Damodara slammed the table angrily. “I am not a fool, Sanga! Of course I know what he will do. He will destroy the entire logistics base for our invasion of Persia. He will leave a hundred and fifty thousand men stranded without food or supplies—and without means of escape. He will certainly destroy the fleet at anchor there. He will not be able to touch the war galleys outside the harbor, of course, but even if he could—” Damodara threw up his hands. “Those ships could not possibly transport more than two thousand men. Even including the supply ships on the Euphrates, we couldn’t evacuate more than—”
Abruptly, Damodara sat down. His face was drawn. “It would be the worst military disaster in history. A death stroke, just as you said. Our army would have no choice. They would have to retrace the route taken by Alexander the Great, when he retreated from India to the west. Except they would have no provisions at all, and far more men to feed and water. Even for Alexander, that road was disastrous.”
Gloomily, Damodara stared at the map. His eyes were resting on what it showed of the lands bordering the Persian Gulf. The map showed very little, in truth, because there was nothing there of military interest. Mile after mile after mile of barren, arid coastline.
His eyes moved up. “They can’t even try to retrace the route we’ve taken, through the plateau. We’re too far north. They’d have to fight their way through Khusrau’s army. With no way to replenish their gunpowder.”
“We could help,” interjected Sanga quickly. “With us striking in relief, we could open a route for them into the Zagros. Then—” His words trailed off. Sanga, unlike Damodara, was not an expert in logistics. But he knew enough to realize the thing was hopeless.
“Then—what?” demanded Damodara. “An army that size—through the Persian plateau and the Hindu Kush? We had a difficult enough time ourselves, with a quarter that number of men and all the supplies we needed.”
He was back to staring at the map. “No, no. If Belisarius drives home that stroke, he will destroy an army of one hundred and fifty thousand men. Not more than one in ten will ever find their way back to India. The rest will die of thirst or starvation, or surrender themselves into slavery.”
Again, he slammed the table. This time, with both hands.
“If! If!” he cried. “It still doesn’t make sense! Belisarius would not pay the price!”
Sanga began to speak but Damodara waved him silent.
“You are not thinking, Sanga!” Damodara groped for words, trying to explain. “Yes—Belisarius might commit suicide, to strike such an incredible blow. But I do not think—”
He paused, and took a few breaths. “One of the things I noticed about the man, these past months—noticed and admired, for it is a quality I like to think I possess myself—is that Belisarius does not throw away the lives of his soldiers. Some generals treat their men like so many grenades. Not he.”
Damodara gave Sanga a piercing gaze. “You say you would give up your own life, King of Rajputana. For honor and country, certainly. But for the sake of a strategic masterstroke?” He waited. Sanga was silent.
Damodara shrugged. “Possibly. Possibly. But would you condemn ten thousand other men as well?”
Sanga looked away. “I didn’t think so,” said Damodara softly. “Neither would Belisarius.”
Not a sound was heard, for perhaps half a minute. Then, Narses began to chuckle.
“What is so funny?” demanded Damodara angrily. Sanga simply glared at the eunuch.
Narses ignored Damodara. He returned Sanga’s glare with a little smile, and a question.
“Whom do you trust most of all in this world, King of Rajputana? If your life depended on cutting a rope, in whose hands would you want the blade?”
“My wife,” came the instant reply.
Narses grinned. A second later, the eyes of Sanga and Damodara were riveted back to the map. And, a second after that, moved off the map entirely—as if, somewhere on the floor, they could find the portion which displayed Egypt, Ethiopia, and the Erythrean Sea.
They barely registered Narses’ words. Still chuckling: “Now we know—now, at last we understand. Why Belisarius put his own wife in charge of the Roman expedition to Egypt and Ethiopia. You remember? We wondered about it. Why risk her? Any one of his best officers could have commanded that expedition. But if your life depended on it—yours and ten thousand others—oh, yes. Then, yes. Then you’d want a wife, and no other.”