“No, thank you. I’ve had enough. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”
As he stoppered the wine jug, Vasudeva grimaced. “Please! We will be doing most of the busy-ness. And in that miserable sun!”
Belisarius rose, stooping in the low shelter provided by the simple tent. Vasudeva rose with him. Much shorter, he did not need to stoop.
The Kushan’s little smile returned. “Still—that’s the way it is. Really good jokes always take a lot of work.”
Outside the tent, in the quiet air of the Kushan encampment, Valentinian and Anastasius were waiting with the horses. Quickly, Belisarius mounted.
Vasudeva had come out of his tent to see the Roman general off. From other tents nearby, Belisarius could see other Kushans watching. For a moment, he and the Kushan commander stared at each other.
“Why did you come tonight, Belisarius?” asked Vasudeva suddenly. “You asked me nothing.”
The general smiled, very crookedly. “There was no need, Vasudeva. I simply wanted to know if Kushans still had their sense of humor.”
Vasudeva did not match that smile with one of his own. In the moonlit darkness, his hard face grew harder still.
“It is all that is left to us, Roman. When men have little, they keep what they have in a tight fist.”
Belisarius nodded. He clucked his horse into motion. Valentinian and Anastasius followed on their own mounts, trailing a few yards behind.
“Yes, they do,” he murmured softly to himself. “Yes, they do. Until finally, when they have nothing left, they realize—” His words trailed into a mutter.
“What did he say?” whispered Anastasius, leaning over his saddle.
Valentinian’s face was sour. “He said that damned stupid business about only the soul mattering, in the end.”
“Quite right,” said Anastasius approvingly. Then, spotting Valentinian’s expression, the giant added:
“You know, if you ever get tired of being a soldier, I’m sure you could make a good living as a miracle worker. Turning wine into vinegar.”
Valentinian began muttering, now, but Anastasius ignored him blithely.
“I thought it was a good joke,” he said.
Mutter, mutter, mutter.
“A sense of humor’s very important, Valentinian.”
Mutter, mutter, mutter.
“Wine into vinegar. Yes, yes. And then—! The possibilities are endless! Turn fresh milk sour. Make puppies grim. Kittens, indolent. Oh, yes! Valentinian of Thrace, they’ll be calling you. The miracle worker! Everybody’ll avoid you like the plague, of course. Probably be entire villages chasing you with stones, even. But you’ll be famous! I’ll be able to say: ‘I knew him when he was just a simple nasty ill-tempered disgruntled soldier.’ Oh, yes! I’ll be able—”
Mutter, mutter, mutter.
Early the next morning, construction began on the second phase of Belisarius’ plan. The Roman soldiers played more of a role, now, than they had earlier. Undermining the old canal, except for the work of laying the charges, had been simple and uncomplicated work. Brutal work, of course—hauling an enormous quantity of stones out of a canal bed. But simple.
This new project was not.
Belisarius oversaw the work from a tower which his troops erected on the left bank of the Euphrates, just below the place where the Nehar Malka branched off to the east. The tower was sturdy, but otherwise crude—nothing more than a twenty-foot-high wooden framework, which supported a small platform at the top. The platform was six feet square, surrounded by a low railing, and sheltered from the sun by a canopy. Access to it was by means of a ladder built directly onto the framework.
There was only room on that platform to fit three or four men comfortably. Belisarius and Baresmanas, who occupied the platform alone that first day, had ample room.
The Roman general drew the sahrdaran’s attention to the work below.
“They’re about to place the first pontoon.”
Baresmanas leaned over the rail. Below, he could see Roman soldiers guiding a small barge down the Euphrates. The barge was the standard type of rivercraft used in Mesopotamia and throughout the region—what Egyptians called a skaphe. It was fifty feet long by sixteen feet wide, with a prow so blunt it was almost shaped like the stern. The craft could be either rowed or sailed. The only thing unusual about this barge was that the mast had been braced and the sails were made of wicker—useless for catching the wind, but excellent for securing the baskets of stones which would eventually be laid against them.