Belisarius - Destiny's Shield Part 22

"Glad I'm not a general," muttered Cyril. "I'd die from headache."

Agathius tugged at his beard. "If I understand correctly, general, you're planning to wreck the Malwa by isolating their best troops while we concentrate on chewing the rest of them to pieces."

Belisarius nodded. Agathius' beard-tugging grew intense.

"What's to stop the Kushans from sallying themselves? Coming to the aid of-"

Bouzes grinned. "Of what? The same stupid f.u.c.king Malwa jacka.s.ses who got them treed in the first place?"

Belisarius shook his head. "They won't, Agathius. The Malwa don't trust the Kushans for the good and simple reason that they can't. The Kushans will fight, in a battle. But they've got no love for their overlords. When the hammer falls, the Kushans will look out for themselves."

He turned to Bouzes. "After the initial sally-after we break them-move your Syrian troops to cover the Kushans. The infantry can't play any useful role, anyway, in a pursuit. But don't attack the Kushans-be a bloodbath if you do-just hold them there."

He grinned himself, now.

"Until tomorrow morning."

"We'll finish the Kushans then?" asked Coutzes.

Belisarius' grin faded to a crooked smile. He made a little fluttering motion with his hands.

"We'll see," he said. "Maybe. Maybe not. They're tough, Kushans. But I saw a girl work wonders with them, once, using the right words."

Half an hour later, the attack began. With a rocket barrage, as Belisarius had predicted.

As he watched the rockets soaring all over the sky, exploding haphazardly and landing hither and yon, Belisarius realized that the Malwa were actually doing him a large favor. Although his troops had always maintained a soldierly sangfroid on the subject, he knew that they had been quite apprehensive about the enemy's mysterious gunpowder weapons. Except for Valentinian and Anastasius, who had accompanied him to India, none of Belisarius' men had any real experience with gunpowder weapons. True, most of the soldiers had seen grenades used-some of them had even practiced with the devices. But even his katyusha rocket-men had never seen gunpowder weapons used in the fury and chaos of an actual battle.

Now, the men were getting their first taste of Malwa gunpowder weapons. And the main result, after the first five minutes of that barrage, was- "They'd do better to use scorpions and onagers," commented a Syrian infantryman, crouched behind a plaque-strengthened window not far from the general.

A Greek cataphract pressed against a nearby wall barked a laugh. "They'd do better to build an a.s.sault tower and p.i.s.s on us," he sneered.

The Syrian watched a skittering rocket sail overhead and burst in midair. The man, Belisarius noted, did not even flinch. In the first moments of the barrage, the Roman soldiers had been shaken by the sound and fury which the rockets produced. But now, with experience, they were taking the matter in stride.

The same Syrian, catching a glimpse of Belisarius, c.o.c.ked his head and asked: "What's the point of this, sir, if you don't mind my asking?" The infantryman made a little gesture toward the window. "I don't think more than a dozen of these things have exploded anywhere in the compound. And only a few of them's done any real damage-the ones that blew up over the gardens."

"Don't get too overconfident, men," said Belisarius. He spoke loudly, knowing that all the soldiers crammed into the large room were listening.

"In the proper circ.u.mstances, these rockets can be effective. But you're right, in this situation they'd do a lot better to use old-style catapults. Rockets are an area-effect weapon-especially their rockets, which aren't anywhere near as accurate as ours."

He paused, allowing the happy thought of Roman rockets to boost morale, before continuing: "They're almost useless used against a protected fixed position like this one. The reason the Malwa are using them"-he grinned-"is because the arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are so sure of themselves that they didn't bother to bring any catapults. Like we did."

The general's grin was answered by a little cheer. When the cheer died down, the Syrian who had spoken up earlier asked another question.

"How would they be doing if they had those siege guns you've talked about?"

Belisarius grimaced. It was more of a whimsical expression than a rueful one, however.

"If they'd had siege guns, I never would have forted us up here in the first place." He waved his hand, casually. "Big siege guns would flatten a place like this inside of five minutes. In ten minutes, there'd be nothing but rubble."

Carefully-gauging-he watched the cheer fade from his soldiers' faces. Then, just before solemnity turned grim, he boomed: "On the other hand, siege guns are so big and awkward that they're sitting ducks on a battleground."

Again, he waved his hand. The gesture, this time, was not casual in the least. It was the motion of a master craftsman, demonstrating an aspect of his skill.

"If they'd brought siege guns, we'd have ripped them with open-field maneuvers."

The grin returned.

"Either way, either way-it doesn't matter, men. We'll thrash the Malwa anyway it takes!"

Outside, two rockets burst in unison. But the sound, loud as it was, completely failed to drown the cheers which erupted through the crowded room.

Belisarius! Belisarius!

One soldier only, in that festive outburst, did not partic.i.p.ate in the acclaim-the same Syrian, still crouched by the window, still watching everything outside with a keen and vigilant gaze.

"I think that's it, general," he remarked. "I'm pretty sure they're getting ready to charge."

Belisarius moved to the window, and crouched down next to the soldier. He drew out his telescope and peered through it. For a few seconds, no longer.

"You're right," he announced. The general leaned over and placed a hand on the Syrian's shoulder.

"What's your name?" he asked softly.

The man looked a bit startled. "Felix, sir. Felix Chalcenterus."

Belisarius nodded, rose, and strode out of the room. In the hallway beyond, he turned right and headed toward the villa's central gardens. The Greek cataphracts ma.s.sed in the hallway squeezed to the sides, allowing him a narrow pa.s.sageway through which to move. A very narrow pa.s.sageway-crooked, cramped, and lined with scale armor.

By the time he emerged into the gardens-a bit the way a seed bursts out of a crushed grape-he felt like he had been through a grape-press himself. For all its imperial size, the villa was far too small a structure to hold thousands of troops packed within its walls. Still, Belisarius had insisted on crowding as many men as possible into the buildings. The villa was not a fortress. But its solidly-built walls and roofs provided far more protection from rockets and arrows than the leather screens and canopies which provided the only missile shelter for the troops resting in the villa's open grounds.

When he finally emerged into the central gardens, he saw that even here the casualties from the barrage had been very light. This, despite the fact that the area was packed as tightly as the buildings were.

The horticultural splendor which had once reigned here was nothing but a memory, now. Every plant and shrub had been obliterated by the heavily-armored men who were jammed into every nook and cranny of the gardens. But few of those men seemed the slightest bit injured.

Belisarius was relieved, even though he was not surprised. Belisarius had been almost certain that the rockets' trajectories would be too flat to plunge into the gardens.

Obviously, his estimate had been correct. What few injuries had occured had resulted from the handful of rockets which, by bad luck, had exploded directly overhead. And even those had done little damage, due to the leather shrapnel screens stretched across much of the garden areas.

Again, Belisarius forced his way forward. Once he was through the gardens, he plunged into the jam-packed hallways of the buildings on the opposite side. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. By the time he finally staggered into the open grounds in the rear of the villa, he felt almost as if he had been through another lance charge.

The expedition had taken much longer than he had expected. No sooner did he emerge into the open than he heard a cacophony of distant shouting behind him. Malwa battle cries. The enemy had launched their ground a.s.sault.

Belisarius did not even think of turning back. The thought of undergoing that gauntlet again almost made him shudder. There would be no point, anyway. Bouzes was in command of the three thousand infantrymen manning the villa, with five hundred Constantinople cataphracts to back him up. Belisarius was quite confident of their ability to fight off the first attack.

Coutzes and Agathius, seeing the general emerge, hurried to meet him. Their own pace was not quick. The area to the rear of the villa held the rest of the Greek cataphracts and the Syrian cavalry-over four thousand men, along with their horses. But the population density was not as extreme as it had been in the villa itself. The imperial compound's wall-enclosed western grounds were many acres in extent. Open areas, for the most part, interspersed with bridle paths, hedges, patios and scattered trees.

Within a few seconds, Belisarius was consulting with his cavalry commanders. All three of them spoke loudly, due to the rapidly escalating noise coming from the other side of the villa. Malwa and Roman battle cries were mingled with the sound of grenade explosions.

Belisarius' first words were, "How many casualties?"

"They'd have done better to use catapults," snorted Agathius. He looked at Coutzes. "What would you say? Twenty, maybe-overall?"

Coutzes shrugged. "If that many. Only three fatal-ities, that I know of."

"What about the horses?" asked the general.

Agathius rocked his head back and forth. "They're a little skittish, general. But we were able to keep them pretty much under control. Don't think we lost more than a dozen. Most of those'll be back, in a few hours, except a couple who broke their fool necks jumping the rear wall."

Coutzes laughed. "I don't think Abbu's precious horse will be coming back! I swear, general, the f.u.c.king thing almost jumped over the trees as well as the wall!"

Agathius grinned. Belisarius' eyes widened.

"Abbu's-you mean that gelding he dotes on?"

" 'Dotes on'?" demanded Coutzes. "That gelding's the apple of the old brigand's eye! He practically sleeps with the d.a.m.n beast."

"Not any more," chuckled Agathius. "He's fit to be tied, he is. Last I saw he was standing on the wall shooting arrows at the creature. Didn't come close, of course-the gelding was already halfway to Antioch."

Belisarius shook his head. He was smiling, but the smile was overlaid with concern. "Did he manage-"

Coutzes cut him off.

"Don't worry, general. Abbu sent the Arab couriers off as soon as we gave him the word. Half an hour ago, at least. Maurice'll have plenty of warning that the plans have changed."

Belisarius' smile grew very crooked. "I'm glad I won't be there to hear him, cursing me for a fussbudget." He did a fair imitation of Maurice's rasping voice: "What am I? A babe in swaddling clothes-a toddler-has to be told to pay attention because plans are changing? Of course the plan's changing! Aren't I the one who taught that-that-that general-that plans always change when the enemy arrives?"

Coutzes grinned. Agathius' expression was serious.

"You think he'll be ready, then?" he asked. "I'll admit, I'm a bit worried about it. They weren't expecting to be called on this soon."

Belisarius clapped a hand on Agathius' heavy shoulder.

"Don't," he said softly. "If there's one thing in this world you can be sure of, it's that Maurice won't ever be caught napping in a battle. The only reason I sent the couriers was to make sure he'd move out the second we fired the signal rockets, instead of fifteen seconds later."

He turned to Coutzes. "Speaking of which . . ."

Coutzes pointed to a small copse of trees fifty yards distant.

"In there, general. Aimed and ready to fire as soon as you give the word. One red; followed by a green. And we've got three back-up rockets of each color in case one of them misfires."

Belisarius nodded. He turned his head back toward the villa, listening to the sound of the battle. Even buffered by the villa, the noise was intense. Intense, and growing more so by the second. The grenade explosions were almost continuous, now.

The general and his two officers listened for perhaps a minute, without speaking. Then Coutzes stated, very firmly, "Not a chance."

Agathius immediately nodded. So did Belisarius. All three men had reached the same a.s.sessment, just from the sound of the battle. For all the evident fury with which the Malwa were pressing the attack, their efforts would be futile. There had been not a trace of the unmistakable sounds of defenders losing heart. Not one cry of despair, not one desperate shriek-only a steady roar of Roman battle cries and shouts of confident triumph.

The a.s.sault would break, recoil; the Malwa stagger away, trailing small rivers of blood.

Belisarius turned away from the villa and quickly scanned the area.

"You're ready." It was a statement, not a question. Agathius and Bouzes didn't even bother to speak their affirmation.

The general sighed.

"Nothing for it, then." He looked back at the villa, wincing.

"Back into the vise, for me." He began walking toward the buildings, saying, over his shoulder: "I'll have the message relayed. Watch for it. Fire off the rockets at once."

To his relief, the crowd had thinned out a bit-in the rear buildings, at least. All of the soldiers who could had forced themselves into the buildings directly facing the Malwa, fired with determination to help beat off the attack. It only took Belisarius a couple of minutes to thread his way back to the central gardens.

There, however, he was stopped cold. Cursed himself for a fool.

He had forgotten that he had given orders, the day before, to use the gardens as a field hospital. The grounds were completely impa.s.sable, now. The casualties were not particularly severe, given the situation. But wounded men, along with their attendants, take up more s.p.a.ce than men standing.

As he scrutinized the scene, a part of Belisarius was grimly pleased with what he saw. Outside of the terrible losses suffered by a routed army being pursued, there was no kind of battle which produced casualties as quickly as a close a.s.sault on fieldworks. Most of those casualties, of course, would be inflicted on the attackers. But the defenders would take their share also.

Yet, what he now saw in the gardens were light casualties, given the circ.u.mstances. And-even better-a much higher proportion of men wounded rather than killed, compared to the usual.

The screens worked, by G.o.d!

He had thought they would. Malwa grenades, like Roman ones, were ignited by hand-lit fuses. It was almost inevitable that the man lighting that fuse would cut it a bit too long, from fear of having the bomb blow up in his hand. The Malwa would have concentrated their grenades on the many doors and portals which lined the villa's walls and buildings. With the screens in place-put up almost instantly, without warning-the Malwa grenades would have bounced off and exploded too far away to do any concussive damage. True, shrapnel would pierce the leather-would eventually shred the screens entirely. But the screens had served to blunt the fury of the first a.s.sault, and almost all the Roman casualties had been the relatively minor wounds caused by leather-deflected shrapnel.

Pleased as he was, however, Belisarius did not spend much time examining the scene. He was too preoccupied with the unexpected problem of getting himself to a position where he could a.s.sess the next Malwa attack-the attack he was certain would be spearheaded by the Kushans. Timing would be all important, then, and he could not possibly order Maurice's attack when he had no idea what was happening.

For a moment, he considered working his way to the front by circ.u.mnavigating the interconnected buildings which made up the compound. But he dismissed the idea almost immediately. Every one of those buildings would be so jampacked with soldiers as to make forward progress all but impossible.

He had just about come to the grotesque but inescapable conclusion that he was going to have to make his way through the gardens by walking on the bodies of wounded men, when he heard his name called.

"General Belisarius! General Belisarius! Over here!"

He looked across the gardens. Standing in a doorway on the opposite side was the same infantryman he had spoken with earlier. Felix-Felix Chalcenterus.

"You won't be able to get across, sir!" shouted the Syrian soldier. "The chiliarch sent me back here to watch for you! Wait a minute! Just a minute!"

The man disappeared. He returned about a minute later, preceded by Bouzes. As soon as he stepped into the doorway, Bouzes cupped his hands around his mouth, forming an impromptu megaphone, and hollered: "Let's set up a relay! With your permission, sir!"

Belisarius thought the problem over. For a second or two, no more. He nodded, and waved his hand. Then, copying Bouzes' handcupping, shouted back: "Good idea! Leave Felix in the door! If the Kushans lead the next charge, let me know!" He paused, taking a deep breath, before continuing: "If they do-tell me the moment they start their charge!"

Bouzes waved back, acknowledging. The chiliarch spoke a few words to Felix and disappeared. The Syrian soldier remained in the doorway. His stance was erect and alert. Even from the distance, Belisarius could see the stern expression on the man's face. A young face, it was-almost a boy's face. But it was also the face of a man determined to do his duty, come what may.

Belisarius smiled. "You're in for a promotion, lad," he whispered. "As soon as the battle's over, I think."

The general now concentrated on listening. The sounds of battle had died away, in the last few minutes. Clearly enough, the Malwa had been beaten back and were regrouping.

He decided he had enough time to make his own preparations.