Belisarius I Thunder at Dawn

by David Drake

  "Are they gone?" she asked worriedly. Then, seeing the closed and barred gates, asked:

  "Why did you shut the gates? Customers will think we are closed."

  "We are closed, wife. And we will remain closed until that madness"—a gesture to the north—"dies away and the city is safe." Wry grimace. "As safe, at least, as it ever is for poor folk."

  His wife began to protest, but the stablekeeper silenced her with the coins in his hand.

  "The nobleman was very generous. We will have more than enough."

  His wife argued no further. She was relieved, herself, at the prospect of hiding from the madness.

  Later that night, as they prepared for bed, the stablekeeper said to his wife:

  "Should anyone inquire about the nobleman, in the future, say nothing."

  His wife turned a startled face to him.

  "Why?"

  The stablekeeper glared. "Just do as I say! For once, woman, obey your husband!"

  His wife shrugged her thick shoulders with irritation, but she nodded. (Not so much from obedience, as simple practicality. Poor men are known, now and then, to speak freely to the authorities. Poor women, almost never.)

  Much later that night, sleepless, the stablekeeper arose from his bed. He moved softly to the small window and opened the shutter. Just a bit—there was no glass in that modest frame to keep out the weather.

  He stood there, for a time, staring to the east. There was nothing to see, beyond the blackness of the night and the glimmering of the rain.

  When he returned to his bed, he fell asleep quickly, easily. Resolution often has that effect.

  Chapter 15

  After an hour, Belisarius finall y found what he was looking for.

  It had been a thoroughly frustrating hour. On the one hand, he had found plenty of lone soldiers. But all of them had been common Malwa troops, shirking their duty by hiding in alleys and out-of-the-way nooks and crannies of the city. None of these men had been big enough for their uniforms to fit him. Nor, for that matter, did he think he could pass himself off as an Indian from the Gangetic plain.

  Ye-tai was what he wanted. The Ye-tai, in the west, were often called White Huns. The word "white," actually, was misleading. The Ye-tai were not "white" in the sense that Goths or Franks were. The complexion of Ye-tai was not really much different than that of any other Asian steppe-dwellers. But their facial features were much closer to the western norm than were those of Huns proper, or, for that matter, Kushans. And, since Belisarius himself was dark-complected for a Thracian—as dark as an Armenian—he thought he could pass himself off as Ye-tai well enough. Especially since he could speak the language fluently.

  Ye-tai tended to be big, too. He was quite sure he could find one whose size matched his own.

  Ye-tai he found aplenty. Big Ye-tai, as well. But the Ye-tai always traveled in squads, and they tended to be much more alert than common troops.

  Fortunately for him, the alertness of the Ye-tai was directed inward rather than outward—toward the common soldiers they were rounding up and driving into the streets. Scouring the streets and alleys was beneath the dignity of Ye-tai. That was dog work, for common troops. Their job was to whip the dogs.

  At first, as he watched the massive search operation which began unfolding in the capital, Belisarius was concerned that he would be spotted before he could make his escape from Kausambi. But, soon enough, his fears ebbed. After a half an hour, in fact—a half hour spent darting from one alley to another, heading west by a circuitous route—Belisarius decided that the whole situation was almost comical.

  The explosion of the armory had roused every soldier in the Malwa capital, of every type and variety. And since there were a huge number of troops stationed in Kausambi, the streets of the city were soon thronged with a mass of soldiers. But the soldiers were utterly confused, and largely leaderless. Leaderless, not from lack of officers, but because the officers themselves had little notion what, exactly, they were supposed to do. But they didn't want to seem to be doing nothing—especially under the hard eyes of Ye-tai—so the officers sent their men scurrying about aimlessly. Soon enough, the masses of troops charging and counter-charging about the city had become so hopelessly intermingled that any semblance of disciplined formation vanished.

  Watching the scene, Belisarius realized that he was witnessing one of the military weaknesses of the Malwa Empire. The Malwa, because of their social and political structure, had no real elite shock troops. The Malwa kshatriya, who had a monopoly of the gunpowder weapons, functioned more as privileged artillery units than elite soldiers. The Ye-tai, for all their martial prowess, were not really an elite corps either. Their position in the Malwa army was essentially that of security battalions overseeing the common troops, rather than a spearhead. And the Rajputs, or Kushans—who could easily have served the Malwa as elite troops—were too distrusted.

  The end result was that the Malwa had no body of soldiers equivalent to his own Thracian bucellarii. And for the task of hunting down a foreign fugitive in the streets of a great city like Kausambi—especially at night, in pouring rain—a relatively small body of disciplined, seasoned men would have done much better than the hordes of common troops whom the Malwa had sent floundering into action.

  So, with relatively little difficulty, Belisarius managed to get almost to the outskirts of Kausambi within that first hour. Three times, during the course of his journey, he encountered platoons of Malwa soldiers. Each time, he handled the situation by the simple expedient of commanding them to search a different alley.

  The Malwa troops, hearing authoritative words from an authoritative figure, never thought to question his right to issue the orders. True, they did not recognize his uniform. But, between the darkness and the rainstorm, it was hard to make out the details of uniforms anyway. Every soldier in the streets of Kausambi that night looked more like a half-drowned rat than anything else. And besides, the Malwa empire was a gigantic conglomeration of subject nations and peoples. No doubt the man was an officer of some kind. His Hindi was fluent—better than that of the soldiers in two of those platoons, in fact—and only an officer would conduct himself in that arrogant, overbearing manner. Malwa troops had long since been hammered into obedience, and they reacted to Belisarius like well-trained nails.

  Then, finally, he found his lone Ye-tai. Hiding in some shrubbery near the mouth of an alley, Belisarius watched a squad of Ye-tai hounding a mob of soldiers down one of the large streets which formed a perimeter for the outskirts of Kausambi. As they passed the alley, one of the barbarians split off from his comrades and stepped into it. Belisarius drew back further into the shadows, until, watching the man, he realized that his moment had arrived. The Ye-tai was big—big enough, at least—and, best of all, he was about to provide Belisarius with the perfect opportunity. The Ye-tai moved ten feet into the alley, turned to face one of the mudbrick hovels which formed the alley's walls, and began preparing to urinate.

  The operation took a bit of time, since the Ye-tai had to unlace his armor as well as undo his breeches. Belisarius waited until the Ye-tai finally began to urinate. Then he lunged out of the shrubbery and drove the barbarian face first into the wall of the hovel. The Ye-tai, stunned, bounced back from the wall. Belisarius hammered his fist into the man's kidney, once, twice, thrice. Moaning, the Ye-tai fell to his knees. Belisarius drew his knife, cut the strap holding the barbarian's helmet, cuffed the helmet aside. Then, dropping his knife, he seized the Ye-tai by his hair and slammed his skull into the wall. Once, twice, thrice.

  Quickly, he glanced at the alley mouth. Belisarius gave silent thanks, again, for the darkness and the monsoon downpour. The Ye-tai's comrades had heard and seen nothing. After returning the knife to its sheath, and placing the helmet on his own head, Belisarius hoisted the unconscious barbarian over his shoulder and moved quickly back down the alley.

  Thirty yards down, well out of sight, he set the man down and begin stripping his uniform. Within five minu
tes, the barbarian was as naked as the day he was born, and Belisarius was the perfect image of a Ye-tai.

  Now, he hesitated, facing a quandary.

  The quandary was not whether to kill the Ye-tai. That was no quandary at all. As soon as he removed the barbarian's clothing, and, thereby, any danger of leaving tell-tale bloodstains, Belisarius drew his knife. He plunged the sharp little blade into the back of the man's neck and, with surgical precision, severed the spinal cord.

  The quandary was what to do with the body. Belisarius dragged it to the side of the alley and began stuffing it under some shrubbery. He was not happy with that solution, since the body would surely be found soon after daybreak, but—

  He stopped, examining the mudbrick wall. It was not, he suddenly realized, the wall of a house. It was a wall sealing off one of the tiny backyard garden plots with which most of Kausambi's poor supplemented their wretched diet.

  He glanced around, gauging the area. He was in one of the many slums of the city.

  Decision came instantly. He hoisted the body over his head and sent it sprawling across the wall. A split second after he heard the body's wet thump in the yard on the other side, he sent his own Roman uniform after it. Then he began striding down the alley, marching with the open, arrogant bearing of a Ye-tai.

  He was taking a gamble, but he thought the odds favored him. He was quite sure that the residents of that humble little house—shack, say better—had heard the commotion. By the time he reached the end of the alley, they would probably already be examining the grisly—and most unwelcome—addition to their garden.

  What would they do? Alert the authorities?

  Possibly. In a rich neighborhood, they would certainly do so.

  But in this neighborhood, he thought not. Poor people in most lands—certainly in Malwa India—knew quite well that the authorities were given to quick solutions to unwelcome problems.

  Found a dead man in your own back yard? Why'd you kill him, you stinking swine? Robbed him, didn't you? You deny it? Ha! We'll beat the truth out of you.

  No, Belisarius thought that by sunrise the Ye-tai's body would have disappeared, along with the Roman uniform. The uniform, cut up, could serve a poor household in any number of ways. The body? Fertilizer for the garden.

  He wished that unknown family a good crop, and went on his way.

  The three cataphracts thundered down the road leading due south from Kausambi. Valentinian was in the lead, followed by Anastasius, with Menander bringing up the rear.

  The young cataphract was more terrified than he'd ever been in his life.

  "Slow down, Valentinian! Damn you—slow down!"

  It was no use. The driving rain hammered his shouts into the mud.

  At least the mud might keep us from breaking our necks, after we spill the horses, thought Menander sourly.

  Valentinian was setting an insane pace. He was driving his horse at a full gallop, down an unknown road, in pitch dark, into a rain coming down so heavily it was impossible even to keep one's eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time.

  Oh, yes—and without stirrups.

  Yet, somehow, they survived. Without spilling the horses or falling off their saddles.

  They were past the guardhouse before they even saw it. By the time they managed to rein in the horses, and turn them around, the Ethiopians were already there.

  "Are you mad?" demanded Garmat.

  Valentinian shrugged. "We were short of time." He pointed with his face toward the guardhouse.

  "Are they taken care of?"

  "Be serious," growled Wahsi. "We got here half an hour ago."

  Eon, Ezana and Kadphises brought up the extra horses.

  "We'd better switch mounts," said Anastasius. "We've pretty well winded these."

  "Winded me, too," grumbled Menander. "Valentinian, you are fucking crazy."

  The veteran's grin was as sharp and narrow as a weasel's. "You survived, didn't you? We're cataphracts, boy. Cavalrymen."

  As the cataphracts switched to new horses, Wahsi stated very forcefully: "We are not cavalrymen. So let us maintain a rational pace."

  "Won't matter," said Kadphises. "We're cutting into the forest a half mile down. We'll have to walk our horses through that trail. If you can call it a trail."

  "You do know where we're going, I hope?" said Valentinian.

  The Kushan's grin was every bit as feral as Valentinian's. "I will not tell you how to ride a horse. Do not tell me how to find a trail."

  He was as good as his word. Five minutes later, the party of eight men and twenty horses turned off the road and entered into the forest. At first, Menander was relieved. As Kadphises had said, it was impossible to move down that trail at any pace faster than a horse could walk.

  Walk, slowly. Menander had thought it was too dark to see, before. Now, he was essentially blind. The thick, overhanging branches, combined with the overcast night sky, turned the forest into a good imitation of a leafy underground mine. Without lanterns.

  The only good thing, as far as he could tell, was that the tree canopy was so dense that it sheltered them—more or less—from the downpour.

  Menander was not worried about falling off his horse. They were moving at the pace of an elderly woman. Nor, after a time, was he concerned that the horse might trip. The trail, though narrow, did not seem to be littered with obstacles.

  He was simply worried that they would get lost. And, in addition, that they were making such poor time that their Malwa pursuers would catch up with them—even with the tremendous head start that Valentinian's insane ride had given them.

  But, when he stated those concerns to the broad back of Anastasius ahead of him, the veteran was unconcerned.

  "First, lad, don't worry about getting lost. The Kushan seems to know his way. Don't ask me how—I can't see a damn thing, either—but he does. And as for the other—be serious. When the Malwa get to the guardhouse and find the dead guards, they'll assume we continued on the road south. They'll never spot this little trail to the side. They'll charge right past it and keep going."

  "We didn't cover our tracks."

  Anastasius laughed scornfully.

  "What tracks?" he demanded. "This downpour—this fucking Noah's flood—will wash away any tracks in less than a minute."

  Menander was still unconvinced, but he fell silent. And then, half an hour later, when they finally emerged from the forest, admitted that his fears had been foolish.

  Admitted, at least, to himself. He said nothing to Anastasius, and ignored with dignity the veteran's dimly-seen smile of vindication.

  Once they emerged from the forest, they found themselves on another dirt road. (Mud road, rather.) They reversed directions completely, now, and headed north. After a mile, perhaps less, the road curved and began heading due west. Menander's fears resurfaced—new ones; he seemed to have a Pandora's box of them that night.

  "Does Kadphises know where the hell we're going?"

  The rain had eased off considerably. Enough that Menander's words carried forward. Kadphises' reply came immediately. The prologue to that reply was quick, curt, and very obscene. Thereafter, relenting, the Kushan deigned to explain.

  "This road does not connect to the other until a small town fifty miles to the south. Nor does it go to Kausambi. It circles two sides of a swamp to our left, and from here will go due west for more than twenty miles. Before then, however, we will have turned south, again, on yet another road. By now, the Malwa will have no idea where we are. And, best of all, this road is not guarded. It is a peasants' road, only, not a merchant's route."

  "Where will we meet Ousanas, and the other Kushans?" asked Eon.

  Kadphises' shrug could barely be seen in the darkness.

  "That is up to them, Prince. Kujulo knows what road we are taking. If he can find your hunter—or your hunter finds him—they will track us down. If your hunter is as good as you claim."

  Eon's only reply was a grunt of satisfaction.

  In t
he event, Ousanas did not have to track them down. Shortly after daybreak, many miles down the new road heading south, they came upon Ousanas. The hunter, along with Kujulo and the three other Kushans, were waiting for them by the side of road. Fast asleep—even reasonably dry, under the semi-shelter of a long-abandoned hut—except for one Kushan standing guard.

  Valentinian was exceedingly disgruntled. Especially after he spotted the basket of food, with very little food left in it.

  "You had time to eat, too?" he demanded crossly, climbing down from his horse.

  Ousanas sat up, stretched his arms, grinned.

  "Great cavalrymen move very slow," he announced. "I be shocked. Shocked. All illusions vanished."

  Kujulo smiled. "You should try traveling with this one. Really, you should. He was already waiting for us when we made our break from the army camp. How the hell he got there so fast from the river, I'll never know. Especially with two baskets of food."