Belisarius I Thunder at Dawn

by David Drake

  There was no time to waste. One of those corbita was within two hundred yards. Common soldiers could shoot arrows also. Not as well as cataphracts, true, but—at close range—good enough. Already, arrows from that approaching corbita were plunging into the sea within yards of their ship.

  He aimed his scorpion. Missed. Fired again. By luck—he had been aiming at the rigging—his shot struck the rail and poured fury across the enemy's deck.

  Valentinian struck another corbita. Then, cursed. His shot had been low. The firebomb had erupted almost at the waterline. The enemy's hull was starting to burn, but very slowly.

  Hurriedly, Valentinian fired again. This time, cursed bitterly. He had missed completely—his shot sailing ten feet over the enemy's deck.

  Meantime, Belisarius set another corbita's rigging aflame. Then, after two misses, set another aflame.

  They were surrounded by enemy ships, now, several of them within bow range. Arrows were pouring down on them like a hail storm. The rowers' shelter sprouted arrows like a porcupine. In his own little cabin at the stern of the ship, the steering officer was crouched low. The thin walls of his shelter had been penetrated by several arrow-heads. But he kept calling out his orders, calmly and loudly.

  Arrows thunked into the walls of the wood-castle. Fortunately, due to the height of the fighting platform, the men on it were sheltered from arrows fired on a flat trajectory from the low-hulled corbita. But some of those arrows, fired by better or simply luckier archers, were coming in on an arched trajectory.

  One of the windlass-crankers suddenly cried out in pain. An arrow had looped over the walls and plunged into his shoulder. He fell—partly from pain, and partly from a desire to find shelter beneath the low wall. His relief immediately stepped forward and began frantically cranking the windlass.

  As he waited—and to give himself something to think about other than oncoming missiles—Belisarius watched Valentinian fire a third firebomb at the same misbegotten corbita.

  Belisarius had never seen Valentinian miss anything, three times in a row. He didn't now, either. The shot was perfect. The firebomb hit the rail right before the mast, spewing death over the deck and destruction into the rigging.

  His loader:

  "Ready!"

  Belisarius turned, aimed—

  Nothing. Empty sea.

  They had sailed right through the enemy fleet.

  A movement in the corner of his eye. He swiveled the scorpion hurriedly, aimed—

  A dromon, scudding across the waves, right toward them. John of Rhodes, standing in the bow, hands on hips, scowling fiercely.

  His first words, in the powerful carrying voice of an experienced naval officer:

  "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

  His next:

  "You could have wrecked my ship!"

  A minute later, after the galley was drawn alongside, the Rhodesman scampered aboard and stalked across the deck. Before he even reached Belisarius, he was gesturing with his hands. Making an odd sort of motion, as if cutting one hand with the other.

  "What were you thinking?" he demanded hotly. "What were you thinking?" In full stump now, back and forth, back and forth: "Imbecile! This is a fucking artillery ship!" One hand sawing across the other: "In the name of God! Even a fucking general should have been able to figure it out! Even a fucking landsman! You stay away from the fucking enemy! You try to bring your artillery to bear without getting close! You—you—"

  Hands sawing, hands sawing.

  Belisarius, smiling crookedly: "Like 'crossing a T,' you mean to say?"

  John's eyes widened. His hands paused in their sawing. Fury faded, replaced by interest.

  "Hey. That's a good way of putting it. I like that. 'Crossing the T.' Got a nice ring to it."

  Another voice. Sulky. Self-satisfied:

  I told you so.

  Belisarius chuckled.

  "I suppose my naval tactics were a bit primitive," he admitted.

  Image:

  A man. Stooped, filthy, clad in rough-cured animal skins. In his hand he clutches an axe. The blade of the weapon is a crudely shaped piece of stone, lashed to the handle with rawhide.

  He is standing on a log, rolling wildly down a river. Hammering fiercely at another man, armed and clad as he is, standing on the same log.

  Stone ax against stone ax.

  Just ahead is a waterfall.

  Chapter 26

  After Belisarius and Valentinian were aboard the dromon, Beli sarius stared up at John of Rhodes standing on the pamphylos' wood-castle.

  "Are you certain, John?" he asked.

  The naval officer nodded his head firmly.

  "Be off, Belisarius!" Then, with a wicked grin:

  "I'll say this much—you may be the craziest ship captain who ever tried to commit suicide, and certainly the most lethal."

  He waved his hand about, encompassing half the Bosporus in that gesture.

  "You destroyed six out of the eight akatoi and another half dozen corbita. And I sank three corbita with the galley. That's well over a third of Aegidius' entire army and three-fourths of his cataphracts. Look at them!"

  Belisarius scanned the Bosporus. Even to his landsman's eye, it was obvious that the enemy fleet was scattering in fear and confusion.

  A sudden thought came to his mind. John voiced it before he could speak.

  "Besides, I think Aegidius is dead. He was probably aboard one of the akatoi, which means that the odds against his survival are three-to-one."

  Belisarius nodded.

  "That has all the signs of a leaderless army, if I'm reading the ship movements correctly."

  John snorted. "They're like so many motherless ducklings paddling every which way." Again, he waved his hand.

  "Be off, Belisarius. You're needed in Constantinople now, not here. The dromon will bear you to shore faster than any of those ships can reach land. I, meanwhile—" He patted the scorpion next to him. The wicked grin returned in full force. "—will continue to put the fear of God in those bastards." With a fierce glower: "From a distance, like an intelligent man."

  Belisarius smiled and turned away. Then, hearing John's next words, smiled broadly. " 'Crossing the T.' I like that!"

  At the general's signal, the war galley's keleustes—the rowing officer; literally, the "orderer"—immediately began calling the time. The galley's oars dipped into the water. Swiftly, the dromon headed to shore.

  For a time, Belisarius watched the enemy ships milling around aimlessly in the Bosporus. The ones nearest to John's artillery vessel, he saw, were already trying to evade the Rhodesman's approach. One of those enemy ships, apparently, had had enough. The corbita was heading directly back to Chalcedon, on the Asian side of the Straits.

  Soon enough, a half-dozen of the corbita were following. Among the remaining ships in the enemy armada, confusion still reigned. A small cluster of the ships—seven in all, led by one of the surviving akatoi—were heading toward Portus Caesarii. Someone among the surviving cataphracts in the Army of Bithynia—Aegidius himself, possibly; more likely, one of his top subordinates—had apparently decided to continue with their treasonous scheme. But, cautiously, they were now planning to land in the more distant harbor.

  A wordless cry of triumph coming from Menander drew his eyes back to the main fleet. One of the corbita in that milling mob of ships, he saw, was burning fiercely. John had struck his first blow.

  The confusion in the main body of the traitor fleet was dispelled. The majority of the remaining ships, within a minute, were fleeing back across the Bosporus. Only four of them—including, unfortunately, the last of the cataphract-bearing akatoi—decided to make for Portus Caesarii.

  Belisarius noticed that Ashot was now standing next to him. Ashot was the Armenian cataphract who led the small party which Antonina had sent to meet him in Egypt. Antonina and Maurice had chosen him for that mission, among other things, because Ashot was one of the few cataphracts among Belisarius' bucellarii who had any ex
perience as a seaman.

  "What do you think?" he asked.

  Ashot immediately understood all the parameters of the question. The Armenian pointed toward the artillery vessel.

  "If I were John, I'd follow the ships retreating back to Chalcedon. Harry them mercilessly. Put them completely out of the action. Leave the ones heading toward Portus Caesarii for Sittas and Hermogenes to deal with. They shouldn't have any trouble."

  For a moment, Ashot gauged the eleven ships now heading for the westernmost harbor on Constantinople's southern shore.

  "Two akatoi," he murmured, "and nine corbita. To be on the safe side, let's call it three hundred cataphracts and three thousand infantry. Against Sittas' five hundred cataphracts and the two thousand infantrymen Hermogenes brought."

  Ashot spat into the sea. "Lambs to the slaughter," he concluded.

  Belisarius smiled at the Armenian's ferocious expression. Then, curious to see Ashot's reaction, he remarked:

  "Heavy odds, against the infantry."

  The Armenian sneered.

  "Are you kidding? Against Hermogenes' infantry?" The cataphract shook his head firmly. "You've been gone for almost a year and a half, general. You haven't seen what Hermogenes has done with his troops. And the ones he brought to Constantinople were his best units. The finest Roman infantry since the days of the Principate. They'll chew their way right through that Bithynian garbage."

  Belisarius nodded. He was not surprised. Still, he was gratified.

  "The enemy'll be disheartened, too," added Ashot. "Confused—half-leaderless, probably—scared shitless."

  Again, he spat into the ocean. "Lambs to the slaughter. Lambs to the slaughter."

  Belisarius saw that John had apparently reached the same conclusion as Ashot. The artillery ship was veering off in pursuit of the corbita retreating to Chalcedon.

  "Will he catch any of them?" he asked.

  "Not a chance," replied the Armenian instantly. "They're sailing almost before the wind, on that heading. The advantage now is with the heavier corbita and their square-rigged sails, especially since the rowers on John's galley are bound to be tired. But once they reach Chalcedon, those ships are trapped. John can stand off in the mouth of the harbor and bombard them with impunity. He'll turn the whole fleet into so much kindling."

  Another spit into the sea. "The Army of Bithynia's out of it, general. Except for the few who are heading for southern Constantinople."

  For a moment, Belisarius examined the cataphract standing next to him. The Armenian was now watching the enemy ships sailing toward Portus Caesarii, oblivious to his general's gaze.

  Abruptly, Belisarius made his decision.

  "In a few months, Ashot, I'll be promoting several of the men to hecatontarch. You're one of them."

  The Armenian's eyes widened. He stared at the general.

  "You've only got one hecatontarch—Maurice. And I don't—" Ashot groped for words. Like all of Belisarius' cataphracts, he had a towering respect for Maurice.

  Belisarius smiled.

  "Oh, Maurice'll be promoted also. A chiliarch he'll be, now."

  Ashot was still wide-eyed. Belisarius shook his head.

  "We're in a new world, Ashot. I never felt I needed more than a few hundred bucellarii, before. But among the many things I learned while I was in India is that the Malwa don't have genuine elite troops. Not ones they can rely on, at least. That's a Roman advantage I intend to maximize."

  He scratched his chin, estimating.

  "Five thousand bucellarii. Seven thousand, if possible. Not at once, of course—I want them to be elite troops, not warm bodies. But that's my goal." His smile grew crooked. "You'll probably wind up a chiliarch yourself, soon enough. I'll need several for all those troops, with Maurice in overall command."

  Ashot, again, groped for words.

  "I don't think—that's a lot of Thracians, general. Five thousand? Seven thousand?" Hesitantly: "And I'm Armenian. I get along well with the Thracians you've got now, that's true. They've known me for a long time. But I don't know that new Thracian boys are going to be all that happy with an Armenian—"

  "If they can't handle it," replied Belisarius harshly, "I'll pitch them out on their ear." His smile returned. "Besides—who said they'd all be Thracians?" He chuckled, seeing Ashot's frown.

  "I don't have time, any longer, for anyone's delicate sensibilities. I want five thousand bucellarii—the best cataphracts anywhere in the world—as fast as I can get them. A big chunk—possibly the majority—will be Thracian. But they'll be lots of Illyrians and as many Isaurians as we can find who are willing to become cataphracts. Isaurians are tough as nails. Beyond that—" He shrugged. "Anyone who can fight well, and can learn to become a cataphract. Greeks, Armenians, Egyptians, barbarians—even Jews. I don't care."

  Ashot had overcome his initial surprise, and was now tugging on his beard thoughtfully. "Expensive, general. Five thousand bucellarii—even if you're not as generous as usual—you're looking at—"

  He broke off, remembering. He had seen the Malwa treasure which Belisarius had brought back from India. True, Belisarius had given three-fourths of that bribe to Shakuntala. But the remainder was still an immense fortune, by any except imperial standards.

  Ashot nodded.

  "Yes, you can afford it. Even with liberal pay and equipment bonus, you've got enough to cover five thousand bucellarii for at least four years. After that—"

  "After that," said Belisarius coldly, "there'll either be plenty of booty or we'll all be dead."

  Ashot nodded. "A new world," he murmured.

  A cry from Anastasius drew their attention.

  "There's Sittas! I can see him!"

  Belisarius and Ashot looked forward. The dromon was just passing through the double breakwaters which marked the entrance to the small Harbor of Hormisdas, the private harbor of Rome's emperors. Behind the harbor rose the hills of Constantinople. The Great Palace, though it was nearby, was hidden behind the slope. But they could see the upper levels of the Hippodrome. And they could hear the roar of the mob gathered within it.

  Belisarius' eyes were drawn lower, to a large figure standing on the nearest wharf.

  Sure enough, Sittas. Standing next to him were Hermogenes and Irene.

  As they drew nearer, Sittas bellowed.

  "What took you so long? Don't you know there's a war to be fought?"

  The boar, in full fury.

  The mob, too, was in full fury. The seats in the Hippodrome were packed with armed men. Blues on one side, of course, Greens on the other. Even during this unusual alliance, the faction leaders were wise enough not to mix their men.

  Balban, watching the scene, was delighted. Narses, standing next to him, was not.

  "Almost forty thousand of them!" exclaimed the Malwa spymaster. "I'd been hoping for thirty, at the most."

  Narses almost spoke the words: "I'd been dreading more than twenty thousand." But he restrained himself. There was no point, now, in getting into another futile argument.

  Called upon to settle some petty dispute between the factions, Balban left. Narses and Ajatasutra remained, standing in the fortified loge on the southeast side of the Hippodrome which was called the kathisma.

  The emperor's loge, that was. Reserved for his use alone. By seizing it, the conspirators had announced their full intentions for all the world to see.

  Narses glanced over his shoulder. At the rear of the loge was a barred door. That door was the only entrance to the kathisma, other than the open wall at the front. Behind it was a covered passage which connected the emperor's box in the Hippodrome to the Great Palace.

  The door was barred on both sides, now. On his side, Narses saw eight Malwa kshatriya standing guard. On the other side, he knew, would be an even greater number of the Emperor's personal bodyguard, the excubitores, anxiously fingering their weapons.

  The passage from the Hippodrome to the Great Palace was now the frontier between Justinian and those who sought his overthrow
.

  Narses looked away. That frontier would fall too, and soon. Brought down by further treachery.

  Ajatasutra's low voice penetrated his musings.

  "You do not seem to share Balban's enthusiasm for our massive army."

  Narses sneered. "Let me explain to you the reality of the Hippodrome factions, Ajatasutra. Both the Greens and the Blues have about five thousand men who can be considered real street fighters. Charioteers and their entourage. Gamblers and their enforcers. That sort. Serious thugs."