They’re not musketeers. Not really. Eighteenth-century musketeers could fire three volleys a minute. But they had flintlocks. You don’t even have arquebusses as good as Gustavus Adolphus’ soldiers, and they couldn’t fire more often than—
Aide broke off, with the mental equivalent of a sigh of exasperation. He and Belisarius had already had this argument. As always, when the dispute involved purely military affairs, Belisarius’ opinion had carried the day.
The general did not bother with a reply. He was too preoccupied with studying the Rajputs.
Not to his surprise, Belisarius saw that most of the Rajput cavalry—two out of three, he gauged—were now concentrated on the enemy’s right flank, under Sanga’s command. The pass in which Belisarius was making a stand was saddle-shaped. The flanks of the pass were not sheer cliffs, but rounded slopes. The slope on Belisarius’ left was almost gentle. If the Ye-tai could pin the Roman center, Sanga would have no real difficulty leading a mass cavalry charge against the Roman left.
Belisarius, of course, had read the terrain the same way as Damodara and Sanga. And so he had positioned his heaviest troops, the Greek cataphracts under Cyril’s command, on his left. He would hold the center and the right with the lighter Syrian forces, and the new units of musketeers and pikemen.
The fact remained that he was badly outnumbered, and the ground was open enough that the Malwa could bring all their forces to bear. Not easily; not quickly—but surely, for all that.
Belisarius shook his head a little, reminding himself that he was not trying to win this battle. He just needed to put up enough of a fight so that his retreat to the south, when the time came, would not seem too puzzling to his opponents. Belisarius could afford the tactical setback involved in giving up this battlefield, as long as his troops weren’t badly mauled. He could not afford the strategic defeat which would be certain, if Damodara or Sanga—or Narses, if the canny eunuch was with them—ever figured out what Belisarius was planning for, months from now.
Maurice verbalized Belisarius’ own thoughts.
“It’s going to be a bit touch-and-go,” growled the chiliarch. “More than a bit, if your little surprise doesn’t work as well as you think it will. Which it probably won’t,” he added sourly. “Nothing ever works the way it’s supposed to, on a battlefield.”
Belisarius started to respond, but fell silent. The Ye-tai were almost close enough—
Time. Belisarius gave the hand signal, and the small group of cornicenes just a few yards away immediately began blowing on their horns.
The peal of the cornicens immediately brought thousands of Greek cataphracts and Syrian archers to their feet, standing hip-high in their trenches with bows already nocked. A volley of arrows swept down the slope.
Like a scythe, came the simile to Belisarius’ mind, but he knew it was inappropriate. Plunging fire was difficult. He was not surprised to see many of the arrows sail right over the approaching mass of Ye-tai. And it was often ineffective even when it struck, against experienced troops.
The Ye-tai were veterans, and had been expecting the volley. As soon as they saw the cataphracts rearing up, the Ye-tai crouched and sheltered behind their shields. The shouted orders of their officers were quite unnecessary. Because of the angle, they presented smaller targets to begin with, and each Ye-tai was experienced enough to keep his shield properly slanted.
Those were good shields, as good as Roman ones. Laminated wood reinforced with iron—nothing like the flimsy wicker shields with which the Malwa Empire armed its common soldiers. Most of the Roman arrows which hit their targets glanced off harmlessly.
The Ye-tai immediately resumed their charge, bellowing their battle cries. Another volley; another shielded crouch; another upward surge. They lost men, of course—plenty of them—but not enough. Not for those warriors. Ye-tai had many vices; cowardice was not one of them.
“Not a chance,” grunted Maurice. There was no amazement in those words. Not even a trace of surprise. Maurice sounded like a man remarking that there was no way a sand castle was going to hold back the tide.
The chiliarch glanced at Belisarius. “You’d better see to your gunmen. We’re going to need them.”