None of this information caused the Roman general any particular distress. The force structure was about what he had guessed, and he was not disturbed by the size of the Malwa army. True, the odds were at least 3-to-2 against him, so far as the numbers were concerned. Still, he would be fighting the battle on the tactical defensive, on ground of his choosing.
But the last item of information which Kurush imparted made him wince.
“Describe them again,” he commanded.
“They number perhaps two thousand, Belisarius. They form the Malwa rear guard—which is quite odd, in my opinion. If I were leading that army, I would have those troops in the vanguard. They keep formation as well as any parade ground troops I’ve ever seen, but I don’t think—”
Belisarius shook his head. “They are most definitely not parade troops, Kurush.”
He sighed. “And the reason they’re bringing up the rear is because the Malwa don’t trust them much. The problem, however, is not military. It’s political.”
“Damn,” he grumbled. “There were two things I didn’t want to run into. One of them are Rajputs, and the other—you’re sure about the topknots?”
Kurush nodded. “It’s quite a distinctive hairstyle. Their helmets are even designed for it.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve seen them. Kushan helmets.”
The Persian winced himself, now. “Kushans? You’re sure?”
“Yes. No other enemy troops look like that. To the best of my knowledge, anyway—and remember, I spent over a year in India. I got a very close look at the Malwa army.”
Kurush started to say something, but broke off in order to dodge a low-hanging branch in the trail. When he straightened, he muttered: “We did defeat them, you know. We Aryans. Centuries ago. Conquered half the Kushan empire, in fact.”
Belisarius smiled. “No doubt your minstrels sing about it to this day.”
“They sing about it, all right,” replied Kurush glumly. “Dirges, mostly, about glorious victories with maybe three survivors. The casualties were very heavy.”
At midnight, after his return, Belisarius took a tour of the villa. Baresmanas came with him. The Persian ambassador had been a warrior, in his day—a renowned one, in fact—but the combination of his advancing years and the terrible injury he had suffered at Mindouos made it impossible for him to participate in thundering lance charges. So he had cheerfully offered his services to the infantry who would be standing on the defensive at the villa.
Bouzes and three of his officers guided Belisarius and Baresmanas through the villa, holding torches aloft, proudly pointing out the cunning of the fortifications. They were especially swell-chested with regard to the grenade screens. The screens were doubled linen, strengthened by slender iron rods sewn lengthwise into the sheets. The design allowed for easy transportation, since the screens could be folded up into pleats and carried on mule back. The screens were now mounted onto bronze frameworks. These had been hastily brazed together out of the multitude of railings which had once adorned the balconies surrounding the villa’s interior gardens. The frameworks had then been attached to every entryway or opening in the villa’s outer walls with rawhide strips, looped through regularly spaced holes in the former railings.
“We didn’t make the holes,” admitted Bouzes. “They’d already been drilled, as fittings for the uprights. But we realized they’d allow for leather hinges. You see? Each one of the screens can be moved into place just like a door. Takes less than five seconds. Until then, there’s no way to see them from outside the villa.”
Belisarius was not surprised, actually, by the shrewdness of the design. He already knew that his Syrian infantrymen, with the jack-of-all-trades attitude of typical borderers, were past masters at the art of jury-rigging fortifications out of whatever materials were available. But he complimented them, nonetheless, quite lavishly.
Baresmanas was even more effusive in his praise. And he made no mention of the pearls which had once adorned the Emperor’s railings, nestled in each one of the holes which now held simple rawhide lashings.
Nor did the sahrdaran comment on the peculiar appearance of the great bronze plaques which the Roman infantry had used to bulwark some of the flimsier portions of the outer wall. Those plaques had once hung suspended in the Emperor’s huge dining hall, where his noble guests, feasting after a day’s hunting, could gaze up at the marvelously etched figures. The etchwork was still there. But the hunting scenes they depicted seemed pallid. The lions wan, without their emerald eyes; the antelopes plebeian, without their silver antlers; the panthers drab, without their jade and ruby spots; and the elephants positively absurd—like big-nosed sheep!—without their ivory tusks.