He glanced up, one last time. The cloud cover was almost complete. Again, he prayed for a downpour.
His prayers were answered.
Not by rain, but by fire. A great, blooming, volcanic eruption shattered the sky to the southeast. The thunderclap from that eruption swept over the Jamuna, drowning the grenade blasts like raindrops under a tidal wave.
For a moment, all was still. Then, from the same area to the southeast, the first immense blast gave way to a barrage. One blast after another after another. None of them had the same intensity as the first, but, in their rolling fury, they were even more frightening. Now, too, rockets began hissing their way into the sky, at every angle and trajectory—as if they were completely unaimed. Simply firing in whatever direction they had been tumbled, by a giant’s hand.
The officer in command of the galley began shouting new orders. The galley backed oars, turning away from the north bank. Turning back to the southeast, back to the wharf where Great Lady Holi’s barge was rocking in the shockwave of the blasts.
Belisarius could not make out the officer’s exact words—his voice, like all other sounds, was buried beneath the continuing thunder of the distant explosions. But he knew what had happened. The Malwa search of the north bank had been half-hearted to begin with. And now, with further—dramatic!—evidence that the nefarious foreign general had made his escape to the south, it was being abandoned completely.
He jerked the knife out of the hull, pushed himself away, submerged. When he raised his head, a minute later, the stern of the rapidly receding galley was barely visible in the darkness.
A minute later, Belisarius was wading ashore. Within seconds, he found cover under a low-hanging tree. There, he unrolled his bundle, wrung out his clothes and emptied his boots, dressed quickly.
As soon as he stepped out from the shelter of the tree, the sky finally broke. Within seconds, his clothing was as saturated by the downpour as it had been by the river.
Striding away, however, Belisarius was not disgruntled. Quite the contrary. He was grinning as widely as Ousanas.
For all his reputation as a brilliant strategist—a master of tactics and maneuver—Belisarius had always known that war never followed neat and predictable lines. Chaos and confusion was the very soul of the beast. The secret was to cherish the vortex, not to fear it.
Chaos was his best friend; confusion his boon companion.
He turned his head, admiring the fiery chaos to the southeast. Raised his eyes, lovingly, to the thundering confusion of the heavens.
A wondering thought came from Aide.
You are not afraid? We are all alone, now.
Belisarius sent his own mental image.
Himself, and the jewel. Soaring through the turbulence of the vortex. Catching every gust of wind, sailing high; avoiding every downdraft. Against them, flapping frantic wings and gobbling stupified fury, came the beast called Malwa.
It looked very much like a gigantic chicken.
That very moment, on the other hand, Valentinian was cursing chaos and confusion.
The armory had exploded just as the cataphracts began their cavalry charge into the Malwa army camp.
The result was the most absurd situation Valentinian had ever encountered in his life.
He and Anastasius had timed the charge perfectly. They had allowed many minutes to elapse, after their first volley into the camp, before starting the charge. Minutes, for the Ethiopians to get a good distance along their escape route. (The Axumites would need that headstart. They were competent horsemen, to be sure; but—except for Garmat—had none of the superb cavalry skills of the cataphracts.) Minutes, for the shocked comrades of the slain Malwa soldiers to spread the alarm. Minutes, for the half-competent officers of those half-competent troops to gather around and begin shouting contradictory orders. Minutes, for chaos to turn to confusion. Minutes, to allow Kujulo and the other Kushans to race about the Malwa camp in their Ye-tai impersonation, shouting garbled news of the escape of the treacherous foreign general Belisarius.
Finally, the time came. By now, Valentinian estimated, Kujulo and the Kushans—coming from the opposite side of the encampment—would have reached the officers in command of the Malwa camp. There, in broken Hindi, interspersed with savage Ye-tai curses, they would have ordered the officers to begin a charge to the south, where the foreign general was known to be lurking.