Coutzes nodded. Belisarius copied the gesture.
“It all makes sense,” he stated. “The key to that formation—the reason it looks odd to you, Coutzes—is that the Malwa approach battle like a blacksmith approaches an anvil. Their only thought is to use a hammer, which, in this case, is a mass of cavalry backed up by rocket platforms. If the hammer doesn’t work”—he shrugged—”get a bigger hammer.”
“What about the Lakhmids?” asked Maurice.
Coutzes and the tribunes burst into laughter. Even Abbu, for the first time, allowed a smile to creep into his face.
“They’re no fools,” chuckled the scout leader. Approvingly: “Proper good Arabs, even if they are a lot of stinking Lakhmites. They’re—”
Coutzes interrupted, still laughing.
“They are assuming a true flank position—way out on the flank. The left flank, of course, as near to the desert as they can get without fighting an actual pitched battle with the Ye-tai.”
“Who are not happy with the Lakhmids,” added one of the tribunes. Another chimed in, “They’ll break in a minute, general. It’s as obvious as udders on a cow. You know how those Arabs think.”
Abbu snorted. “Like any sane man thinks! What’s the point of riding a horse if you’re not going to run the damn beast? Especially with an idiot commander who maneuvers his troops like—” the scout nodded at Belisarius “—just like the general says. Like a musclebound, pot-bellied blacksmith, waddling up to his anvil.”
Belisarius clapped his hands, once.
“Enough,” he said. “Coutzes, start the attack as soon as you can. By now, the Constantinople men will be up and ready. I’ll be with them, when the time comes.”
Coutzes peered at him. The look combined hesitation and concern. “Are you sure about that, general? The casualties are going to be—”
“I’ll be with them,” repeated Belisarius.
Coutzes made a little motion with his shoulders, like an abandoned shrug. He turned his horse and trotted off. His tribunes and Abbu immediately followed.
Once they were gone, Maurice glanced at Belisarius.
“Odd,” he remarked. “Hearing you make such sarcastic remarks about blacksmiths, I mean. I always thought you admired the fellows.”
“I do,” came the vigorous response. “Spent half my time, as a kid, hanging around the smithy. Wanted to be a blacksmith myself, when I grew up.”
The general turned and began walking through the gate back to the villa, Maurice at his side.
“I wasn’t poking fun at blacksmiths, Maurice. I was ridiculing generals who think they’re blacksmiths.”
He shook his head. “Smithing’s a craft. And, like any craft, it has its own special rules. Fine rules—as long as you don’t confuse them with the rules of another trade. The thing about an anvil, you see, is that it’s just a big lump of metal. Anvils don’t fight back.”
A half hour later, after parting company with Maur-ice, Belisarius rode his horse into the Constantinople encampment. Valentinian and Anastasius accompanied him, as always, trailing just a few yards behind.
The Greek troops were already up and about. Fed, watered, fully armed and armored—and champing at the bit. The soldiers greeted him enthusiastically when he rode up. Belisarius listened to their cheers carefully. There was nothing feigned in those salutations, he decided. Word had already spread, obviously, that Belisarius would be fighting with them in the upcoming battle. As he had estimated, the news that their general would be sharing the risks of a cavalry charge had completed the work of cementing the cataphracts’ allegiance.
I’ve got an army, finally, he thought with relief. Then, a bit sardonically: Now, I’ve only got to worry about surviving the charge.
Aide spoke in his mind:
I think you should not do this. It is very dangerous. They will have rockets.
Belisarius scratched his chin before making his reply.
I don’t think that will be a problem, Aide. The Syrians should have the enemy cavalry confused and disorganized by the time we charge. If we move in fast they’ll have no clear targets for their rockets.
Aide was not mollified.
It is very dangerous. You should not do this. You are irreplaceable.
Belisarius sighed. Aide’s fears, he realized, had nothing to do with his estimation of the tactical odds. They were far more deeply rooted.