The general’s grin was answered by a little cheer. When the cheer died down, the Syrian who had spoken up earlier asked another question.
“How would they be doing if they had those siege guns you’ve talked about?”
Belisarius grimaced. It was more of a whimsical expression than a rueful one, however.
“If they’d had siege guns, I never would have forted us up here in the first place.” He waved his hand, casually. “Big siege guns would flatten a place like this inside of five minutes. In ten minutes, there’d be nothing but rubble.”
Carefully—gauging—he watched the cheer fade from his soldiers’ faces. Then, just before solemnity turned grim, he boomed:
“On the other hand, siege guns are so big and awkward that they’re sitting ducks on a battleground.”
Again, he waved his hand. The gesture, this time, was not casual in the least. It was the motion of a master craftsman, demonstrating an aspect of his skill.
“If they’d brought siege guns, we’d have ripped them with open-field maneuvers.”
The grin returned.
“Either way, either way—it doesn’t matter, men. We’ll thrash the Malwa anyway it takes!”
Outside, two rockets burst in unison. But the sound, loud as it was, completely failed to drown the cheers which erupted through the crowded room.
Belisarius! Belisarius!
One soldier only, in that festive outburst, did not participate in the acclaim—the same Syrian, still crouched by the window, still watching everything outside with a keen and vigilant gaze.
“I think that’s it, general,” he remarked. “I’m pretty sure they’re getting ready to charge.”
Belisarius moved to the window, and crouched down next to the soldier. He drew out his telescope and peered through it. For a few seconds, no longer.
“You’re right,” he announced. The general leaned over and placed a hand on the Syrian’s shoulder.
“What’s your name?” he asked softly.
The man looked a bit startled. “Felix, sir. Felix Chalcenterus.”
Belisarius nodded, rose, and strode out of the room. In the hallway beyond, he turned right and headed toward the villa’s central gardens. The Greek cataphracts massed in the hallway squeezed to the sides, allowing him a narrow passageway through which to move. A very narrow passageway—crooked, cramped, and lined with scale armor.
By the time he emerged into the gardens—a bit the way a seed bursts out of a crushed grape—he felt like he had been through a grape-press himself. For all its imperial size, the villa was far too small a structure to hold thousands of troops packed within its walls. Still, Belisarius had insisted on crowding as many men as possible into the buildings. The villa was not a fortress. But its solidly-built walls and roofs provided far more protection from rockets and arrows than the leather screens and canopies which provided the only missile shelter for the troops resting in the villa’s open grounds.
When he finally emerged into the central gardens, he saw that even here the casualties from the barrage had been very light. This, despite the fact that the area was packed as tightly as the buildings were.
The horticultural splendor which had once reigned here was nothing but a memory, now. Every plant and shrub had been obliterated by the heavily-armored men who were jammed into every nook and cranny of the gardens. But few of those men seemed the slightest bit injured.
Belisarius was relieved, even though he was not surprised. Belisarius had been almost certain that the rockets’ trajectories would be too flat to plunge into the gardens.
Obviously, his estimate had been correct. What few injuries had occured had resulted from the handful of rockets which, by bad luck, had exploded directly overhead. And even those had done little damage, due to the leather shrapnel screens stretched across much of the garden areas.
Again, Belisarius forced his way forward. Once he was through the gardens, he plunged into the jam-packed hallways of the buildings on the opposite side. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. By the time he finally staggered into the open grounds in the rear of the villa, he felt almost as if he had been through another lance charge.
The expedition had taken much longer than he had expected. No sooner did he emerge into the open than he heard a cacophony of distant shouting behind him. Malwa battle cries. The enemy had launched their ground assault.