“Good,” grunted his brother. “By tomorrow morning, we can fire a few test rounds. Using them for the shot.”
Again, savage humor filled the room. And, again, Belisarius joined in.
Even Aide: Why not? The British did, during the Indian Mutiny. Unlike them, we’ve even got a decent excuse.
The bloodthirsty aura of that thought did not surprise Belisarius. He only wondered, for a moment, at the vastness of the universe. Which could produce, over the eons, such miracles as a crystal intelligence learning human wrath.
His eyes came back to Vasudeva. From experience with the Kushan since he entered the service of Rome, Belisarius had learned to use him as his executive officer in matters of logistics. Vasudeva was as proficient a lieutenant, in that complex work, as Maurice was on the battlefield.
Vasudeva tugged his goatee. “Everything’s still a mess, of course. Will be, till at least tomorrow night. But I’m not worried about it.”
He spread his arms, hands wide open, as if he were embracing a beloved but obese friend. “There were fifteen thousand men garrisoned here, permanently. Between their stores, and the huge stockpiles for the main army, the Malwa have bequeathed a treasure upon us. We don’t really have to organize much of anything. Just grab what we need, load up the ships, and get ready to leave when the time comes. Won’t take more than three days.”
“The Malwa army should be back here by then,” opined Cyril. “Their first elements, anyway. Enough to invest the city.”
Maurice made a fist, and inspected his knuckles. “That’ll be too late. Way too late. By the day after tomorrow, we’ll be able to hold Charax against them. For three weeks, at the very least. A month and a half wouldn’t surprise me. Although I don’t want to think about our casualties, by then.”
And now, all eyes were on Belisarius.
He smiled. Widely, not crookedly. All rage and fury vanished, as he remembered that other—much deeper—side of life.
“She’ll come,” he said. “She’ll come.”
Chapter 33
THE TIGRIS
Autumn, 532 a.d.
In the event, Lord Damodara lost Sanga’s services for only nine days. On the morning of the tenth, the Rajput king strode into Damodara’s pavilion and slammed the truth onto his commander’s table.
Damodara stared at the object resting before him. At his side, he sensed Narses’ start of surprise. A moment later, the eunuch hissed.
The “truth” was a helmet. A great, heavy, ungainly contraption of segmented steel plates. A Goth helmet, Damodara vaguely realized.
“We found a small mountain of the things,” said Sanga, “along with all the other gear those mercenaries were wearing.”
Damodara looked up. “Where?”
Sanga glowered at the helmet. “Do you remember that small valley we passed through, where the Persians had been mining?” He snorted. “I remember noticing how fresh the mine tailings were. I was impressed, at the time, by the courage and determination of the Persian miners—to have kept working till the last minute, with a war raging about their heads.”
“The tunnel!” explained Narses. “There was a tunnel there. A mine adit.”
Sanga shook his head. “That is no mine, Narses. They disguised the first few dozen yards to make it look like one, but it is really an entrance to a qanat.” He pointed at the helmet. “We found those about fifty yards in. Piled in a heap, as I said. It took us an hour to move the stuff aside, and go beyond. Thereafter—”
He pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. “From that point on, the trail is as clear as the one we have been following. Belisarius’ entire army—I am as certain of it as I am of my own name—took that route. Hidden from sight underground, they marched to the south. They probably emerged, miles away, in another valley. Their Persian allies would have had fresh horses waiting for them.”
He slapped the map with his hand. “That is why Belisarius was always willing to let us move north, but was so stubborn an opponent to the south. He was protecting the location of the tunnel. It must have taken them weeks—months—to prepare everything, even with help from the Persians. He could not afford to have us stumble upon his secret by accident, in the course of our maneuvers.”