“Three weeks,” Menander muttered to himself. “In three weeks they’ll be at Sukkur.” He growled satisfaction, almost like a tiger. “And once they get to Sukkur, the Malwa there are done for. If Khusrau and Ashot can hold out that long, Bouzes and Coutzes will be the hammer to the anvil. The Malwa will have no choice but to retreat back to the Punjab.”
He pictured that retreat in his mind. Practically purring, now.
Two hundred miles they’ll have to retreat. With our main forces coming after them, Belisarius blocking their way—the possibility that Belisarius might fail in his attempt to reach the Chenab never crossed Menander’s mind—and me and Eusebius to hammer them from the river with the Justinian and Victrix. And the Photius, coming later.
Fondly, Menander patted the thick wooden hull of the newfangled steam-powered warship. According to the last message received by Bouzes and Coutzes over the telegraph line they had been laying behind them, the Justinian’s sister ship had reached Barbaricum and was starting up the Indus herself. Towing yet another flotilla of precious supplies to the front.
“Fine ships!” he exclaimed, to a distant and uncaring moon.
* * *
Not long after daybreak, the next morning, Menander was snarling at the rising sun. But, this time, simply at the vagaries of fate rather than the madness of a far-distant one-time emperor besotted with gadgetry.
For the fifth time since the voyage began, the Justinian had run aground on an unseen sandbar in the muddy river. While the ship’s navigator dutifully recorded the existence of that sandbar on the charts which the expedition was creating for those who would come after them, Eusebius towed the Justinian off the sandbar with the Victrix, its paddle wheels churning at full throttle. Once the Victrix succeeded in breaking Menander’s ship loose, the Justinian’s own engine did the rest.
A few minutes later, having cleared the obstruction and carefully towing the cargo vessels away from it, Menander’s mood became sunny once again.
So was that of his chief pilot. “Good thing the old emperor”—such was the affectionate term which had become the custom in Menander’s river navy, to describe a blind emperor-become-craftsman—”designed this thing to go in reverse. Odd, really, since he never planned it for river work.”
Menander curled his lip. “Who says he never planned it for river work?” he demanded. Then, shaking his head firmly: “Don’t underestimate the old emperor. A wise man, he is—ask anyone who’s ever been up for judgement in his court.”
The pilot nodded sagely. “True, true. No bribing the old emperor to make a favorable ruling for some rich crony. Worth your head to even try.”
Affectionately, the pilot patted the flank of the ship and cast an approving glance at one of the heavy guns nearby. “She’ll put the fear of God in the Malwa. You watch.”
Menander began to add his own placid words of wisdom to that sage opinion, but a shrieking whistle cut him short.
“Again!” he bellowed, racing for the hatch leading to the engine room below. “Justinian and his damned contraptions!”
* * *
The same rising sun cast its light on Belisarius’ army, now well into its march away from the Indus.
“We’ve broken contact, clear enough,” said Maurice with satisfaction. “The men will be getting tired, though, after marching half the night. Do you want to make camp early today?”
Belisarius shook his head. “No rest, Maurice. Not until nightfall. I know they’ll be exhausted by then, but they’ll get over it soon enough.”
He did not even bother to look behind him, where he had left two young men to bear a load far heavier than their years warranted.
“Drive them, Maurice,” he growled. “By the time we reach the Chenab, I want every man in this army to be cursing me day and night.”
Maurice smiled. “Think they’ll take it out on the Malwa, do you?” The smile became a grin. “I imagine you’re right, at that.”
Chapter 31
THE GULF OF KHAMBAT
Autumn, 533 a.d.
“Tomorrow you will strike the Malwa at Bharakuccha,” whispered Eon. The voice of the dying king, for all its weakness, did not tremble or waver in the least. Nor did any of the people assembled in the royal cabin of the flagship, which consisted of all the top commanders of the Axumite navy, have any difficulty making out the words. If they leaned forward on their stools, bracing hands against knees, it was not because they strained to hear. It was simply from deep respect.