Now Belisarius’ small impromptu army was moving up the slope. The common infantrymen were in front, in lines so ragged they could hardly be called a formation at all. But they were moving forward, arms in hand, eyes fixed on the rebels mobbing the Emperor’s bodyguard at the pavilion some two hundred yards away. Behind them came the Ye-tai. The battle line of the steppe barbarians was every bit as ragged as the infantry’s, but the Ye-tai had regained their customary battle-fury and braggadocio. They drove the Malwa soldiers forward mercilessly.
Bringing up the rear were the four Romans, keeping a close eye on the situation as a whole.
Menander was now striding alongside Anastasius and Valentinian. He was still gaping.
Anastasius laughed at the sight. “You see, lad?” rumbled the giant. “Beaten troops are like sheep. And as for the Ye-tai—”
Valentinian grinned. “Pimps, boy. Nothing but fucking pimps.”
Menander flushed, closed his jaws. The young cataphract stared ahead, over the mass of Malwa and Ye-tai soldiers in front of him. He could see the pavilion, now half-collapsed, but could only sense the fury of the combat which raged there between the rebels and the Emperor’s bodyguard.
“We’re still outnumbered,” he said. Anastasius glanced down at him, approvingly. There had been no fear in the boy’s voice, simply clear-headed calculation.
“That’s true, lad.” The huge Thracian’s eyes quickly scanned the little army they were driving ahead of them. “But we’ll hit the rebels in the rear, and they’ll be caught between two forces. And—”
“They think they’re on the verge of victory,” said Valentinian. “The shock of a surprise attack will do them in.”
Menander remembered the battle with the pirates on the Malwa embassy vessel. He had been badly wounded in that fight, but had been conscious enough to see how quickly the pirates’ morale had collapsed when Belisarius led his unexpected counter-attack. He nodded his head, gripped his sword more tightly. They were now within a hundred yards of the battle at the pavilion.
“Always remember this, boy,” hissed Valentinian. “Never count a battle won until you’ve paid for your first cup of wine in the victory celebration. Paid for it, mind—looted wine’s a fool’s bargain. The enemy’ll come back and cut your throat before you finish it.”
Anastasius started to add another bit of veteran’s wisdom, but his words were drowned in a sudden roar. The Malwa soldiers had begun the charge, shouting their battle cries. Menander could see nothing, now, except the Ye-tai ahead of him and the remnants of the pavilion floating in the distance. Above the roar of the Malwa battle cries, he could hear the first sharp wails of rebel shock and fear. A moment later, the clangor of clashing steel added its particular threnody to the uproar. And then, here and there, the unmistakeable percussion of grenade blasts.
Menander began to push forward. Belisarius stayed him with a hand.
“No,” he commanded. “Let the Malwa do their own fighting. We’ve brought them an army. Let them use it or not. Our task is done.”
For a moment, Menander saw his general’s eyes lose their focus. The young cataphract held his breath. He knew what he was seeing—had seen it before, many times—but it still brought him a sudden rush of religious awe. His great general was communicating with the Talisman of God.
The moment, as usual, was brief. When Belisarius turned his brown eyes back upon his cataphracts, they were filled with acute intelligence.
“But stay ready,” he commanded. “The time may come when we’ll want to charge forward. If we can, I want to get next to the Emperor.”
He glanced aside, examining the ground, and smiled his crooked smile.
“In the meantime—Menander, would you be so good as to fetch that grenade lying over there? And that other one. Like a thief in the night, lad. I’d like to smuggle a few of those back to Rome.”
Quickly, seeing no unfriendly eyes upon him, Menander secreted the two grenades into his tunic. Then, after a moment’s thought, he bound up his tunic with a blood-soaked rag torn from the tunic of a dead Malwa infantryman.
Valentinian frowned.
“Might not be such a good idea, that,” he muttered. “The Malwa doctors might want to look at your so-called ‘wound.’ ”