The Dance of Time: Chapter Four

The Iron Triangle, in the Punjab
Winter, 533 A.D.

    “You can describe it better than that,” rasped Justinian. The former Emperor of the Roman Empire was now its Grand Justiciar, since his blinding at the hands of traitors and Malwa agents had made him ineligible for the throne under Roman law. But he’d lost very little of his peremptory habits.

    No reason he should, really. Although Belisarius’ son Photius was officially the new Emperor, Justinian’s wife Theodora was the Empress Regent and the real power in Constantinople. Still, it was exasperating for the premier general of the Roman empire to be addressed like an errant schoolboy. Tightening his jaws a bit, Belisarius brought the telescope back to his eye.

    “At an estimate—best I can do, since they haven’t finished it yet—the tower will be at least three hundred feet tall. From the looks of the—”

    “Never mind, never mind,” interrupted Justinian. “It doesn’t really matter. With a tower that tall, they’re obviously planning for general AM broadcasting.”

    The former emperor’s badly-scarred eye sockets were riveted on the distant Malwa tower, as if he could still see. Or glare.

    “In God’s name, why?” he demanded. “For military purposes, directional broadcasting would make a lot more sense and require a lot less massive construction. That’s what we’re doing.”

    Justinian waved a hand toward the south, where the Roman army was erecting its own “antenna farm” almost at the very tip of the triangle of land formed by the junction of the Indus and Chenab rivers. The “Iron Triangle,” as the Roman soldiers called it.

    Only the tips of the antennas could be seen from the fortifications on the north side of the Iron Triangle. The Roman radios were designed to be directional, not broadcast, so there was no need for an enormous tower. The key for directional radio was mostly the length of the antennas, not their height.

    Folding up the telescope, Belisarius shrugged. “Maybe for the same reason we’re having Antonina and Ousanas build exactly such a tower in Axum. It’ll give us general relaying capability we wouldn’t have otherwise.”

    “That’s nonsense,” Justinian grumbled. “I could understand them building a tower like that in their capital city of Kausambi. But why build one here, on the front lines? We’re not, after all.”

    Belisarius said nothing.

    After an uncomfortable moment, Justinian chuckled harshly. “Fine, fine. Presumably they don’t have quite our motivation. At least, I think it’s safe to assume that monster from the future doesn’t have a peevish wife like I do.”

    Belisarius smiled crookedly. Although they had never discussed it quite openly, both he and Justinian knew perfectly well—and knew each other knew—that one of the main reasons they’d tacitly agreed not to build a general AM tower in the Iron Triangle was so that the Empress Regent could not easily bombard them with instructions.

    More easily bombard them, it might be better to say. As it was, just using the telegraph, Theodora averaged at least two messages a day to the Iron Triangle.

    One of which, almost every day, was either a peremptory demand that Justinian stop playing soldier and get back to a position of safety far to the south in Barbaricum, or a pleading request for the same, or a threat of dire consequences if he didn’t—or, often enough, all three rolled into one.

    “Is there something we’re overlooking?” Justinian demanded.

    The question wasn’t aimed at Belisarius so much as it was at the “jewel” that hung in a pouch suspended from the Roman general’s muscular neck. Inside that pouch rested Aide, the crystalline being from the future who had come back into the human past to thwart—hopefully—the intervention of the so-called “new gods” of the future.

    Aide’s response came only into Belisarius’ mind. No, the crystal being said, rather curtly. We’re not overlooking anything. Tell that nasty old man to stop being so paranoid. And tell him to stop being so nasty, while you’re at it.

    Since Justinian couldn’t see the expression, Belisarius grinned openly. Outside of himself, Justinian was the only human being who regularly communicated with Aide via direct contact with the jewel. Most people found direct contact with Aide rather unsettling. The jewel’s means of communication typically involved a flood of images—many of them quite disturbing—not simply words which could be easily sanitized in the mind of the recipient.

    Justinian probably found it unsettling also. Belisarius certainly did, often enough. But if the former emperor was “nasty” and “paranoid”—terms which Belisarius would allow were fair enough, even if “old” was a bit off the mark—he was also just about as tough-minded as any human being who’d ever lived. So he seemed to tolerate the problem well enough—and, on the other hand, got the benefit of the direct contact with Aide which had enabled Justinian, in a very short time, to become the Roman Empire’s master artisan.

    Or designer for artisans, it might be better to say. Blind as he was, it was difficult for Justinian to do the work himself.

    Although Aide tolerated that extensive contact for the sake of their mutual project, he didn’t like it at all. He didn’t like Justinian.

    And why should he, really? Most people didn’t like Justinian.

    His peeve apparently satisfied by the remarks, Aide added uncertainly: I don’t really know why they’re doing it. But I’m sure it’s not some clever trick we’re missing.

    Belisarius gave Aide the mental equivalent of a nod. Then, said to Justinian: “Aide doesn’t think so, although he doesn’t know why they’re doing it. What I think is that—”

    “Oh, it’s obvious enough,” interrupted Justinian, as if he hasn’t been the one to demand an answer in the first place. “Morale, that’s all.”

    Again, he waved toward the south. “That mass of wires we’ve got struck all over down there is just something that annoys the soldiers. We’ve even had to position guards to keep the silly bastards from stumbling over them in the dark. Especially when they’re drunk on the local beer. As many defeats as the Malwa have suffered these past few years, that monster Link has got to be worried about morale. A great big impressive-looking radio tower will help boost its soldiers’ spirits, even if it isn’t really that useful. Especially those soldiers. Ignorant and illiterate peasants, most of them.”

    Again, Belisarius grinned. “Ignorant and illiterate peasants” was a fair description of most of the Malwa army, true enough. On the other hand, it could be applied to most Roman soldiers also. Over time, the changes Aide had brought to the world would produce a rapid increase in the general level of literacy—was already doing so, in fact, among many of the Empire’s youngsters. The ones living in big cities, at least. But, even five years after Aide’s arrival, very little of that had penetrated the Roman soldiery. It was still true that, below the rank of hecatontarch, not more than one in ten of them could read and write. For that matter, a hefty percentage of the empire’s officer corps was illiterate also, beyond—in most cases—being able to painfully write out their own name.

    So be it. Wars were fought with the armies available. Whatever weaknesses and limitations the Roman army possessed, Belisarius knew it was far superior to that of the enemy. Man for man, certainly, on average. The Roman Empire, whatever its many flaws and failures, was still a society in which a determined and capable man could rise based on his own merits. The Malwa, on the other hand, with their rigid adherence to a caste system, had to rely primarily on the sheer mass of the army that northern India’s teeming population could produce.

    That had been, from the very beginning of the war, the basic equation Belisarius had had to deal with. Using quality against quantity, in such a way as to eventually defeat the Malwa without ever giving them the chance to use their immense strength against him in a way that was effective.

    It had worked, so far—but it took time. Time, and patience.

    Alas, patience was not a virtue often associated with Justinian. As he proved an hour later, once they entered the sunken bunker behind the front lines that served Belisarius for his headquarters.

    “So how much longer are you going to dilly-dally?” he asked, after taking a chair.

    Belisarius decided to try the tactic of misunderstanding. “About the submarine?” He harrumphed very sternly, almost majestically. “Forever, Justinian—so you can just forget about trying to cajole me—”

    He didn’t think the tactic would work. Sure enough:

    “Stop playing the fool. I don’t even disagree with you about the submarine—as you know perfectly well. I just think it’d be an interesting experiment, that’s all. I’m talking about the offensive against the Malwa that you keep postponing and postponing. I’m beginning to think you’ve converted to that heathen Hindu way of looking at things. All time is cyclical and moves in great yugas, so why bother doing anything for the next billion years or so? Or is it that you think the way your soldiers are copulating with the local natives, you’ll have a huge population of your own within a generation or two?”

    The former emperor sneered. “Idiot. The population density here is already horrible. You’ll be facing starvation soon enough, you watch.”

    Belisarius tried to keep from scowling, but... couldn’t, quite. Given that the Romans controlled the Indus south of the Iron Triangle and their Persian allies were rapidly bringing agricultural production in the Sind back up to normal, he wasn’t really worried about running out of food. Still, rations were tight, and...

    He sighed, audibly. There wasn’t much point trying to keep anything from Justinian, as smart as he was. “It’s a problem, I admit. Not the food, just the endless headaches. I’m beginning to think—”

    “Forget it! I’m the Grand Justiciar of the Roman Empire. There’s no way I’ll let you wheedle me into adjudicating the endless squabbles you’re having with the damn natives here. Bunch of heathens, anyway.”

    “Actually, they’re not,” said Belisarius mildly. “A good portion of them, at least. You’d be surprised how many are converting to Christianity.”

    Justinian’s eye sockets were too badly scarred for him to manage the feat of widening them with surprise. Perhaps thankfully, since they were horrible-enough looking as it was. Justinian, naturally, refused to cover them with anything.

    Calopodius did the same, but in his case that was simply a young man’s determination to accept adversity squarely. In Justinian’s, it was the ingrained, arrogant habit of an emperor. What did he care if people flinched from his appearance? They’d done so often enough when he’d still been sighted. More often, probably. Justinian had never been famous for his forbearance.

    “It’s true,” Belisarius insisted. “Converting in droves. By now, the priests tell me, at least a fourth of the Punjabis in the Triangle have adopted our faith.”

    Justinian’s head swiveled toward the bunker’s entry, as if he could look out at the terrain beyond. Out and up, actually, since the bunker was buried well beneath the soil.

    “Why, do you think?”

    “It might be better to say, why not?” Belisarius nodded toward the entrance. “Those are all peasants out there, Justinian. Low caste and non-Malwa. It’s not as if the Malwa Empire’s mahaveda brand of Hinduism ever gave them anything.”

    Justinian was almost scowling. He didn’t like being puzzled. “Yes, yes, I can see that. But I’d still think they’d be afraid...”

    His voice trailed off.

    Belisarius chuckled harshly. “Be afraid of what? That the Malwa will slaughter them if they overrun the Triangle? They will anyway, just as an object lesson—and those Punjabi peasants know it perfectly well. So they’re apparently deciding to adhere to Rome as closely as possible.”

    Still looking at the heavily timbered entrance to the bunker, Belisarius added: “It’s going to be a bit of a political problem, in fact, assuming we win the war.”

    He didn’t need to elaborate. Emperor he might no longer be, but Justinian still thought like one—and he’d been perhaps the most intelligent emperor in Rome’s long history.

    “Ha!” he barked. “Yes, I can see that. If a fourth have already converted, then by the time”—his scowl returned briefly—“you finally launch your long-delayed offensive and we hammer the Malwa bastards—”

    “I’m glad you’re so confident of the matter.”

    “Don’t be stupid!” Justinian snapped impatiently. “Of course you will. And when you do—as I was saying before I was interrupted—probably two-thirds of them will be Christians. So what does that leave for Khusrau, except a headache? Don’t forget that you did promise him the lower Punjab as Persian territory.”

    Belisarius shrugged. “I didn’t ‘promise’ the Emperor of Iran anything. I admit, I did indicate I’d be favorable to the idea—mostly to keep him from getting too ambitious and wanting to gobble all of the Punjab. That would just lead to an endless three-way conflict between the Persians, the Kushans and the Rajputs.”

    “You’d get that anyway. You want my advice?”

    Naturally, Justinian didn’t wait for an answer before giving it. “Keep the Iron Triangle. Make it a Roman enclave. It’d be a good idea, anyway, because we could serve as a buffer between the Persians, the Kushans and the Rajputs—and now we could justify it on religious grounds.”

    He made an attempt to infuse the last phrase with some heartfelt piety. A very slight attempt—and even that failed.

    Belisarius scratched his chin. “I’d been thinking about it,” he admitted. “Kungas won’t care.”

    “Care? He’d be delighted! I never would have thought those barbarous Kushans would be as smart as they are. But, they are that smart. At least, they’re smart enough to listen to Irene Macrembolitissa, and she’s that smart.”

    In point of fact, while Belisarius knew that the king of the Kushans listened carefully to the advice of his Greek wife, Kungas made his own decisions. He was quite smart enough on his own to figure out that getting his new Kushan kingdom embroiled in endless conflicts with Persians and Rajputs over who controlled the Punjab would just weaken him. A Roman buffer state planted in the middle of the Punjab would tend to keep conflicts down—or, at least, keep the Kushans out of it.

    “The Rajputs...”

    “Who cares what they think?” demanded Justinian. “All of this is a moot point, I remind you, until and unless you finally get your much-delayed offensive underway—at which time the Rajputs will be a beaten people, and beaten people take what they can get.”

    That was Justinian’s old thinking at work. Shrewd enough, within its limits. But if nothing else, the years Belisarius had spent with Aide’s immense knowledge of human history in his mind had made him highly skeptical of imperialism. He’d been able to scan enormous vistas of human experience, not only into the future of this planet but on a multitude of other planets as well. Out of that, when it came to the subject of empires, Belisarius had distilled two simple pieces of wisdom:

    First, every empire that ever existed or would exist always thought it was the end-all and be-all.

    Second, none of them were. Few of them lasted more than two hundred years, and even the ones that did never went more than a couple of centuries without a civil war or other major internal conflict. The human race just naturally seemed to do better if it avoided too much in the way of political self-aggrandizement. The notion that history could be “guided”—even by someone like Belisarius, with Aide to serve as his adviser—was pure nonsense. Better to just set up something workable, that contained as few conflicts as possible, and let human potential continued to unfold within it. If the underlying society was healthy, the political structure tended to sort itself out well enough to fit whatever the circumstances were.

    In short, not to his surprise, Belisarius had come to conclude that the ambitions and schemes of his great enemy Link and the “new gods” who had created the monster were simply the same old imperial folly writ large. Belisarius didn’t really know exactly what he believed in. But he knew what he didn’t—and that was good enough.

    “Agreed, then,” he said abruptly. “We’ll plan on keeping the Triangle. Who knows? Khusrau might even be smart enough to see that it’s in his benefit, too.”

    “Might be,” grunted Justinian skeptically. “I doubt it, though. Don’t forget he’s an emperor. Wearing the purple automatically makes a man stupider.”

    The scarred, savaged face grinned. “Take my word for it. I know.”

    Their conversation was interrupted by a particularly loud ripple in the never-ceasing exchange of barrages between the Romans and the Malwa. Some of the enemy shells even landed close enough to make the bunker tremble.

    Not much. But enough to bring Justinian’s scowl back.

    “I’m getting tired of that. When in the name of all that’s holy are you going to stop lolling about and start the offensive?”

    Belisarius didn’t bother to answer.

    When the time is right, came Aide’s voice. Then, a bit plaintively: Which is when, by the way? I’d like to know myself.”

    Et tu, Aide? The answer is that I don’t know. When it feels right. Which it doesn’t yet. Things have to keep brewing for a while, in the Hindu Kush—and most of all, in Majarashtra.

    You don’t have any way to get in touch with Rao by radio, Aide pointed out. Or Kungas, for that matter.

    Teach your grandfather to suck eggs! I know I don’t. What’s worse still, is that even if I did have radio contact with India, I couldn’t talk to the three men who matter the most.

    There was silence for a moment, as Aide tried to follow Belisarius’ train of thought. For all his immense intellect, Aide had little of the Roman general’s intuitive sense of strategy.

    Oh, he said finally. Narses the eunuch.

    Yes. And Rana Sanga. And, most of all, Lord Damodara.

    There was a moment’s silence, again. Then Aide added, somewhat timidly: You probably better not mention to Justinian—certainly not Theodora!—that you’re stalling the offensive because you’re counting on a Roman traitor and the two best generals on the enemy side.

    Teach your grandfather to suck eggs!