“Please,” he whispered. “I’m useless here, now. Anthony of Thessalonica has taken charge of the forces since I was injured—doing a good job of it, too—and I’ve got nothing to do but lie here.” He managed a weak chuckle. “Practicing my rhetoric and grammar. A pastime which pales very quickly, I assure you.”
The two naval officers hesitated. Neither one of them wanted to come right out and make the obvious rejoinder: there’ll be nothing for you to do up north, either, except die if Belisarius can’t hold.
The rejoinder was so obvious that Calopodius already had an answer prepared. Clearly enough, his request was not a spur-of-the-moment impulse. The young nobleman—not much more than a boy, really—must have been lying there for days hoping for an opportunity to leave the place where he had lost his eyesight. And, in the fierce manner of youth, try to return to the fray despite the loss.
“The general will be able to use me in some fashion or other,” he insisted. “He’ll be fighting what amounts to a siege, on the defensive. Lots of quartermaster work, and a lot of that can be done without eyes. Most of it’s arguing with soldiers over what they can and can’t get, after all.” Again, the weak chuckle. “And I really am quite good in rhetoric and grammar.”
Menander looked at Eusebius, then shrugged. “Why not? If he really wants it.”
* * *
Eusebius had his doubts. But, within a day after leaving the island, the doubts began to recede. Much to his surprise—astonishment, rather—the noble Greek youth proved to have an aptitude for machinery. Or, at least, didn’t look upon it as utterly unfathomable.
Working down in the hold with the steam engine, of course, was far too dangerous for a blind man. But, after a bit of experimentation, Eusebius discovered that a blind man who was willing to learn could manage the work of pumping the chamber of the fire cannon readily enough.
“It’s kind of dangerous,” he said hesitantly.
“All the better,” replied Calopodius. Then, after thinking about it: “Unless I’d be putting you and the crew at risk.”
Eusebius began to shake his head, until he realized the gesture would be meaningless to Calopodius. “I didn’t mean it that way. I meant it’ll be risky being stationed up here when we run the fortress. There’ll be picket boats, sure as anything. I’ll have to torch them as we go past, or they might board the cargo ships. That will give the big Malwa guns on the fortress as good a target as anyone could ask for at night. You’d really be safer on the Justinian.”
But he didn’t press the issue. Safety, clearly enough, was not what Calopodius was seeking. There was something almost suicidal about the young officer’s eagerness to return to combat. As if, by sneering at death itself, he could somehow restore his sight. That part of it, at least, with which a young man measures his own worth.
Chapter 38
Belisarius hunched, covering his head with his hands. The motion was more instinctive than reasoned, since his helmet would provide far more protection than his hands. From the sound of it, the mortar shell had landed too far away to be any danger anyway.
“Those are the worst,” said Gregory. “The round shot, even from their big twenty-four pounders, can’t really make a dent in these soft-earth berms. But those damned big mortars of theirs . . .”
“Just one of them killed eight men earlier this morning,” muttered Felix. He gave Belisarius a keen scrutiny. “Are you sure . . .”
Belisarius shook his head, as he rose up from his crouch. “Not yet, Felix. Don’t think Sittas hasn’t been hounding me about it, either.” The general placed the periscope back over the rampart. The optical device was one of twenty which Belisarius had brought with him from Charax. Aide had recommended the things, and, sure enough, they had proved invaluable once the Malwa siege began biting in.
“He’s champing at the bit to lead a sally, because he’s positive he can get to those trenches and butcher the Malwa mortar crews without losing too many cataphracts.”