It was plain enough, from the look on his face, that Sanga found his commander’s cold-bloodedness distasteful. But Damodara took no offense. He simply chuckled.
“I am Malwa, Rana Sanga, not Rajput. Practical.”
* * *
Two days later, Belisarius was studying a map spread across a table in his own field headquarters. All of his top commanders were joining him in the enterprise. Those included, in addition to Maurice and Vasudeva: Cyril, who had succeeded Agathius in command of the Greek cataphracts after Agathius had been crippled at the Battle of the Nehar Malka; and Bouzes and Coutzes, the two young Thracian brothers who commanded the Syrian contingents in Belisarius’ army.
Abbu entered, pushing his way through the leather flaps which served as an entrance. The chief of Belisarius’ Arab scouts did not wait for an invitation to speak before advancing to the center of the tent and giving his report.
The old bedouin did not give the map so much as a glance. Abbu was a stern traditionalist. Despite his deep (if unspoken) admiration for Belisarius, the Arab considered the map an alarming omen—either of the Roman general’s early senility, or of his rapid descent into modern decadence.
“The Malwa are heading north,” he announced, “toward that saddle pass I told you about. It is obvious they are expecting an ambush. They have their Ye-tai contingents leading the way.” Abbu grunted approvingly. “He’s no fool, that Malwa commander. He’ll feed the barbarians into the fire—good riddance—before following through with his Rajputs.”
“Before trying to follow through,” said Cyril.
Abbu shook his head. The bedouin’s countenance, always dour, grew positively gloomy. “They will succeed. The pass is too wide, and the slopes on either side not steep enough. The north slope is especially shallow. They will be able to use their numbers against us. It won’t be easy, but they’ll force their way through.”
Cyril began to bridle at the Arab’s easy assumption of defeat, but Belisarius intervened.
“That’s just as well,” he stated forcefully. “I want to steer them north. So we’ll put up a stiff resistance at the pass itself, but withdraw before our men get mangled.” He bent over, studying the map; then pointed with his finger.
“If this is accurate, once they get through the pass their easiest route will be to follow this small river to the northwest.” He cocked an eye at Abbu. The Arab scowled fiercely, but said nothing—which was his way of admitting that the newfangled absurdity could not be faulted.
Belisarius kept his eye on Abbu. “And if I’m reading this map correctly,” he added, “when we fall back and set our positions southwest of the pass, our fieldworks will be too strong for the Malwa to take any other direction.”
Abbu’s scowl deepened. But, again, he said nothing.
“If you don’t want to hold the pass, general,” asked Bouzes, frowning, “then why even put up a fight at all? Seems like a waste of good soldiers.” The young Thracian did not bother to add: which is not your usual style. Like all of the men in that tent, he had become very familiar with Belisarius’ tactical methods. One of those methods—a very important one—was to be sparing with his men’s lives, whenever possible.
Belisarius shook his head. “I don’t have any choice, Bouzes. I can’t afford to make it too easy, not for commanders like Damodara and Sanga. If we fight like lions whenever they move south, but stand aside when they move north, they’ll start to wonder why. Doesn’t make sense. Strict military logic would be the other way around—I should be more than happy to steer them down the Zagros, toward Pars.” He winced. “I do not want Sanga and Damodara spending much time contemplating my bad logic.”
Maurice interrupted. His own expression did not exude any great happiness. “They’re probably already doing that,” he growled.
Belisarius heaved a sigh. “Yes, I’m sure they are. But as long as they don’t think too much about the qanats, and don’t know about the Kushans, I think we’ll be all right.”
He cast a quick glance at the helmet which Vasudeva had placed upon the table. As always, the Kushan had removed the detested monstrosity as soon as he entered the tent and was safe from spying eyes. Belisarius’ expression resumed its usual calm serenity. He even managed a crooked smile.