To no avail. With the simple logic of men whose familiarity with gunpowder was still primitive, Belisarius and Basil had both insisted that more was vastly preferable than enough. Better to make sure the job was done, after all, than to risk a feeble half-result through cringing niggardliness.
Applied to the task of splitting a log with an axe, such logic simply results in unnecessary exertion. Applied to the task of demolishing a dam with gunpowder, however—
I told you so, groused Aide, as Belisarius watched the
Not all of those missiles, of course, were heading for the tower where Belisarius stood. It just seemed that way.
Baresmanas and Kurush scrambled down the ladder first. The Roman general was halfway down—
Stupid humans.
—when the first rocks began pelting into the tower. By the time he was three-fourths down—
Protoplasmic idiots.
—covered, now, with wood splinters—
Glorified monkeys.
—the tower collapsed completely.
That probably saved his life, as well as those of Baresmanas and Kurush—and Basil, who had also instinctively sought shelter beneath the tower. The half-shattered platform hammered Belisarius and the other three men into the ground, battering them almost senseless. Thereafter, however, it acted as a sort of huge shield, sheltering them—in a manner of speaking—from the hail of rocks which would otherwise have turned two Roman officers and two Persian noblemen into so much undifferentiated pulp.
At the time, Belisarius found little comfort in the fact. The platform lying on him did not deflect the blows, in the manner of a true shield, so much as it simply spread the shock across his entire body. He was not pulped, therefore. Amazingly, none of his bones were even broken. But he did undergo a version of being pounded into flatcake, except that flatcakes do not suffer the added indignity of being lectured throughout the experience.
Crazy fucking Thracian.
Whoever made you a general, anyway?
It's amazing you even made it out of the womb, as stupid as you are. I'm surprised you didn't insist on finding your own way out. God forbid you should listen to your mother.
Whoever—
And so on, and so forth.
It took his soldiers an hour to dig Belisarius and the others out, after the rocks stopped falling. The digging itself, actually, took only a few minutes. The delay was caused by the fact that his men had fled a full half mile away after the barrage started.
His first, semiconscious, croaking words:
"Did it work? I couldn't see."
His ensuing croaks, after being assured of full success in the project:
"Next time. Smaller charges."
"Much smaller," croaked Basil.
"Crazy fucking Romans," croaked Baresmanas.
"Whoever put him in charge?" croaked Kurush.
Others, also, failed to heed warnings. When Merena arrived at Ctesiphon to warn the governor of the oncoming tidal wave, the man responded with derision. Partly, that was due to his personality. Arrogant by nature, his recent naming to the post of
Merena's men had to restrain him.
After the unfortunate session, once Merena had calmed down enough to think clearly, he ordered his men to take informal and unofficial warnings to the boatmen plying their trade on the Tigris. As best they could, given their relatively small numbers, his soldiers tried to warn the city's fishermen and boat captains.
Approximately half of the men they were able to speak to heeded their warnings. The other half—as well as all the men they were unable to reach in time—did not.
