The Tide of Victory

The plan relied on its own boldness to succeed. That—and the willingness of Calopodius and fewer than two thousand cataphracts left behind to die, if necessary, on a island across from the huge Malwa army besieging Sukkur. Again, the very boldness of the gambit was the only thing that gave it a chance to succeed. Belisarius estimated—and Calopodius obviously agreed—that the Malwa commander would assume that the forces on the island were simply a detachment of Belisarius' main force. Which, he would assume—insanity to think otherwise!—were still positioned in Rohri.

Positioned, refitted—and ready to take advantage of a failed Malwa assault on the outlying detachment on the island to push across the Indus and link up with the Persians forted up in Sukkur and Ashot's Roman forces south of the city.

Aide chimed in, back to his mode of reassurance: By now, after Anatha and the Dam and Charax, the Malwa will be terrified of another "Belisarius trap." Their commander at Sukkur will stare at that island and wonder. And wonder. What trap lies hidden there? He will study that island, and conclude that Calopodius is simply bait. And—wise man!—he will conclude that bait is best left unswallowed.

Belisarius nodded, responding simultaneously to Aide and the young and eager officer standing in front of him.

"It'll work," he said firmly, his tone exuding a confidence he did not really possess. But . . .

Belisarius had made up his mind, now. As much as anything, because listening to Calopodius' enthusiastic words had convinced him of the key thing. If this scheme had any chance of success, it would be because of the boldness and courage of the officer who led it. And while some part of Belisarius' soul was dark and grim—almost bitter—at the thought of asking a seventeen-year-old boy to stand and die, the cold-blooded general's mind knew the truth. For some odd reason buried deep within the human spirit, such "boys," throughout history, had proven their willingness to do so.

Time and time again they had, in places beyond counting. It was a characteristic which recognized neither border, breed, nor birth. Such "boys" had done so in the Warsaw Ghetto, and at Isandhlwana, and in the sunken road at Shiloh. As if, on the threshold of manhood, they felt compelled to prove themselves worthy of a status that no one, really, had ever challenged—except themselves, in the shadowy and fearful crevices of their own souls.

He sighed. So be it. I was once seventeen years old myself. Coldly, his eyes moved over the landscape of the island, remembering. And would have—eagerly—done the same.

There remained, only, to sharpen the sacrificial blade. Belisarius steeled himself, and spoke.

"Remember, Calopodius. Bleed them. If they come, spill their guts before you die." His tone was as hard as the words. "I'm hoping they don't, of course. I'm hoping the fake guns and the constant movement of a few troops will convince the Malwa my main force is still here. The few guns and troops I'm leaving you will be enough to repel any probes. And once Menander gets here with the Justinian, any Malwa attack across the river will get savaged. But—"

"If they come across in force before Menander gets here, they'll mangle us," concluded Calopodius. "But it won't be all that easy for them, if we stand our ground. Don't forget that we captured or destroyed most of their river boats in the Battle of the Crossing. So they can't just swamp me with a single mass attack. They'll have to work at it."

He shrugged. "It's a war, General. And you can't live forever, anyway. But if they come, I'll bleed them. Me and the Constantinople cataphracts you're leaving behind." His young voice rang with conviction. "We maybe can't break them—not a large enough assault—but we will gore them badly. Badly enough to give you that extra few days you need. That much I can promise."

Belisarius hesitated, trying to think of something to add. Before he could shape the words, a small sound caused him to turn his head.

Maurice had arrived. The chiliarch looked at him, then at Calopodius. His eyes were as gray as his beard.

"You agreed, boy?" he demanded. Seeing the young officer's eager nod, Maurice snorted.

"Damn fool." But the words glowed with inner fire. Maurice, too, had once been seventeen years old. He stepped over and placed a hand on Calopodius' shoulder. Then, squeezing it: