“Abbu says now!” the scout exclaimed, as soon as he drew up. “Almost all the Kushans are in the riverbed. At least eight thousand of them. Probably all of them, by now. Their first skirmishers will have already reached the opposite bank.”
Belisarius scratched his chin.
“God damn it to hell!” snarled Maurice. “What are you waiting for? We can’t let those men cross, general! After all our casualties, we don’t have much better than eight thousand left ourselves. Once they get on dry land—on the south bank—they can ford upstream any one of a dozen places. We’ll have to face them on—”
“Enough, Maurice.” The chiliarch clamped shut his jaws.
Scratched the chin.
The general thought; gauged; calculated; assessed.
The man decided.
His crooked smile came. He said, very firmly:
“Let the Kushans cross. All of them.”
To the scout:
“Tell Abbu to send up the rocket when the Ye-tai are almost across. And tell that old maniac to make sure he’s clear first. Do you understand? I want him clear!”
The Arab grinned. “He will be clear, general. By a hair, of course. But he will be clear.”
An instant later, the man was gone.
Belisarius turned back to Maurice. The grizzled veteran was glaring at him.
“Look at it this way,” Belisarius said pleasantly. “I’ve just given you what you treasure most. Something else to be morose about.”
Glaring furiously. To one side, Valentinian muttered: “Oh, great. Just what we needed. Eight thousand Kushans to deal with.”
Belisarius ignored both the glare and the mutter. He began to scratch his chin, but stopped. He had made his decision, and would stick with it.
It was a bad decision, perhaps. It might even, in the end, prove to be disastrous. But he thought of men who liked to gamble, when they had nothing to gamble with except humor. And he remembered, most of all, a man with an iron face. A hard man who had, in two lives and two futures, made the same soft decision. A decision which, Belisarius knew, that man would always make, in every life and every future.
He relaxed, then. Confident, not in his decision, but in his soul.
“Let them pass,” he murmured. “Let them pass.”
He cocked his head, slightly. “Basil’s ready?”
“Be serious,” growled Maurice.
Belisarius smiled. A minute later, he cocked his head again. “Everyone’s clear?” he asked.
“Be serious,” growled Maurice.
“Everybody except us,” hissed Valentinian. “We’re the only ones left. The last Syrians cleared off five minutes ago.”
“Let’s be off, then,” said Belisarius cheerfully.
As he and his three cataphracts walked their horses off the dam—moving carefully, in the dark—Belisarius began softly reciting verses.
The men with him did not recognize the poem. There was no way they could have. Aide had just given it to him, from the future. That future which Belisarius would shield, from men who thought themselves gods.
Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind but out of what began?
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.
Chapter 38
The moment the signal rocket exploded, Link knew.
Its four top officers, standing nearby on the platform of the command tower overlooking the river, were simply puzzled. The rocket, after bursting, continued to burn like a flare as it sailed down onto the mass of soldiers struggling their way across the bed of the Euphrates. Ye-tai, in the main, swearing softly as they tried to guide their horses in the darkness through a morass of streamlets and mucky sinkholes. But there were at least five thousand Malwa regulars, also, including a train of rocket-carts and the kshatriya to man them.
The flare burned. The officers stared, and puzzled.
But Link knew at once. Understood how completely it had been outwitted, although it did not—then or ever—understand how Belisarius had done it.
But the being from the future was not given to cursing or useless self-reproach. It recognized only necessity. It did not even wait for the first thundering sound of the explosions to give the order to its assassins.
Across the entire length of the dam blocking the Euphrates, the charges erupted. Almost in slow motion, the boulder-laden ships which formed the base of the dam heaved up. The sound of the eruption was huge, but muffled. And there was almost no flash given off. The charges, for all their immensity, had been deeply buried. Even Link, with its superhuman vision, could barely see the disaster, in the faint light still thrown off by the signal flare.