste of their own pleasures."

  "Along with any soldier they caught within sight of one of the brothels," growled Coutzes. "Jesus."

  Belisarius did not argue the matter. He had seen one of the brothels himself.

  Roman soldiers were not, to put it mildly, the gentlest men in the world. Nor was "gallantry" a word which anyone in their right mind would ever associate with them. Any Roman veteran-and they were all veterans, now-had spent his own time in a military brothel, filing through a crib for a few minutes' pleasure.

  But the scene in that brothel had been something out of nightmare. A nightmare which would have roused Satan from his sleep, trembling and shaken. Long rows of women-girls, probably, though it was impossible to determine their age-chained, spread-eagled, on thin pallets. On occasion, judging from residual moisture, they had been splashed with a pail of water to clean them off. All the women were sick; most suffered from bedsores; many were dying; not a few were already dead.

  No, Roman soldiers were not what a later age would call "knights in shining armor." But they had their own firm concept of manhood, nonetheless, which was not that of pimps and sadists. The women in the brothels were all Persian, or Arab, just like the women those soldiers had been consorting with since they began their campaign in Persia. Many Roman soldiers had married their kinsfolk. Among Persians, since the Malwa invasion began, the name of Charax had been synonymous with bestiality. Their Roman allies-friends and husbands, as often as not-had absorbed that notion, over the past year and a half. Now, having seen the truth with their own eyes, they would exact Persia's vengeance.

  And besides, mused Aide whimsically, they've spent the last six months fighting Rajputs. Can't do that, not even the crudest brawler recruited in Constantinople's hippodrome, without some of the chivalry rubbing off.

  Belisarius' eyes fell on the pile of corpses in a corner. The body of the Malwa garrison's commander was on the very top. Belisarius himself had put the body there, with a thrust through the heart, after the man had failed to stutter surrender quickly enough.

  For just an instant, Belisarius regretted that sword thrust. He could have disarmed the man. Saved him for the torture pits.

  He shook off the thought. Took a deep breath, and forced down his own rage, seething somewhere deep inside. This was no time for rage. If he was having a hard enough time controlling his fury, he could well imagine the mental state of his troops.

  That fury can't be stopped, but it must be controlled.

  He turned his eyes back on his commanders. All of them were staring at him. Respectfully, but stubbornly.

  He forced a smile. "I'm not arguing the point, Maurice. But if it gets out of control, if the men-"

  "Don't worry about it," interrupted Maurice brusquely, shaking his head. He pointed to the row of amphorae lining the shelf. "To the best of my knowledge, that's the only liquor left in Charax which hasn't already been spilled in the streets. More often than not, the men do it themselves before they're even ordered. No one wants any Malwa to escape because some bastard was too drunk to spot them. As for the women-"

  He shrugged. Coutzes lazed to his feet and strode over to the shelf. As he began plucking amphorae and tossing them through a nearby window, he said: "The only problem there, general, is that any woman in Charax who's managed to stay out of the brothels-hooking up with a garrison unit, usually, or an officer-is throwing herself at a Roman soldier tonight." The first sounds of shattering wine flasks came from the street below. "Can't blame them. They'll do anything to get out of here. So would I."

  Finished with the last amphora, he turned back, grinning. "Even if meant being called Coutzes the Catamite for the rest of my life."

  Belisarius chuckled, along with his officers. "All right," he said. "I don't care about that. I don't expect my soldiers to be saints and monks. By tomorrow, we'll have regular camp followers. As long as the women are treated decently enough, and the men are kept from liquor, I'll be satisfied. We'll take the women with us, when we leave. Those who want, we'll try to reunite with their families."

  "Most of them don't have any families left," grated Bouzes.

  "Except us," added Maurice. The chiliarch's gray eyes were as grim as death. He hooked a thumb toward the window. Now that the sounds of breaking amphorae had ended, the screams could be heard again.

  "I'm telling you, General-relax. That isn't the sound of a city being sacked by troops raging out of control, raping, drinking and burning. That's just the sound of an executioner doing his duty."

  After a moment, Belisarius nodded. He decided Maurice was right. The focused fury of an army, he could control.

  He slapped his hands together. The sharp sound echoed in the room, snapping his officers alert.

  "Let's get to the rest, then." He turned to Vasudeva. "Where does it stand with the ships?"

  Vasudeva stroked his topknot. The pleasure he so obviously took in the act almost made Belisarius laugh. "The last word I got from Cyril-maybe half an hour ago-was that all of the cargo ships had been seized. Except one, which managed to pull free from the docks before the Greeks could get to it. Most of the galleys, of course, escaped also."

  The Kushan shrugged. "No way to stop them, before they reached the screen of galleys in the outer harbor. Not without firing rockets or flame arrows. So Cyril let it be. He says we've got more ships than we need, anyway, and he didn't want to risk an explosion or a drifting fireship."

  "God, no!" exclaimed Bouzes. The young officer shuddered slightly. Charax was a city made of stone and brick. It would not burn easily, if at all. But it was also, for all practical purposes, a gigantic powderkeg. The port had been the arsenal for Malwa's intended conquest of Persia.

  "The Greeks hadn't searched the ships yet," continued Vasudeva. "Although I imagine by now they've probably-" He broke off, hearing footsteps. Then, waving his hand: "But let's let him tell us."

  Cyril was marching through the door. As soon as he entered, his eyes fell on the pile of corpses in the corner.

  "Got off too easy, the swine," he muttered. Turning to Belisarius, he said: "We've started the search. Everything looks good. Lucky for us, none of the priests were stationed aboard any of the craft."

  That had always been Belisarius' deepest fear. Some of the huge ships moored at the dock had been loaded with gunpowder. A fanatic priest aboard one of them, if certain of capture, would have ignited its cargo. The explosion might well have destroyed the harbor, along with the Roman escape route.

  "Nobody else?" he asked.

  Cyril smiled. "The only ones aboard were sailors. After we stormed a few of the ships, the rest negotiated surrender. Once we were sure all of them were on the docks, and the ships were secured-"

  His smile was as grim as Maurice's eyes. "We gave them new terms of surrender. They weren't happy about it, but-" He
shrugged. "Their protests were short-lived."

  Another laugh swept the room. Even Belisarius joined in. There would be no mercy for Malwa from anyone, that night. A dog, barking in Hindi, would have been slaughtered.

  Belisarius turned to Bouzes. Without being prompted, the young Thracian officer moved back to the window and began pointing to the walls beyond. The gesture was a bit futile. It was still long before sunrise. The darkness was unbroken except by slowly moving Roman squads, holding torches aloft in their search for Malwa hideaways.

  "All of the siege guns have been seized and manned. I talked to Felix just twenty minutes ago." He gave Cyril a half-apologetic glance over his shoulder. "Unlike the Greeks, who have plenty of seamen, Gregory doesn't have anyone who's fired guns that size. So he kept maybe two dozen Malwa gunners alive. Felix says they're babbling everything they know, faster than we can ask."

  "Good," grunted his brother. "By tomorrow morning, we can fire a few test rounds. Using them for the shot."

  Again, savage humor filled the room. And, again, Belisarius joined in.

  Even Aide: Why not? The British did, during the Indian Mutiny. Unlike them, we've even got a decent excuse.

  The bloodthirsty aura of that thought did not surprise Belisarius. He only wondered, for a moment, at the vastness of the universe. Which could produce, over the eons, such miracles as a crystal intelligence learning human wrath.

  His eyes came back to Vasudeva. From experience with the Kushan since he entered the service of Rome, Belisarius had learned to use him as his executive officer in matters of logistics. Vasudeva was as proficient a lieutenant, in that complex work, as Maurice was on the battlefield.

  Vasudeva tugged his goatee. "Everything's still a mess, of course. Will be, till at least tomorrow night. But I'm not worried about it."

  He spread his arms, hands wide open, as if he were embracing a beloved but obese friend. "There were fifteen thousand men garrisoned here, permanently. Between their stores, and the huge stockpiles for the main army, the Malwa have bequeathed a treasure upon us. We don't really have to organize much of anything. Just grab what we need, load up the ships, and get ready to leave when the time comes. Won't take more than three days."

  "The Malwa army should be back here by then," opined Cyril. "Their first elements, anyway. Enough to invest the city."

  Maurice made a fist, and inspected his knuckles. "That'll be too late. Way too late. By the day after tomorrow, we'll be able to hold Charax against them. For three weeks, at the very least. A month and a half wouldn't surprise me. Although I don't want to think about our casualties, by then."

  And now, all eyes were on Belisarius.

  He smiled. Widely, not crookedly. All rage and fury vanished, as he remembered that other-much deeper-side of life.

  "She'll come," he said. "She'll come."

  Chapter 33

  The Tigris

  Autumn, 532 A.D.

  In the event, Lord Damodara lost Sanga's services for only nine days. On the morning of the tenth, the Rajput king strode into Damodara's pavilion and slammed the truth onto his commander's table.

  Damodara stared at the object resting before him. At his side, he sensed Narses' start of surprise. A moment later, the eunuch hissed.

  The "truth" was a helmet. A great, heavy, ungainly contraption of segmented steel plates. A Goth helmet, Damodara vaguely realized.

  "We found a small mountain of the things," said Sanga, "along with all the other gear those mercenaries were wearing."

  Damodara looked up. "Where?"

  Sanga glowered at the helmet. "Do you remember that small valley we passed through, where the Persians had been mining?" He snorted. "I remember noticing how fresh the mine tailings were. I was impressed, at the time, by the courage and determination of the Persian miners-to have kept working till the last minute, with a war raging about their heads."

  "The tunnel!" explained Narses. "There was a tunnel there. A mine adit."

  Sanga shook his head. "That is no mine, Narses. They disguised the first few dozen yards to make it look like one, but it is really an entrance to a qanat." He pointed at the helmet. "We found those about fifty yards in. Piled in a heap, as I said. It took us an hour to move the stuff aside, and go beyond. Thereafter-"

  He pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. "From that point on, the trail is as clear as the one we have been following. Belisarius' entire army-I am as certain of it as I am of my own name-took that route. Hidden from sight underground, they marched to the south. They probably emerged, miles away, in another valley. Their Persian allies would have had fresh horses waiting for them."

  He slapped the map with his hand. "That is why Belisarius was always willing to let us move north, but was so stubborn an opponent to the south. He was protecting the location of the tunnel. It must have taken them weeks-months-to prepare everything, even with help from the Persians. He could not afford to have us stumble upon his secret by accident, in the course of our maneuvers."

  Damodara's eyes were wide open. His next words were almost choked out.

  "Are you telling me that-" He waved his hand, weakly, as if to encompass all of time and space. "Everything we've done, for months-all the maneuvers and the fighting-even the battle at the pass-was a feint?"

  Sanga nodded. "Yes, Lord. It was all a feint. Belisarius was buying time, yes. But he wasn't buying time for Emperor Khusrau, or his man Agathius in Peroz-Shapur. He was buying it for himself. Until the time was right, and the preparations were finished, and he could finally strike at his true target. Now that Emperor Khusrau's retreat has drawn our main army out of Charax, the Roman can drive home the death stroke."

  "Here," said Sanga. His finger speared a point on the map. "At Charax."

  Damodara's eyes, already wide, were almost bulging.

  "That's insane!" he cried. "Charax is the most fortified place in the world! Even without the main army there, the garrison is still the size of Belisarius' army. Bigger! There's no way on earth he could storm the place-not even if he had siege guns."

  Narses interrupted. His voice was dry and cold, like arctic ice.

  "Have you ever heard of the Trojan Horse, Lord Damodara?" he asked. The Malwa lord twisted his head, transferring the incredulous gaze to Narses.

  The old eunuch chuckled humorlessly. "Never mind. I will tell you the tale some other time. But you can trust me on this, Lord. That-"

  He jabbed a finger at the helmet resting on the table. "That is a Trojan helmet." Narses laughed. There was actual humor in that laugh, mixed with rueful admiration.

  "God, has the world even seen such a schemer?" He laughed again. "Those helmets, Lord Damodara, tell you the truth. They were discarded by Belisarius' two thousand Goth mercenaries, now that they no longer needed them to maintain the disguise. For those men were never Goths to begin with."

  Damodara's mind finally tracked the trail. His eyes remained wide. His jaws tightened. The next words came between clenched teeth.

  "There were two thousand Kushans in the army which Belisarius destroyed at Anatha last year. We always assumed they were slaughtered along with the rest."

  Rana Sanga ran fingers through his thick hair. Then he, too, laughed-and, like Narses, his laugh was mixed rue and admiration.

  "He used the same trick against us in India," mused Sanga. "Turned the allegiance of Kushans, and then left a false trail, so that the Kushans could do his real work."

  Damodara was back to staring at the map. After a moment, his eyes narrowed.

  "This still doesn't make sense," he said softly. He tapped his finger on the location of Charax. "I can see where he might get into Charax, using Kushans as his entry. And, certainly, once he got in-" Damodara snorted. "His soldiers, against garrison troops, would be like wolves in a sheep pen."

  Slowly, the Malwa lord rose up, leaning on the table. His eyes went back and forth from Sanga to Narses.

  "But then-how does he get out?"

  Again, Damodara's finger tapped the ma
p. This time, very forcefully, like a finger of accusation.

  "Our main force is still not more than a few days' march away from Charax. Before Belisarius could finish his work of destruction, he would be surrounded by the largest army in the world. No way to escape. He couldn't even sail out on the cargo ships in the harbor. He couldn't get through the screen of war galleys stationed in the outer harbor. And not even Belisarius-not even behind those fortifications-can hold more than a few weeks against fifteen-to-one odds. Two months, at the outside."

  Again, the jabbing finger. "It's a suicide mission!" he exclaimed. "Impossible!"

  Sanga shook his head. "Why so, Lord? Belisarius is as courageous as any man alive. I would lay down my life for my country and honor. Why would not he?"

  Damodara was shaking his head before the Rajput even finished. "That's not the point, Sanga. For honor and country, yes. But for this?"

  Sanga stared up at Damodara, as if he were gazing at a unicorn. Or a cretin.

  "Lord Damodara," he said, speaking slowly, "do you understand what Belisarius will do? Once he is in Charax-"

  Damodara slammed the table angrily. "I am not a fool, Sanga! Of course I know what he will do. He will destroy the entire logistics base for our invasion of Persia. He will leave a hundred and fifty thousand men stranded without food or supplies-and without means of escape. He will certainly destroy the fleet at anchor there. He will not be able to touch the war galleys outside the harbor, of course, but even if he could-" Damodara threw up his hands. "Those ships could not possibly transport more than two thousand men. Even including the supply ships on the Euphrates, we couldn't evacuate more than-"

  Abruptly, Damodara sat down. His face was drawn. "It would be the worst military disaster in history. A death stroke, just as you said. Our army would have no choice. They would have to retrace the route taken by Alexander the Great, when he retreated from India to the west. Except they would have no provisions at all, and far more men to feed and water. Even for Alexander, that road was disastrous."