The tide of victory

Chapter 30

Trying not to wince, Belisarius studied the young-the very young-officer standing in front of him. As always, Calopodius' smooth face showed no expression at all. Although Belisarius thought-perhaps-to detect a slight trace of humor lurking somewhere in the back of his eyes.

I hope so, he thought, rather grimly. He'll need a sense of humor for this assignment.

Aide tried to reassure him. It worked for Magruder on the peninsula.

Belisarius managed his own version of a mental snort. Magruder was facing McClellan, Aide. McClellan! You think that vaudeville trickery would have worked against Grant or Sherman? Or Sheridan?

He swiveled his head, looking through the open flap of his command tent toward the Malwa across the river. He couldn't see much in the way of detail, of course. Between the width of the Indus and the inevitable confusion of a large army erecting fieldworks, it was impossible to gauge the precise size and positions of the Malwa forces besieging Sukkur.

But Belisarius wasn't trying to assess the physical characteristics of his enemy. He was trying, as best he could, to gauge the mentality of the unknown Malwa officer or officers who commanded that great force of men. And, so far at least, was not finding any comfort in the doing.

True, the enemy commander-whoever he was-seemed to be somewhat sluggish and clumsy in the way he handled his troops. Although, as Belisarius well knew, handling large forces in siege warfare was a sluggish and clumsy task by its very nature. "Swift and supple maneuvers" and "trench warfare" fit together about as well as an elephant fits into a small boat.

But the enemy commander didn't have to be particularly talented to make Belisarius' scheme come apart at the seams. He simply had to be. determined, stubborn, and willing to wrack up a butcher's bill. If anything, in fact, lack of imagination would work in his favor. If McClellan hadn't been such an intelligent man, he wouldn't have been spooked by shadows and mirages.

It's not the same thing, said Aide, still trying to reassure. If Magruder hadn't kept McClellan pinned in the peninsula with his theatrics, Richmond might have fallen. The worst that happens if Calopodius can't manage the same-

For a moment, the crystal's faceted mind shivered, as if Aide were trying to find a term suitably majestic. Or, at least, not outright. But he failed.

All right, I admit it's a stunt. But if it doesn't work, all that happens is that Calopodius and his men retreat to the south. There's no disaster involved, since you're not depending on him to protect your supply lines.

Another pause, like a shivering kaleidoscope, as Aide tried to find another circumlocution. Belisarius almost laughed.

Because I won't have any supply lines, he finished. Because I'm going to be trying a stunt of my own. Marching through two hundred miles of enemy territory, living off the land as I go.

Aide seemed determined to reassure, no matter what. It worked for-

I know it worked for Grant in the Vicksburg campaign, interrupted Belisarius, a bit impatiently. I should, after all, since this whole campaign of mine is patterned after that one-except that I propose to take Atlanta in the bargain. Well. Chattanooga, at least.

This time he did laugh aloud, albeit softly. Even Grant and Sherman would have called me a lunatic. Even Sheridan!

Apparently realizing the futility of reassurance, Aide got into the mood of the moment. Brightly, cheerily: Custer would have approved.

Belisarius' soft laugh threatened to turn into a guffaw, but he managed to suppress it. The face of young Calopodius was now definitely showing an expression. A quizzical one, in the main, leavened by-

I'd better explain, lest he conclude his commander has lost his mind.

Quickly, pushing his doubts and fears aside, Belisarius sketched for Calopodius the basic outlines of his plan-and the role assigned for the young Greek nobleman. Before he was halfway into it, as Belisarius had hoped-and feared-Calopodius' eyes were alight with enthusiasm and eagerness.

"It'll work, General!" exclaimed the lad, almost before Belisarius completed his last sentence. "Except-"

Calopodius hesitated, obviously a bit abashed at the thought of contradicting his august commander. But the hesitation-as Belisarius had hoped, and feared-didn't last for more than a second.

Almost pulling Belisarius by the arm, Calopodius led the way out of the tent onto the sandy soil beyond. There, still as eager and enthusiastic as ever, he began pointing out his proposed positions and elaborating on his subterfuges.

"— so that's how I'd do it," he concluded. "With logs disguised to look like cannons, and the few you're leaving me to give some teeth to the illusion, I can make this island look like a real bastion. That'll put us right in the face of the Malwa, intimidate the bastards. They'll never imagine we'd do it unless we had big forces in reserve at Rohri. And I'll keep the walking wounded on the mainland marching around to seem like a host."

Belisarius sighed inwardly. Smart lad. Exactly how I'd do it.

He directed his thoughts toward Aide: Which is what I was really worried about. If Calopodius loses the gamble, it won't be a disaster for me. True enough. But he and well over a thousand men will be doomed. No way they could retreat off this island in the middle of the Indus if the Malwa launch a major assault on them, and press it home.

Aide said nothing. Belisarius scowled. It's a damned "forlorn hope," is what it is. Something of which I do not generally approve.

Seeing his commander's scowl, and misinterpreting it, Calopodius began expanding on his proposal. And if his tone was somewhat apologetic, the words themselves were full of confidence.

Belisarius let him finish without interruption. Partly to gauge Calopodius' tactical acumen-which was surprisingly good for such a young officer, especially a noble cataphract asked to fight defensively, on foot-but mostly to allow his own nerves to settle. Throughout his career, Belisarius had tried to avoid inflicting heavy casualties on his own troops. But, there were times.

And this was one of them. "Forlorn hope" or not, if Calopodius could succeed in this tactical military gamble, the odds in favor of Belisarius' own great gamble would be much improved.

Belisarius scanned the island, following the eager finger of Calopodius as the teenage officer pointed out his proposed field emplacements. As he did so, Belisarius continued his own ruminations on the larger strategy of which this was a part.

In order for his campaign to break out of the Sind to work, Belisarius needed to effectively disappear from his enemy's sight. For at least two weeks, more likely three, as he took his army away from the Indus-and thus out of sight of the Malwa troops who would be marching and sailing down the river to reinforce the siege of Sukkur. He would lure them into a trap at Sukkur, while he marched around them to lock the door shut in their rear.

Belisarius would take his main army directly east and then, skirting the edges of the Cholistan desert, sweep to the northeast. He would be marching parallel to the Indus, but keeping a distance of some thirty miles between his forces and the river. Enough, with a screen of Arab scouts, to keep his movements mysterious to the Malwa.

Even if Abbu's men encountered some Malwa detachments, the enemy would most likely assume they were simply a scouting or foraging party. Never imagining that, behind the screen of light cavalry, a powerful striking force of Roman heavy cavalry and artillery was approaching the Chenab fork-two hundred miles away from the pitched siege warfare raging around Sukkur.

The plan relied on its own boldness to succeed. That-and the willingness of Calopodius and fewer than two thousand cataphracts left behind to die, if necessary, on a island across from the huge Malwa army besieging Sukkur. Again, the very boldness of the gambit was the only thing that gave it a chance to succeed. Belisarius estimated-and Calopodius obviously agreed-that the Malwa commander would assume that the forces on the island were simply a detachment of Belisarius' main force. Which, he would assume-insanity to think otherwise! — were still positioned in Rohri.

Positioned, refitted-and ready to take advantage of a failed Malwa assault on the outlying detachment on the island to push across the Indus and link up with the Persians forted up in Sukkur and Ashot's Roman forces south of the city.

Aide chimed in, back to his mode of reassurance: By now, after Anatha and the Dam and Charax, the Malwa will be terrified of another "Belisarius trap." Their commander at Sukkur will stare at that island and wonder. And wonder. What trap lies hidden there? He will study that island, and conclude that Calopodius is simply bait. And-wise man! — he will conclude that bait is best left unswallowed.

Belisarius nodded, responding simultaneously to Aide and the young and eager officer standing in front of him.

"It'll work," he said firmly, his tone exuding a confidence he did not really possess. But.

Belisarius had made up his mind, now. As much as anything, because listening to Calopodius' enthusiastic words had convinced him of the key thing. If this scheme had any chance of success, it would be because of the boldness and courage of the officer who led it. And while some part of Belisarius' soul was dark and grim-almost bitter-at the thought of asking a seventeen-year-old boy to stand and die, the cold-blooded general's mind knew the truth. For some odd reason buried deep within the human spirit, such "boys," throughout history, had proven their willingness to do so.

Time and time again they had, in places beyond counting. It was a characteristic which recognized neither border, breed, nor birth. Such "boys" had done so in the Warsaw Ghetto, and at Isandhlwana, and in the sunken road at Shiloh. As if, on the threshold of manhood, they felt compelled to prove themselves worthy of a status that no one, really, had ever challenged-except themselves, in the shadowy and fearful crevices of their own souls.

He sighed. So be it. I was once seventeen years old myself. Coldly, his eyes moved over the landscape of the island, remembering. And would have-eagerly-done the same.

There remained, only, to sharpen the sacrificial blade. Belisarius steeled himself, and spoke.

"Remember, Calopodius. Bleed them. If they come, spill their guts before you die." His tone was as hard as the words. "I'm hoping they don't, of course. I'm hoping the fake guns and the constant movement of a few troops will convince the Malwa my main force is still here. The few guns and troops I'm leaving you will be enough to repel any probes. And once Menander gets here with the Justinian, any Malwa attack across the river will get savaged. But-"

"If they come across in force before Menander gets here, they'll mangle us," concluded Calopodius. "But it won't be all that easy for them, if we stand our ground. Don't forget that we captured or destroyed most of their river boats in the Battle of the Crossing. So they can't just swamp me with a single mass attack. They'll have to work at it."

He shrugged. "It's a war, General. And you can't live forever, anyway. But if they come, I'll bleed them. Me and the Constantinople cataphracts you're leaving behind." His young voice rang with conviction. "We maybe can't break them-not a large enough assault-but we will gore them badly. Badly enough to give you that extra few days you need. That much I can promise."

Belisarius hesitated, trying to think of something to add. Before he could shape the words, a small sound caused him to turn his head.

Maurice had arrived. The chiliarch looked at him, then at Calopodius. His eyes were as gray as his beard.

"You agreed, boy?" he demanded. Seeing the young officer's eager nod, Maurice snorted.

"Damn fool." But the words glowed with inner fire. Maurice, too, had once been seventeen years old. He stepped over and placed a hand on Calopodius' shoulder. Then, squeezing it:

"It's a 'forlorn hope,' you know. But every man should do it at least once in a lifetime, I imagine. And-if by some odd chance, you survive-you'll have the bragging rights for the rest of your life."

Calopodius grinned. "Who knows? Maybe even my aunt will stop calling me 'that worthless brat.' "

Belisarius chuckled. Maurice leered. "That might not be the blessing you imagine. She might start pestering you instead of the stable boys."

Calopodius winced, but rallied quickly. "Not a problem!" he proclaimed. "I received excellent marks in both rhetoric and grammar. I'm sure I could fend off the ploys of an incestuous seductress."

But a certain look of alarm remained on his face; and it was that, in the end, which reconciled Belisarius to the grim reality of his scheme. There was something strangely satisfying in the sight of a seventeen-year-old boy being more worried about the prospect of a distant social awkwardness than the far more immediate prospect of his own death.

You're a peculiar form of life, observed Aide. I sometimes wonder if the term "intelligence" isn't the ultimate oxymoron.

Belisarius added his own firm shoulder-squeeze to Maurice's, and strode away to begin the preparations for the march. As he began issuing new orders, part of his mind examined Aide's quip. And concluded that, as was so often true, humor was but the shell of reason.

True enough. An intelligent animal understands the certainty of his own eventual death. So it stands to reason his thought processes will be a bit-what's the word?

Weird, came the prompt reply.

* * *

Two days later, Belisarius and his army moved out of their fieldworks on the banks of the Indus near Rohri. They left behind, stationed on the island in the new fieldworks which had been hastily erected, three field guns and their crews and a thousand of Sittas' cataphracts. Also left behind, in Rohri itself, were all of the wounded. Many of those men would die from their injuries in the next few days and weeks. But most of them-perhaps six or seven hundred men-were healthy enough to provide Calopodius with the troops he needed to maintain the pretense that Rohri was still occupied by Belisarius' entire army.

They pulled out shortly after midnight, using the moonlight to find their way. Belisarius knew that his soldiers would have to move slowly in order not to make enough noise to alert the Malwa positioned across the river that a large troop movement was underway. And he wanted-needed-to be completely out of sight by the break of dawn.

Under the best of circumstances, of course, heavy cavalry and field artillery make noise when they move. And doing so at night hardly constituted "the best of circumstances." Still, Belisarius thought he could manage it. The cavalry moved out first, with Gregory's field artillery stationed on the banks of the Indus near Rohri adding their own fire to that of Calopodius' guns on the island. At Belisarius' command, the guns were firing staggered shots rather than volleys. The continuous sound of the cannons, he thought, should serve to disguise the noise made by the cavalry as they left the river.

Then, as the night wore on, Gregory would start pulling his guns away from the river. Taking them out one at a time, following the now-departed cavalry, leaving the rest to continue firing until those leaving were all gone. As if Belisarius was slowly realizing that an artillery barrage at night was really a poor way to bombard an unseen and distant enemy entrenched within fieldworks. By the end, only Calopodius' three guns would remain, firing until a courier crossing to the island on one of the few small boats left behind would tell Calopodius that his commander had succeeded in the first step of his great maneuver.

That barrage, of course, would cost Belisarius still more of his precious gunpowder. But he had managed to save all of the special ammunition used by the mitrailleuse and the mortars, and most of the sharpshooters' cartridges. And he was sure he would have enough gunpowder to keep the field guns in operation against whatever enemy he encountered on the march to the Chenab. Whether there would be enough ammunition left thereafter, to fend off the inevitable Malwa counterattack once he set up his fortifications at the fork of the Chenab.

Worry about that when the time comes, he thought to himself. Yet, despite that firm self-admonition, he could not help but turn around in his saddle and stare back into the darkness over the Indus.

He was staring to the southwest now, not toward the guns firing on the river. Trying, as futile as the effort might be, to find Menander somewhere in that black distance. In the end, the success of Belisarius' campaign would depend on yet another of the young officers whom he had elevated to command in the course of this war. Just as he was relying on the courage and ingenuity of Calopodius to cover his break from enemy contact, he was depending on the energy and competence of Menander to bring him the supplies he would need to make this bold maneuver something more than a reckless gamble.

Perhaps oddly, he found some comfort in that knowledge. If Belisarius was willing to condemn one young man to possible destruction, he could balance that cold-blooded deed with his willingness to place his own fate in the hands of yet another. Throughout his military career, Belisarius had been firmly convinced that the success of a general ultimately rested on his ability to forge a leadership team around him. Now that he was taking what was perhaps the boldest gamble in that career, he took no little satisfaction in the fact that he was willing, himself, to stake his life on his own methods of leadership.

In for a penny, in for a pound. You stick with the ones who got you here. Put your money where your mouth is.

On and on, as he guided his horse through a moonlight-dim landscape, Belisarius recited proverb after proverb to himself. Some of which he had long known, others of which Aide had taught him from future saws and sayings.

Aide remained silent, throughout. But Belisarius thought to detect a faint trace of satisfaction coming from the crystal being. As if Aide, also, found a philosophical comfort in matching actions to words.

* * *

Far to the southwest, at one of the many bends in the Indus, Menander was in the hold of the Justinian, cursing fate and fortune and-especially! — the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned gadgetry of a far-distant one-time emperor.

"Justinian and his damn contraptions!" he snarled, glaring at the steam engine and the Greek artisans feverishly working on it. His own arms were covered with grease up to the elbows, however, and the curse was more in the way of a ritual formality than anything truly heartfelt. This was not the first time the damned gadget had broken down, after all. And, judging from past experience.

"That's it," said one of the artisans, straightening up. "She should be all right again. Just that same miserable stupid fucking-"

Menander didn't hear the rest of the ritual denunciation. Before the artisan was well into the practiced litany, he had clambered onto the deck and was beginning to issue orders to resume the voyage upriver.

* * *

Ten minutes later, studying the river barges being towed behind the Justinian and the Victrix, Menander's mood was much improved. Even in the moonlight, he could see that the flotilla was making good headway. Far better-far, far better-than any galleys could have done, sweeping oars against the current of the great river. And the four cargo vessels, needing only skeleton crews, were carrying far more in the way of supplies-far, far more-than five times their number of galleys could have done.

His eyes lifted, looking into the darkness to the south. Somewhere back there, many miles behind, a much larger flotilla of sailing ships was moving up the river also, carrying men and supplies to reinforce Ashot at Sukkur. But the monsoon winds were but a fickle remnant now. The sailing craft were not making much faster headway than were Bouzes and Coutzes, who were marching the main forces of the Roman army along the riverbanks.

Still, they were not dawdling. They were moving as fast as any huge army made up primarily of infantry could hope to do. Fifteen miles a day, Menander estimated. And Bouzes and Coutzes, when he left them, had been confident they could maintain that pace throughout the march.

"Three weeks," Menander muttered to himself. "In three weeks they'll be at Sukkur." He growled satisfaction, almost like a tiger. "And once they get to Sukkur, the Malwa there are done for. If Khusrau and Ashot can hold out that long, Bouzes and Coutzes will be the hammer to the anvil. The Malwa will have no choice but to retreat back to the Punjab."

He pictured that retreat in his mind. Practically purring, now.

Two hundred miles they'll have to retreat. With our main forces coming after them, Belisarius blocking their way-the possibility that Belisarius might fail in his attempt to reach the Chenab never crossed Menander's mind-and me and Eusebius to hammer them from the river with the Justinian and Victrix. And the Photius, coming later.

Fondly, Menander patted the thick wooden hull of the newfangled steam-powered warship. According to the last message received by Bouzes and Coutzes over the telegraph line they had been laying behind them, the Justinian's sister ship had reached Barbaricum and was starting up the Indus herself. Towing yet another flotilla of precious supplies to the front.

"Fine ships!" he exclaimed, to a distant and uncaring moon.

* * *

Not long after daybreak, the next morning, Menander was snarling at the rising sun. But, this time, simply at the vagaries of fate rather than the madness of a far-distant one-time emperor besotted with gadgetry.

For the fifth time since the voyage began, the Justinian had run aground on an unseen sandbar in the muddy river. While the ship's navigator dutifully recorded the existence of that sandbar on the charts which the expedition was creating for those who would come after them, Eusebius towed the Justinian off the sandbar with the Victrix, its paddle wheels churning at full throttle. Once the Victrix succeeded in breaking Menander's ship loose, the Justinian's own engine did the rest.

A few minutes later, having cleared the obstruction and carefully towing the cargo vessels away from it, Menander's mood became sunny once again.

So was that of his chief pilot. "Good thing the old emperor"-such was the affectionate term which had become the custom in Menander's river navy, to describe a blind emperor-become-craftsman-"designed this thing to go in reverse. Odd, really, since he never planned it for river work."

Menander curled his lip. "Who says he never planned it for river work?" he demanded. Then, shaking his head firmly: "Don't underestimate the old emperor. A wise man, he is-ask anyone who's ever been up for judgement in his court."

The pilot nodded sagely. "True, true. No bribing the old emperor to make a favorable ruling for some rich crony. Worth your head to even try."

Affectionately, the pilot patted the flank of the ship and cast an approving glance at one of the heavy guns nearby. "She'll put the fear of God in the Malwa. You watch."

Menander began to add his own placid words of wisdom to that sage opinion, but a shrieking whistle cut him short.

"Again!" he bellowed, racing for the hatch leading to the engine room below. "Justinian and his damned contraptions!"

* * *

The same rising sun cast its light on Belisarius' army, now well into its march away from the Indus.

"We've broken contact, clear enough," said Maurice with satisfaction. "The men will be getting tired, though, after marching half the night. Do you want to make camp early today?"

Belisarius shook his head. "No rest, Maurice. Not until nightfall. I know they'll be exhausted by then, but they'll get over it soon enough."

He did not even bother to look behind him, where he had left two young men to bear a load far heavier than their years warranted.

"Drive them, Maurice," he growled. "By the time we reach the Chenab, I want every man in this army to be cursing me day and night."

Maurice smiled. "Think they'll take it out on the Malwa, do you?" The smile became a grin. "I imagine you're right, at that."