Something inside the man, buried deep, rebelled. For the first time since the battle began-for the first time in his life, truth be told-Valentinian swung a heroic blow. A mighty overhand strike at the Rajput's head.
Sanga threw up his sword, crosswise, to block the cut. Valentinian's sword, descending with the power of his own great strength, met a blade held in Rajputana's mightiest hand.
The finest steel in the world was made in India. The impact snapped the Roman sword in half, leaving not more than a six-inch stub in Valentinian's fist.
Six inches can still be enough, in a knife fight. Valentinian never hesitated. Weasel-quick, he flung himself to his own knee and drove the sword stub at Sanga's throat.
The Rajput king managed to lower his helmet in time. The blade glanced off the noseguard and ripped a great tear in Sanga's cheek. More blood gushed forth.
It was not enough. No cry of despair escaped his lips, but Valentinian knew he was finished. Facing each other at close distance, both on their knees, the advantage now was all Sanga's.
Sanga was never one for hesitation himself. Instantly, the Rajput king swung a blow. Valentinian interposed his shield. The shield cracked. Another blow. The shield broke. Another blow, to the head, knocked the Roman's helmet askew. The final blow, again to the helmet, split the segmented steel and sent Valentinian sprawling to the ground. Senseless, at the very least. Probably dead, judging from the blood which began pouring through the sundered pieces of the Spangenhelm.
Sanga raised his arm, to sever Valentinian's neck. But he stopped the motion, even before the sword finished its ascent.
He had won a glorious victory, this day. He would not stain it with an executioner's stroke.
Sanga sagged back on his heels. In a daze, he stared up at the sky. It was sunset, and the mountains were bathed in purple majesty. Around him, vaguely, he heard thunderous cheers coming from thousands of Rajput throats. And, seconds later, felt hands laying him down and beginning to bind his wounds.
A glorious victory. He had not felt this clean-this Rajput pure-for many years. Not since the day he fought Raghunath Rao, and first entered himself into Indian legend.
In the river valley below, the Romans also heard the cheer. The mountains seemed to ring with the sound.
Maurice lowered the telescope. "That's it," he said softly.
Belisarius took a deep breath. Then, turning to Coutzes: "Send a courier, under banner of truce. I want to know if Valentinian's dead, so that the priests can do the rites."
"And if he's alive?" asked Coutzes.
"See if they'll accept a ransom." Belisarius' crooked smile made a brief appearance. "Not that I think I could afford it, even as rich as I am. Not unless Damodara's truly lost his mind."
"Not for all the gold in Rome," was Damodara's instant reply. "Do I look like a madman?"
When Coutzes brought back the news, Belisarius lowered his head. But his heart, for the first time in hours, soared to the heavens.
"He might still die," cautioned Coutzes. "They say he's lost a lot of blood. And his skull's broken."
Anastasius snorted. So did Maurice.
"Not Valentinian," said Belisarius. He lifted his head, smiling as broadly as he ever had in his life. "Not my champion. Not that great, roaring, lion of a man."
The following morning, the Malwa army began moving along the river. To the northwest, away from the Romans. Belisarius' army, still holding the fords, made no effort to block them.
Not a single soldier, on either side, thought the matter odd.
"Let's hear it for maneuvers," said a Rajput to a Ye-tai. The barbarian nodded quick agreement.
"God, I love to march," announced a Greek cataphract. His eyes swept the mountains. "Gives us a chance to admire the scenery. For weeks, if we're lucky. Maybe even months."
"Beats staring at your own guts," came a Syrian's response. "Even for a minute."
Chapter 15
Yemen
Spring, 532 A.D.
"It'll be tonight, for sure," stated Menander.
Ashot wobbled his hand back and forth, in a gesture which indicated less certainty. "Maybe. Maybe not."
Menander stood his ground. "It'll be tonight," he repeated confidently. The young cataphract took two steps to the entrance of the field headquarters and pulled back the flap. The Roman army's camp had been set up half a mile east of a small oasis. Menander was staring in that direction, but his eyes were on the horizon rather than the oasis itself.
A moment later, Euphronius joined him. The young Syrian-he was Menander's age, in his early twenties-took one look at the sky and nodded.
"Sundown in less than an hour," he said. "Moonshine, after that, until midnight. The Arabs will wait until the moon goes down. Then they'll attack."
Antonina, seated in a chair near the center of the tent, found herself smiling. As soon as she realized what she was doing, she removed the expression. But not soon enough for it to have escaped Ashot's attention.
Ashot grinned at her. She returned the grin with a look of stern admonition, like a prim schoolteacher reproving an older boy in a classroom when he mocked the youngsters.
With about the same success. True, Ashot had the grace to press his lips together. But he still looked like the proverbial cat who swallowed a canary.
Ashot commanded the five hundred cataphracts whom Belisarius had sent along with Antonina on her expedition. Her husband had selected the Armenian officer for the assignment because Belisarius thought Ashot-after Maurice, of course-was the best field commander among his bucellarii. For the most part, Belisarius' decision had been due to Ashot's innate ability. But he had also been influenced by the man's experience. Even though Ashot was only in his mid-thirties, the Armenian was a veteran of more battles and campaigns than any other officer in Belisarius' household troops. (Again, of course, leaving aside Maurice.)
From her own experience over the past year, Antonina had come to understand why Belisarius had counted that so heavily in his decision. She was still herself something of a novice in the art of war. Time and again, Ashot's steadying hand had been there, when Antonina's assumptions proved incorrect.
The enemy didn't do what you expected them to do? Yeah, well, they usually don't. No problem. We'll deal with it.
Euphronius and Menander turned away from the entrance. With the absolute surety possessed only by young men, they made their pronouncements.
"Tonight," predicted Menander.
"Right after the moon goes down," decreed Euphronius.
"The main attack will come from the east," ruled Menander.
Euphronius nodded his head. Solon approving a judgement by Hammurabi. "Only possible direction. They'll be able to use the setting moon to guide them in the approach. And they won't get tangled up in the oasis."
Antonina squared her shoulders. "Very well, then. See to the preparations."
The two young officers swept out of the tent, brushing aside the flap as if they were the trade winds. When they were gone, Antonina eyed Ashot. The Armenian's grin was back in full force.
"All right," she growled, "now tell me what you think."
Still grinning, the Armenian shrugged. "I don't know. And for that matter, I don't care. The attack might come tonight-although I'm skeptical-so we need to be prepared anyway. It'll be good drill, if nothing else."