Menander gave the order to prepare for battle. He and Eusebius had planned to leave such work to the Victrix, but the Victrix’s engine—every bit as balky as the one in Menander’s ship—had broken down a few miles back. By the time Eusebius could repair the problem and arrive, the battle would be over. Menander was not overly concerned.
One boat, soon enough. Ashot, ever alert to the possibility of an amphibious attack on his flank, had two field guns stationed on the river. A few well placed shots were enough to sink one of the boats.
Menander, stationed next to one of the long twenty-four-pounder bowchasers was fascinated by what happened next. So fascinated, in fact, that he paid little attention for a time to the enemy ship still approaching him.
The Malwa commander was quite clearly doing his best to steer the vessel to the bank before it foundered completely. Right into the waiting arms of the Roman forces. He almost made it before his men were forced into the water. But the swim was short—many of them were actually able to wade ashore. And, sure enough, Roman troops were there to accept their surrender.
There was no fighting, no resistance of any kind. The wet and bedraggled Malwa troops seemed quite resigned to their new condition.
Menander looked away. The surviving enemy warship was almost within range of his forward guns, and soon he would give the order to fire. But he took the time, before concentrating all his attention on the coming little battle, to ponder over his great commander’s methods of war. Methods which were sometimes derided—but never by those who had witnessed them.
Mercy can have its own sharp point. Keener than any lance or blade; and even deadlier to the foe.
“Will you look at the sorry bastards scramble!” laughed one of the gunners. “Like ducklings wading to mama!”
Menander met the gunner’s jeering face. Then, softly: “And who do you think has been doing all of Ashot’s digging for him? You can be damned sure that Ashot’s men haven’t been worn out by it. Fresh for the fighting, they’ve been. Day after day, while Malwa prisoners work under conditions not much worse than they faced in their own ranks. Which makes them always ready enough to surrender.”
The amusement faded from the gunner’s face, as he grappled with a new concept. Seeing his confusion, Menander was hard-pressed not to laugh himself.
Mind you, I think Ashot will be ecstatic when we arrive. I’ll bet his supply problems have been even worse than he expected, with all those extra mouths to feed.
* * *
A few minutes later, the battle began. A few minutes after that, it was over. The two big guns in the bow of the Justinian simply shredded the Malwa river boat. The two shots the Malwa managed to fire from their own little bowchaser missed the Justinian by a wide margin.
Again, Malwa soldiers and sailors spilled into the water. But, this time, they were too far from shore for many of them to have a chance of reaching it.
Menander hesitated, for an instant. Then, remembering a friendly wave and his revered commander’s subtleties, he made his decision.
“Steer right through them!” he barked. “And slow down. Any Malwa who can grab a line we’ll tow ashore with us.”
He turned and moved toward the rear of the ship, issuing orders to his soldiers as he went. By the time the desperate Malwa in the river had managed to seize one of the tow lines tossed by the Romans, Menander had soldiers ready to repel any possible boarding attempt. And he had both Puckle guns manned, loaded and ready to fire.
Long before they reached the docks that Ashot’s men had erected in anticipation of their arrival, however, Menander was no longer worried about boarders. It was clear as day that the Malwa being towed to safety had no more intention of turning on their rescuers than ducklings would attack their mama. On those faces which were close enough for Menander to read any expression, he could see nothing beyond relief.
For those men, obviously, the war was over. And glad enough they were, to see the end of it come. Most of them were peasants, after all. Hard labor on too little food was no stranger to them. Nothing to enjoy, of course. But also—nothing to fear.