Fortune's stroke

Chapter 36

Charax

Autumn, 532 A.D.

"I don't understand what that monster is doing," snarled Coutzes. He ducked below the broken wall as another volley of arrows came sailing from the Malwa troops dug into a shattered row of buildings across the street. The arrows clattered harmlessly into another room of what had once been an artisan's shop. A leather worker, judging by the few tools and scraps of raw material which were still lying about.

Belisarius, his back comfortably propped against the same wall, raised a questioning eyebrow.

Coutzes jabbed his finger at the wall, pointing to the unseen enemy beyond. "What's the point of this, General? That thing is just throwing soldiers away. You watch. They'll fire one or two more volleys of arrows-none of which'll hit anything, except by blind luck-lob some grenades, and then charge across the street. We'll butcher 'em, they'll withdraw, and then they'll do it again. By the time we finally have to retreat to the next row, they'll be moving forward across hundreds of bodies as well as rubble."

The Thracian officer rubbed his face, smearing sweat and grime. "It's been like this for two weeks now. Our own casualties haven't really been that heavy. At this rate, it'll take them another month-at least! — to fight their way to the docks. And they'll have lost half their army-at least! — in the doing."

The scowl was back in full force. "I've heard of crude tactics, but this-?" For a moment, his youthful face was simply aggrieved. "I thought that thing was supposed to be superintelligent."

Belisarius smiled. The smile was crooked, but there was more of contempt in it than irony. "Link is superintelligent, Coutzes. But intelligence is always guided by the soul. Which Link has, whether it realizes it or not. Or, at least, it is the faithful servant of the new gods, and their souls."

Belisarius craned his head, staring up at the broken stones above him. "Those-" He blew out a sharp breath, like a dry spit. "Those divine pigs don't view people as human. Their soldiers are just tools. So many paving blocks on the road to human perfection. They look on a human life the same way you or I look on a blade. File the worn metal away, in order to get a sharp edge. And if the scrapings shriek with pain, who cares?"

Again, he blew out a breath; and, again, it was a spit. "As for the tactics, they make perfect sense-if you look at it Link's way. The truth is, the Malwa have already lost this army, and Link knows it. The monster knows we must have already destroyed all the supplies in Charax-or have them ready for destruction, at least."

"Which we have!" barked Coutzes.

Belisarius nodded. "So why bother with clever tactics? And they can't use the Ye-tai they have left as spearhead troops. Not any longer. After the casualties they've taken, they need those Ye-tai to maintain control of the regulars. If those poor bastards hadn't already been so beaten down-" Belisarius shook his head. "Most armies, by now, after what they've suffered, would have already mutinied."

He rubbed his hand against the rough wall behind his back. The gesture was accompanied by another shake of the head, as if Belisarius was contemplating the absurdity of trying to wear down stone with flesh.

"The truth is, Coutzes," he said softly, "what you're seeing is kind of a compliment. If I were an egotistical man, I'd be preening like a rooster."

Coutzes frowned. Belisarius' smile grew very crooked. "The one thing Link is bound and determined to do-the one thing it wants to salvage out of this catastrophe-is to obliterate me. Me, and the whole damned army that's caused Malwa more grief than all their other opponents put together."

Coutzes grinned from ear to ear. "You really think we've become that much of a pain in the ass to it?"

Belisarius snorted. "Pain in the ass? It'd be better to say-pain in the belly." He gave the young officer squatting next to him a look which was both serious and solemn. "Know this, Coutzes. Whether we survive or not, we have already gutted Malwa. Whatever happens, the invasion of Persia is over. Finished. Malwa can no longer even hope to launch another war of conquest. Not for years, at least. Link will try to salvage what it can of this army-which won't be much. But after the Nehar Malka, and Charax-"

He groped for an illustration. Aide provided it.

In not much more than a year, Belisarius, you have given the Malwa their own Stalingrad and Kursk. Link can only do, now, what Hitler did. Try to hold what it can, and retreat as little as possible. But it is the defender, from this day forward, not the aggressor.

Belisarius nodded. He did not attempt to provide his young subordinate with all the history which went behind Aide's statement, but he gave him the gist.

"Coutzes, there will be another great war against evil, in the future-or would have been, at least. Aide just reminded me of it."

He had Coutzes' undivided attention, now. The young Thracian knew of Aide. He had seen him. But, like all of Belisarius' officers, he thought of the crystal being as simply the Talisman of God. A pronouncement from Aide, so far as Coutzes was concerned, was as close to divine infallibility as any man would ever encounter.

Belisarius smiled, seeing that look of awe.

What are you grinning about? demanded Aide. The facets flashed. For an instant, Belisarius had an image of a crystalline rooster, prancing about with unrestrained self-glory. I think "divine infallibility" fits me to perfection. Why don't you understand that obvious truth?

Again, the facets flashed. Belisarius choked down a laugh. The crystalline rooster, for just a split second, had been staring at him with beady, accusing eyes. A barnyard fowl, demanding its just due. A combed and feathered deity, much aggrieved by agnostic insolence.

Belisarius waved his hand, as much to still Aide's humor as to illustrate his next words. "There came a time in that war, Coutzes, when the armies of wickedness were broken. Broken, not destroyed. But from that time forward, they could only retreat. They could only hold what they had, in the hopes that someday, in the future, they might be able to start their war of conquest anew."

Belisarius snarled, now. "Those foul beasts-they were called Nazis-were never given that chance. Their enemies, after breaking them, pressed on to their destruction." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the inhuman monster lurking somewhere behind the wall. "Link knows that history as well as I do. And the thing, whatever else, is bound and determined to see that neither I-nor any of the soldiers of this magnificent army-are alive to participate in any future wars. Or else, it knows full well-"

He rolled his eyes, following the thumb. His next words were whispered. A promise, hissed: "I will be alive, monster. And I will give you Operation Bagration, and the destruction of Army Group Centre. And I will give you Sicily and D-Day, and the Falaise Pocket-except this time, beast, the pocket will be closed in time."

He turned his eyes back to Coutzes. Fury faded, replaced by wry humor. "As I said, this frenzied assault is quite a compliment. Feeds my pride no end, it does. Just think, Coutzes. Great gods of the future, convinced of their own perfection, have set themselves the single task of killing one pitiful, primitive, imperfect, preposterous, ridiculous, pathetic Thracian goddam fucking son-of-a-bitch."

Coutzes laughed. "Can't say I blame them!"

Another volley of arrows sailed overhead. Behind them came a volley of words-the sounds of Ye-tai bellowing commands. Coutzes popped his head over the wall. When he brought it down, he was frowning.

"I think-" He transferred the frown to Belisarius. "I want you out of here, General. They'll be starting the next assault any minute. A stray grenade-" He shook his head.

Belisarius did not argue the matter. He rose to a half-crouch and scuttled out of the room. In the roofless chamber beyond, Anastasius was waiting, along with the other cataphracts who were now serving as his additional bodyguards. Maurice had replaced Valentinian with two of them, after Valentinian's capture. The cataphracts chosen had not taken offense at that relative estimation of their merits compared to Valentinian's. They had been rather pleased, actually, at the compliment. They had expected Maurice to choose twice that number.

Anastasius snorted, seeing the general scurry into the room. But he refrained from any further expression of displeasure.

Belisarius smiled. "It's important for a commanding officer to be seen on the front lines, Anastasius. You know that."

As the small body of Romans hurried out of the shattered ruins of an artisan's former workshop, heading south toward relative safety, Anastasius snorted again. But, again, he refrained from further comment. He had been through this dance with Belisarius so many times that he had long since given up hope of teaching new steps to his general.

One of the other cataphracts, new to the job, was not so philosophical. "For Christ's sake, Isaac," he whispered to his companion, "the general could lounge on the docks, for all the army cares. Be happier if he did, in fact."

Isaac shrugged. "Yeah, Priscus, that's what I think too. But maybe that's why he's Rome's best general-best ever, you ask me-and we're spear-chuckers."

Priscus' response, whatever it might have been, was buried beneath the sounds of grenades exploding a few dozen yards behind them. The Malwa were beginning a new assault. Seconds later, the shouts of charging men were blended with musket fire and more grenade explosions. And then, within half a minute, came the first sounds of steel meeting steel.

The cataphracts did not look back. Not once, in all the time it took them, guarding Belisarius, to clamber through the rubbled streets and shattered buildings which were all that days of Roman demolition and Malwa shelling had left of Charax's center district. Not until they finally reached the relatively undamaged harbor which made up the city's southern area did the cataphracts turn and look back to the north.

"Besides," said Isaac, renewing their conversation, "what are you complaining about, anyway?" He thrust his beard northward. "Would you rather be back there again? Fighting street to street?"

Priscus grimaced. Like Isaac, he had become Belisarius' bodyguard only a few days before. The initial pair of bodyguards whom Maurice had selected to replace Valentinian had been replaced themselves, after the siege of Charax began. Maurice, determined to keep Belisarius alive, had made his final selection based on the most cold-blooded reasoning possible. Whichever soldiers among the bucellarii could demonstrate, in days of savage battle in the streets of Charax, that they were the most murderous, got the job.

Isaac and Priscus had been at the top of the list. They had earned that position in one of the most brutal tests ever devised by the human race. Neither of them had heard of Stalingrad, nor would they ever. But either of them, planted amongst the veterans of Chuikov's 62^nd Army, would have felt quite at home. Language barriers be damned.

"Good point," muttered Priscus. He turned, along with Isaac, and plodded after Belisarius. The general was heading toward the heavy-walled warehouse where the Roman army had set up its headquarters. Priscus eyed the figure of his tall general, stooping into a small door. "At least he's got the good sense to leave before the blades get wet."

"So far," grunted Isaac. He tugged at one of the straps holding up his heavy cataphract gear. "Damn, I'm sick of walking around in this armor."

The cataphracts plodded on a few more steps. As they came to the door, Isaac repeated: "So far. But don't get your hopes up. Two weeks from now, three at the outside, the Malwa will have reached the harbor. You know what'll happen, when that day comes."

Priscus scowled. "Sallies, lance charges, the whole bit-with the general right in the middle of it. We'll wish Valentinian were here, then."

On that gloomy note, the two cataphracts stooped and forced their armored way through a door designed for midgets. The door led into what seemed to be a six-foot-long tunnel in the massive wall of the warehouse. The effort of that passage left them practically snarling.

Five minutes later, they were smiling like cherubs.