The Armenian officer frowned. “It’s those big guns that really keep them at bay, General. The truth is that with as few troops as I have, the Malwa could overrun our position. Not without taking great losses, of course. But Malwa is always willing to shed the blood of its soldiers. And if their commanders ever realize how much our defenses rely on the big guns, they’ll pay the price.”
“Which means you can’t afford to slack off your fire,” interjected Maurice, “in order to conserve ammunition. That would give away your weakness.”
All the men in the tent turned their heads, looking to the south, as if they could see the river through leather walls.
“I hope this Menander of yours is a capable officer,” mused Khusrau. “He seems very young.”
“He’ll do the job, if it can be done,” said Belisarius firmly. “The problem isn’t him, in any case. It’s whether those steam engines of Justinian’s work properly. Which, unfortunately, we’ll have no way of knowing until Menander gets here. Or Bouzes and Coutzes arrive with the main army.”
Maurice heaved a sigh. “Even that last won’t do it, by itself. With the twins’ infantry added into the mix, of course, the Malwa will not have a chance of breaking Ashot’s position. In fact, they’ll have to retreat back to the Punjab. But those soldiers will need food and supplies themselves, especially if we hope to pursue. Unless Menander can get the logistics train working—which means using the river; no way to haul that much by land—we’re hanging on here by our fingernails.”
For the first time since the conference began, Gregory spoke. “True. But at least once Bouzes and Coutzes arrive, we’ll be back in touch with all of our forces strung out along the river—all the way back to Barbaricum. They’re laying telegraph wire as they come.”
He gave a sly little glance at Abbu. As always whenever “newfangled ways” were brought up, the old Arab traditionalist was glowering fiercely.
“My scouts can maintain communications down the river!” he snapped. Then, reluctantly: “If need be.”
Belisarius shook his head. “I’ve got a lot better use for your men than being couriers.” He decided to toss Abbu a bone—and a rather large one at that. “This newfangled system is fine for staying in touch with the rear. Only men can scout the front.”
Abbu’s chest swelled. The more so, after Belisarius’ next words: “Which is precisely where I propose to go. Back to the front. I want to keep pushing Malwa off balance.”
Leaning over the map, Belisarius gave the Persian emperor a concise summary of his plans. To his relief, Khusrau immediately nodded agreement. Belisarius was not under the command of Khusrau, of course, but maintaining good and close relations with the Persians was essential for everything.
“Yes,” stated the emperor forcefully. “That is the way to go. The Aryan way!”
The last, boastfully barked statement was perhaps unfortunate. The last time the Roman officers in that tent had seen an Aryan army attacking in “the Aryan way” was when they charged Belisarius at Mindouos. And lost an army in the doing, in one of the worst defeats in Persia’s long history.
Obviously sensing the little awkwardness in the room, Khusrau smiled. “Not, of course, as stupidly as has sometimes been done in the past.”
Maurice—of all people—played the diplomat. “You broke Malwa yourself, Emperor, not so long ago. When you led the charge in the Aryan way which cleared the road to Sukkur.”
Khusrau’s smile turned into a grin. “I? Nonsense, Maurice.” The emperor slapped the shoulder of the young Persian officer standing at his side. “Kurush led that magnificent display of Aryan martial prowess. I assure you I stayed quite some distance behind. Arrayed in my finest armor, of course, and waving my sword about like the great Cyrus of ancient memory.”
A little laugh swept the room. For all the historic animosity between Rome and Persia, every Roman officer in Belisarius’ army had long since fallen under the sway of Khusrau’s magnetic personality. That little witty remark of his being a good part of the reason. Of Khusrau Anushirvan’s personal courage, no man in the tent had any doubt. But it was refreshing, for once, to see a Persian monarch—any ruler, for that matter—who did not fear to speak the truth as well.