The Dance of Time: Chapter Twenty Three

The Iron Triangle

    Maurice was actually grinning. Thinly, true. But it was still a genuine grin, full of nothing but amusement.

    “Yes, general, he’s late again. Like he has been for every shift since she got here.”

    Belisarius glanced at the empty chair where Calopodius normally sat. The scribes at the table were in their seats, with their implements in hand. But they were simply chatting casually, waiting for their boss to arrive.

    They didn’t seem any more disgruntled than Maurice, however. Calopodius was popular with the men who staffed Belisarius’ headquarters bunker.

    “I thought she’d hit this place like a storm,” Belisarius mused. “I know for a fact that the medical staff was trembling in their boots. What I hadn’t foreseen was that Calopodius would absorb most of it.”

    “His pallet, rather—and thank God I’m not one of the straws. Be bruised and battered bloody, by now.”

    “Don’t be crude, Maurice.”

    “I’m not being crude. Just recognizing that once you strip away the mysticism about ‘the Blind Scribe’ and ‘the Wife,’ what you’re really dealing with are newlyweds—for all practical purposes—neither of whom is twenty years old yet. Ha! Randy teenagers. Can’t keep their hands off—”

    He coughed, and broke off. Calopodius was hurrying into the bunker.

    “Hurrying” was the word, too. Blind he might be, but by this time Calopodius had the dimensions of the bunker and the location of everything in it committed to memory. And he had an excellent memory.

    The position of the people in the bunker, of course, was less predictable. But, by now, they’d learned to keep out of his way. Belisarius watched as one of the staff officers, grinning, sidestepped Calopodius as he half-raced to the table.

    “Sorry I’m late, General,” the young man muttered, as he sat down. “Anna—ah—had a bit of trouble with her uniform.”

    Under the circumstances, that was perhaps the worst excuse he could have come up with. The entire staff in the bunker—Belisarius and Maurice included—burst into laughter.

    Calopodius flushed. As the laughter continued, the flush deepened until he was almost literally red-faced. But the expression on his face also became subtly transmuted into something that was ultimately more smug than chagrinned. Most young men, after all—even ones raised in Constantinople’s haughty aristocratic circles—are not actually embarrassed by having a reputation for being able to keep their wives in their beds, and happy to be there.

    As the laughter faded away, Luke and Illus came into the bunker. They were both smiling, too, as they took their accustomed places on chairs near the entrance.

    “Accustomed,” at least, for Luke. Illus was still settling into his new role as one of Calopodius’ staff. Officially, he was a bodyguard; just as, officially, Luke was a valet. In practice, Calopodius used either or both of them in whatever capacity seemed needed. Fortunately, the two men seemed to get along well enough.

    “Right,” Calopodius said briskly. He turned his head toward the scribe to his right. “Mark, I think we should—”

    The radio began its short-and-long buzzing noises. The noise was different from the typical click-clack made by the telegraph, when it received an incoming message, but had a basic similarity. Aide—like Link—had not tried to design anything more complex than a spark gap radio system. So the radio used the same “Morse code” that the telegraph did.

    The Malwa used the same code, except when they were transmitting encrypted messages. That was not really so odd, since that code was the common one in the history of the universe that had produced both Aide and Link.

    “—start with the dispatches—”

    —bzzz-bz-bzzz-bzzz-bz-bz-bzzz—

    “—regarding...” He trailed off, his head swiveling toward the radio. Calopodius, unlike Belisarius, could translate Morse code instantly. It was by now a language he was as fluent in as he was in Greek or Latin.

    —bzzz-bz-bz-buzz-bz-bzzz-bz-bz-bzzz—

    “General...” Calopodius rose to his feet.

    Belisarius, frowning, tried to interpret the messages. There was something...

    Yes! Yes! Yes! Aide was doing the equivalent of shouting. It’s starting!

    What’s starting? I can’t—

    Be quiet. I’ll translate for you, starting from the beginning.

    Calopodius was translating the same words aloud, for everyone else in the bunker.

    “I will be damned,” murmured Maurice, shaking his head. “You were right all along. I never really thought you were.”

    “Calopodius!” Belisarius half-shouted, waving his hand in summons. “Let someone else translate. I need your assistance. Now.”

    He moved toward the radio. “Over here.” The blind young officer came away from the table and followed him. So did Maurice.

    Calopodius was not the only one in the bunker who was fluent in Morse. One of his scribes had picked up the translation almost without a pause.

    “He’s not fooling around, is he?” said Maurice.

    “Smart,” said Belisarius. “Very smart. Calopodius, Antonina’s still in Barbaricum with Ousanas, isn’t she?”

    “Yes. They weren’t going to start up the Indus until tomorrow or the day after.”

    “Good. Send her a message immediately telling her to stay there until she hears from me. Better use the telegraph rather than the radio, though. No reason to let the Malwa overhear—”

    “They won’t anyway,” came Justinian’s voice from the entrance. Belisarius turned and saw the former emperor moving into the bunker. “Don’t you pay attention to anything I tell you?”

    He didn’t seem more than mildly aggrieved, though. Justinian always enjoyed explaining how clever he was. When it came to artisanship, anyway, if not politics.

    “I designed this system so that we wouldn’t be intercepted.”

    Lousy old braggart, grumbled Aide. He didn’t design the system. I did. He just followed my instructions. But he’s right. The position and length of the antennas—everything—were set up so we could send signals without the Malwa overhearing us as long as we do it right. They’ll intercept anything we receive, of course. No way to prevent that. But we can transmit in secret.

    “Explain,” Belisarius commanded. “Explain clearly, so a dimwit like me can understand it.”

    Justinian snorted. “Such unwonted modesty! It’s like this, my not-so-stupid general.” Justinian began moving his hands, as if he were shaping a cat’s cradle with no string. “With directional radio, the signal has two strong... call them beams. The strongest, by far, is the forward signal. But there’s also a back signal that can often be picked up. The side signals, however—the lobes—are undetectable.”

    By any technology either we or the Malwa have, anyway, Aide agreed.

    Belisarius thought about it. “In other words, any signal I sent to Damodara in Bharakuccha would probably be picked up by Link.”

    “Yes. The monster’s radio tower, our radio installation, and the Malwa tower in Bharakuccha are almost in a direct line. Not quite, but close enough that we don’t want to risk it. Barbaricum, on the other hand—”

    “Is off to the side, yes. Far enough?”

    Yes.

    “Yes,” said Justinian simultaneously. “Link won’t hear anything you send to Barbaricum. And they, in turn—”

    But Belisarius had already figured it out. “I understand. We can’t signal Damodara in secret, but Barbaricum can with their radio. So we set up a triangle of communications—and the only part of the leg Link can pick up is what we receive. But not what we send.”

    Yes.

    “Yes.”

    Belisarius scratched his chin. While they’d been talking, the radio had kept up its beeping and whooping.

    Bring me current, Aide, while I think. What’s Damodara saying now?

    Most of it’s pretty pointless, in my opinion. A lot of grandiose declarations about the sterling character of the Ye-tai—talk about a pile of nonsense—and even more stuff—really grisly, this part—about the penalties to be meted out to mahaveda priests and mahamimansa.

    The jewel sounded more than a little miffed. I don’t understands why he’s taking up so much precious radio time just to specify what order in which to tear off their limbs and what animals are permitted to feed on the corpses. That last business started with jackals and he’s been working his way down from there. Right now he’s talking about how beetles should be used to finish up the odd bits and ends. Do you think he’s a sadist, maybe? That could be a problem.

    Belisarius chuckled. Even after all these years, Aide—who was vastly more intelligent than humans when it came to many things—could still fumble at the simplest emotional equations.

    No, he’s just very clever. Since he decided to launch his rebellion openly—and that’s interesting, right there, don’t you think?—he’s taking advantage of the opportunities as well as the problems. First, he’s making crystal clear to the Ye-tai that if they acquiesce to the new regime, they won’t be penalized. I’ll bet he’s been sprinkling Toramana’s name all through, yes?

    “Showering” his name, more like. All right, I can understand that. But why—

    The business with the priests? They’re hated all through India, to begin with, so it’s another way to rally popular support. What’s probably more important, at least immediately, is that the mahaveda and mahamimamsa are Malwa’s first line of enforcers.

    Along with the Ye-tai. But... oh.

    Belisarius smiled. I know you can feel ‘fear’ yourself, Aide, but it’s always a fairly calm thing for you, isn’t it? Almost an intellectual business. No trembling, no sweating, no bowels loosening.

    Don’t be silly. Protoplasmic nonsense, that is. You’re saying he’s trying to panic the mahaveda?

    Scare them shitless, Belisarius agreed. Don’t forget that the mahaveda and mahamimansa, unlike the Ye-tai, aren’t a different race or ethnic line.

    Yes, you’re right. Most of them are Malwa, but not all—and Malwa aren’t racially distinct from any other north Indians anyway. So?

    So what’s to stop a priest or torturer from throwing away their identifying garments and paraphernalia and just vanishing? Worse comes to worst, even a beggar in a loincloth is better off than a dismembered corpse feeding beetles.

    Oh. True. “Dismembering” is the least of it, really. He spent more time talking about the red hot tongs that are to be used to pull out intestines. I still don’t understand the point of it. He’s obviously doing this in the open because he thinks Link is receiving the radio transmissions directly.

    Yes. That’s got to be the explanation. Belisarius had to suppress a little shudder, remembering the one time he’d met Link himself. No way to fool that monster, even over a radio transmission.

    No, there isn’t. Even human radio and telegraph operators, with experience, can recognize who’s on the other end. Everyone has a distinctive “fist,” as they call it. But...

    You’re thinking that if Link is at the receiving end—here in the Punjab, if not in Kausambi—it’ll simply suppress the transmission. No one in Malwa India will hear it.

    Of course, it will! Even in Kausambi, that radio station has to be under iron control.

    Belisarius was smiling broadly, now. And why do you think Damodara is only using the radio? I’ll bet you—if you had anything to wager—that this same message is going over every telegraph line in India. And, by now, there are far too many telegraph stations for Link to be able to keep them quiet. The only reason Damodara is using the radio at all is to communicate with us.

    Silence, for a moment.

    Then: Oh.

    Then: It’s not fair. I’m just a crystal. Lost in this protoplasmic scheming and trickiness. A lamb among wolves.

    Aide started to add another complaint, but broke off. He’s starting to say something to us again. Here it is:

    Belisarius turned to Calopodius. “Do you have Barbaricum on the line, yet?”

    “Yes. Antonina hasn’t arrived in the station, though. Neither has Ousanas. But they’re on the way.”

    “We’ll wait till they arrive. What about Sukkur?”

    “Same story. I’ve got the Persians on the line, but Khusrau is somewhere else. He’s in the city, however, so they say it won’t take long.”

    “Good. Have you instructed the radio operators in Barbaricum to send a relay signal to Bharakuccha—and only to Bharakuccha?”

    “Yes, General. I—ah—made the last part quite clear.”

    Maurice grinned. So did Justinian. “I will say your wife has done wonders for your assertiveness,” said the former emperor.

    Justinian turned to Belisarius. Faced in his direction, rather. As was often the case with blind people, he had a good sense of other peoples’ locations in the room, but didn’t know exactly where their faces were.

    “And what about you? I trust we’re not going to see a sudden lapse into timid modesty. ‘It’s not my place, whine; I’m just a general, whine.’”

    Belisarius grimaced. “Theodora is not going to like it. She’s already accusing me of giving away everything.”

    “So what? She’s in Constantinople—and, more to the point, the Emperor of Rome is in Barbaricum. Probably at your wife’s elbow.”

    That’s a dirty rotten lawyer’s trick, for sure, said Aide. Of course, he is the Empire’s top lawyer.

    “She’s still the Empress Regent,” Belisarius pointed out. “Until he attains his majority, Photius doesn’t technically have the authority to order most anything.”

    “So what, again? Difficult times, difficult measures. Unfortunately, the raging thunderstorm”—here Justinian waved at the entrance to the bunker, beyond which could be heard the faint sounds of people enjoying a pleasant and balmy evening—“made it impossible to communicate with Constantinople by radio. And the telegraph—all those pestiferous relays—just wasn’t fast enough. Given that a decision had to be made immediately.”

    Justinian’s smile was unusually cheerful, for him. “I can assure you that, as the Grand Justiciar, I will be forced to rule in your favor if Theodora presses the matter.”

    Belisarius returned the smile, scratching his chin. “No qualms, yourself?”

    Justinian shrugged. “We’ve been together a long time, she and I. It’s not likely she’ll have me poisoned. And I’m right and she’s wrong—and no one knows it better than you. In another universe, I kept you at war for years out of my over-reaching ambition, and had nothing to show for it in the end except exhaustion and ruin. Let’s not do it again, shall we?”

    He’s right.

    Yes, of course he is. Rome doesn’t need more territory. It’d just bring grief with it. Even the enclave I’ll insist on here in the Triangle is for purely political reasons. But you—o craven crystal—will remain huddling in your pouch while I have to bear the brunt of Theodora’s wrath.

    Seems fair to me. You’re the general. I’m just the hired help. Grossly underpaid, to boot.

    “Antonina’s on the line, General,” said Calopodius. “And they’re telling me Khusrau has arrived at the telegraph station in Sukkur.”

    “Let’s do it, then.”

    The communication with Antonina went quickly.

    “Ask her about—”

    “It’s already coming in,” Calopodius interrupted him.

    “Have her and the boy go with them,” Maurice suggested. “They’ll be much safer in Bharakuccha than up here, with everything breaking loose. And what would they do here, anyway?”

    It didn’t take Belisarius long to decide that Maurice was right. If Antonina still had her Theodoran Cohort with her, she might be able to play a useful military role in the Triangle. But she’d left them behind in Alexandria. If just she and Photius and Tahmina came to the Triangle—with a huge flock of servants, to make things worse—they’d be nothing a distraction and a nuisance to Maurice.

    And Belisarius himself wouldn’t be there at all, if his plans worked.

    “Yes, I agree. Leaving aside the safety problem, she’ll probably be useful in Bharakuccha anyway. That populace will need to be settled down, and she’s a lot better at that than Ousanas would be. Calopodius, tell her and Photius to accompany Ousanas to Bharakuccha.

    Two last messages came back:

    Then, after a brief pause:

    The warmth that last message gave him dissipated soon enough. The negotiations with Khusrau were neither brief nor cordial.

    Eventually, Belisarius broke it off altogether. “I haven’t got time for this nonsense,” he snarled. “Tell him an assault just started and I have to leave. Damodara’s terms are important and need a quick answer. This is just mindless Aryan pig-headed greed.”

    As the telegraph operator did as instructed, Belisarius stalked over to the radio. “I can’t believe it. Khusrau’s not usually that stupid. Wasting time with endless quibbles over a few square miles of the Punjab, for God’s sake!”

    Maurice was running fingers through his beard, as he often did when thinking. “I’m not sure that’s it,” he said slowly. “Menander told me almost all the Persian grandees are assembled in Sukkur now. Sahrdarans and vurzurgans crawling all over the place. Members of all seven great families except the Suren. Baresmanas stayed behind to more or less run the empire for Khusrau, but he’s about the only one.”

    Still too irritated to think clearly, Belisarius shook his head. “What’s the point, Maurice?”

    “The point is that he’s playing to an audience. You know the great houses aren’t happy at all with the way he’s using small dehgans as imperial officials to administer the Sind. Menander says they’re howling like banshees, insisting that they deserve a big share of the Punjab.”

    Belisarius rolled his eyes. “Just what’s needed! A herd of idiot feudal magnates pouring into...”

    His eyes came down, squinting at Maurice. “Jesus,” he hissed. “Could he be that ruthless?”

    Sure he could, said Aide. It’d be one quick way to break feudalism in Persia. Lead the magnates into a slaughter. No feudalists, no feudalism.

    “Maybe,” said Maurice. He gestured with his thumb toward the radio. “But why don’t you let me worry about that, if need be? You’ve got Damodara to deal with.”

    “So I do.” He looked around. “Calopodius, are you ready?”

    The young signals officer hurried up. “Yes, General. Sorry. I just wanted to make sure the scribes were set.”

    The smile he gave Belisarius was half apology and half sheer anticipation.

    “Sorry,” he repeated. “I’ve got the soul of an historian. And this is... history.”

    Belisarius chuckled. “Not yet. But let’s see if we can’t make it so. The first message is—”