by David Drake
The hecatontarch straightened up a bit. "All right, General. We'll try it. Who knows, it might even work. That's the one and only good thing about the first law of battles—it cuts both ways."
A moment later, Maurice arose. His movements had regained their usual vigor and decisiveness. Belisarius left his chair and accompanied the hecatontarch out of the tent.
"How soon do you expect to reach the battlefield?" asked Belisarius.
Maurice took the reins of his horse and mounted. Once in the saddle, he shrugged.
"We're making good time," he announced. "It'll slow us down a bit, having to gather up what's left of the two cavalry regiments, but—we should be able to start digging in by midafternoon tomorrow."
Belisarius scratched his chin. "That should leave enough time. God knows the soldiers have had enough practice at it lately. Make sure—"
"Make sure the cavalry does its share," concluded Maurice. "Make sure the artillery's well-positioned. Make sure there's food ready for the Army of Lebanon when it arrives. And whatever else, make sure the hill is secure."
Belisarius smiled up at him. "Be off. You've got a long ride back to our army. But there's a lovely moon out tonight."
Maurice forbore comment.
Back in his tent, lying on his cot, Belisarius found it difficult to fall asleep. In truth, he shared some of Maurice's concern. He was gambling too much. But he saw no other option.
His fist closed around the pouch holding the jewel. At once, a faint thought came.
danger.
He sat up, staring down. A moment later, after opening the pouch, the jewel was resting in the palm of his hand.
The thought came again, much stronger.
danger.
"It was you, last night," he whispered.
danger.
"I know that! Tell me something I don't know. What are you?"
The facets shivered and reformed, splintered and came together, all in a microsecond. But aim never vanished, never even wavered. In a crystalline paroxysm, the facets forged a thought which could penetrate the barrier. But aim was overconfident, tried to do too much. The complex and fragile thought shattered into pieces upon first contact with the alien mind. Only the residue remained, transmuted into an image:
A metallic bird, bejewelled, made of hammered silver and gold-enamelling. Perched on a painted, wrought-iron tree. One of the marvelous constructs made for the Emperor Justinian's palace.
"You were never made by Grecian goldsmiths," muttered Belisarius. "Why are you here? What do you want from me? And where are you from?"
aim surged:
future.
Belisarius blew out an exasperated sigh. "I know the future!" he exclaimed. "You showed it to me. But can it be changed? And where are you from?"
Frustration was the greater for the hope which had preceded it. aim itself almost splintered, for an instant. But it rallied, ruthless with determination. Out of the flashing movement of the facets came a lesson learned. Patience, patience. Concepts beyond the most primitive could not yet cross the frontier. Again:
future.
The general's eyes widened.
Yes! Yes! Again! The facets froze, now ruthless in their own determination.
future. future. future.
"Mary, Mother of God."
Belisarius arose and walked slowly about in his tent. He clenched the jewel tightly in his fist, as if trying to force the thoughts from the thing like he might squeeze a sponge.
"More," he commanded. "The future must be a wondrous place. Nothing else could have created such a wonder as you. So what can you want from the past? What can we possibly have to offer?"
Again, a metallic bird. Bejewelled, made of hammered silver and gold enamelling. Perched on a painted, wrought-iron tree. But now the focus was sharper, clearer. Like one of the marvelous constructs made for the Emperor Justinian's palace, yes, but vastly more intricate and cunning in its design.
"Men created you?" he demanded. "Men of the future?"
yes.
"I say again: what do you want?"
aim hesitated, for a microsecond. Then, knew the task was still far beyond its capability. Patience, patience. Where thought could not penetrate, vision might:
Again, the thunderclap. Again: the tree shattered, the ceremony crushed beneath a black wave. Again: crystals, strewn across a barren desert, shriek with despair. Again, in an empty, sunless sky, giant faces begin to take form. Cold faces. Pitiless faces. Human faces, but with all of human warmth banished.
The general frowned. Almost—
"Are you saying that we are the danger to you? In the future? And that you have come to the past for help? That's crazy!"
The facets shivered and spun, almost in a frenzy. Now they demanded and drove the demand upon aim. But aim had learned well. The thoughts were still far too complex to breach the frontier. Imperiously it drove the facets back: patience, patience.
Again, the giant faces. Human faces. Monstrous faces. Dragon-scaled faces.
"Mary, Mother of God," he whispered. "It's true."
An explosive emotion erupted from the jewel. It was like a child's wail of—not anger, so much as deep, deep hurt at a parent's betrayal. A pure thought even forced its way through the barrier.
you promised.
Truly, thought Belisarius, it was the plaint of a bereaved child, coming from a magical stone.
The general weighed the jewel. As before, he was struck by its utter weightlessness. Yet it did not float away, somehow, but stayed in his hand. Like a trusting child.
"I do not understand you," he whispered. "Not truly, not yet. But—if you have truly been betrayed, I will do for you what I can."
That thought brought another smile, very crooked. "Though I'm not sure what I could do. What makes you think I could be of help?"
A sudden surge of warmth came from the jewel. Tears almost came to Belisarius' eyes. He was reminded of that precious moment, weeks earlier, when Photius had finally accepted him. The boy had been skittish, at first, not knowing what to make of this unknown, strange, large man who called himself his father. But the time had come, one evening, when the boy fell asleep before the fire. And, as he felt the drowsiness, had clambered into his stepfather's lap and lain his little head upon a large shoulder. Trusting in the parent to keep him warm and safe through the night.
Belisarius was silent for a time, pondering. He knew something had gone awry, terribly wrong, in that future he could not imagine. Danger. Danger. Danger.
He realized that the jewel was nearing exhaustion and decided that he must put off further questioning. Communication was becoming easier, slowly. Patience, patience. He had danger enough in the present to deal with, in any event.
But still—there was one question.
"Why did you come here, to the past? What can there possibly be here that would help you in—whatever dangers you face in your future?"
The jewel was fading rapidly now. But the faint image came again:
A face, emerging from the ground, made from spiderwebs and bird wings, and laurel leaves. His face.
Chapter 8
"It's perfect," pronounced Belisarius.
"It's the silliest trap I ever saw," pronounced Maurice. "Not even a schoolboy would fall for it. Not even a Hun schoolboy."
"There are no Hun schoolboys."
"Exactly my point," grumbled Maurice.
Belisarius smiled—broadly, not crookedly.
"There's nothing wrong with my plan and you know it. You're just angry at your part in it."
"And that's another thing! It's ridiculous to use your best heavy cavalry to—"
"Enough, Maurice." The general's voice was mild, but Maurice understood the tone. The hecatontarch fell silent. For a few minutes, he and Belisarius stood together atop the small hill on the left flank of the Roman forces. They said nothing, simply watched the gathering array of the Persian forces coming from the east. The enemy's army was still some considerable distance a
way, but Belisarius could see the first detachments of light cavalry beginning to scout the Roman position.
Before the Medes could get more than a mile from the Roman lines, however, three ala of Hun light cavalry from the Army of Lebanon advanced to meet them. There was a spirited exchange of arrows before the Persian scouts retreated. Casualties were few, on either side, but Belisarius was quite satisfied with the results of the encounter. It was essential to his plan that the Persians not have the opportunity to scout his position carefully.
"That'll keep the bastards off," grunted Maurice.
"Best be about it," said Belisarius. "It's almost noon. The wind'll be picking up soon."
Maurice scanned the sky.
"Let's hope so. If it doesn't—"
"Enough."
Belisarius strode down the back side of the hill toward his horse. Behind him, he heard Maurice begin to issue orders, but he could not make out their specific content. Instructions to the disgruntled Thracian cataphracts, no doubt.
Very disgruntled, indeed. The Thracian cataphracts looked upon foot travel—much less fighting on foot—with the enthusiasm of a drunk examining a glass of water. The elite, they were—and now, assigned to serve as bodyguards for a bunch of miserable, misbegotten, never-to-be-sufficiently-damned, common foot archers. Downright plebes. Barbarians, no less.
Which, in truth, they were. The four hundred archers atop the hill were a mercenary unit, made up entirely of Isaurian hillmen from southern Anatolia. An uncivilized lot, the Isaurians, but very tough. And completely accustomed to fighting on foot in rocky terrain, either with bows or with hand weapons.
Belisarius smiled. He knew his cataphracts. Once the Thracians saw the Isaurian archers at work, they would not be able to resist the challenge. Personally, Belisarius thought his cataphracts were better archers than any in the Army of Lebanon. They would certainly try to prove it. By the time the Persians tried to drive them off the hill, the Thracians would be in full fury.
Belisarius paused for a moment in his downward descent, and reexamined the hill.
Perfect. Steep sides, rocky. The worst possible terrain for a cavalry charge. And Persian nobles view fighting on foot like bishops view eternal damnation. God help the arrogant bastards, trying to drive armored horses up these slopes against dismounted Thracian cataphracts and Isaurian hillmen.
He resumed his descent down the western slope of the hill. Near the bottom, he came to the hollow where the Thracian horses were being held. A small number of the youngest and most inexperienced cataphracts had been assigned to hold the horses during the battle. They were even more disgruntled than their veteran fellows.
One of them, a lad named Menander, brought Belisarius his horse.
"General, are you sure I couldn't—"
"Enough." Then, Belisarius relented. "You know, Menander, it's likely the Persians will send a force around the hill to attack our rear. I imagine the fighting here will be hot and furious."
"Really?"
"Oh, yes. A desperate affair. Desperate."
Belisarius hoped he was lying. If the Persians managed to get far enough around the hill to find the hollow where the Thracian horses were being held, it would mean that they had driven off the heavy cavalry guarding his left wing and his whole battle plan was in ruins. His army too, most likely.
But Menander cheered up. The boy helped Belisarius onto his horse. Normally, Belisarius was quite capable of vaulting onto his horse. But not today, encumbered as he was with full armor. No cataphract in full armor could climb a horse without a stool or a helping hand.
Once he was firmly in the saddle, Belisarius heaved a little sigh of relief. For the hundredth time, he patted himself on the back for his good sense in having all of his Thracian cavalry equipped with Scythian saddles instead of the flimsy Roman ones. Roman "saddles" were not much more than a thin pad. Scythian saddles were solid leather, and—much more to the point—had a cantle and a pommel. With a Scythian saddle, an armored cavalryman had at least half a chance of staying on his horse through a battle.
Belisarius heard noises behind him. Turning, he saw two of his cataphracts coming down the hill at a fast trot. As fast a "trot," at least, as could be managed by men wearing: full suits of scale-mail armor—including chest cuirasses—covering their upper bodies, right arms, and their abdomens down to mid-thigh; open-faced iron helmets with side-flanges, of the German spangenhelm style favored by most of the Thracians; small round shields buckled to their upper left arms, leaving the left hand free to wield a bow; heavy quilted Persian-style cavalry trousers; and, of course, a full panoply of weapons. The weapons included a long lance, a powerful compound bow, a quiver of arrows, long Persian-style cavalry swords, daggers, and the special personal weapons of the individuals: in the case of one, a mace; in the case of the other, a spatha.
Belisarius recognized the approaching cataphracts, recognized their purpose, and began to frown fiercely. But when the two cataphracts neared, his words of hot reproach were cut off before he could utter them.
"Don't bother, General," said Valentinian.
"No use at all," agreed Anastasius.
"Direct orders from Maurice."
"Very direct."
"You're just the general."
"Maurice is the Maurice."
Belisarius grimaced. There was no point in trying to send Valentinian and Anastasius away. They wouldn't obey his order, and he could hardly enforce it on them personally, since—
He eyed the two men.
Since I don't think there are two tougher soldiers in the whole Roman army, that's why.
So he tried reason.
"I don't need bodyguards."
"Hell you don't," came Valentinian's sharp, nasal reply.
"Was ever a man needed a bodyguard, it's you," added Anastasius. As ever, the giant's voice sounded like rumbling thunder. Professional church bassos had been known to turn green with envy, hearing that voice.
Menander was already bringing up the two cataphracts' horses. Anastasius' mount was the largest charger anyone had ever seen. Anastasius was devoted to the beast, as much out of genuine affection as simple self-preservation. No smaller horse could have borne his weight, in full armor, in the fury of a battlefield. Especially encumbered as the horse was with its own armor: scale mail covering the top of its head and its neck down to the withers, with additional sheets of mail protecting its chest and its front shoulders.
Anastasius more or less tossed Valentinian onto his horse. Then he mounted his own, with Menander's help. By the time he was aboard, the young cataphract looked completely exhausted by the effort of hoisting him.
Belisarius rode off, heading toward the center of the Roman lines. Behind him, he heard his two companions expressing their thoughts on the day.
"Look at it this way, Valentinian: it beats fighting on foot."
"It certainly does not."
"You hate to walk, even, much less—"
"So what? Not so bad, butchering a bunch of Medes trying to scramble their horses up that godawful hill. Instead—"
"Maybe he'll—"
"You know damn well he won't. When has he ever?"
Heavy sigh, like a small rockslide.
Again, Valentinian: "Huh? When has he ever? Name one time! Just one!"
Heavy sigh.
Mutter, mutter, mutter.
"What was that last, Valentinian?" asked Belisarius mildly. "I didn't quite make it out."
Silence.
Anastasius: "Sounded like `fuck bold commanders, anyway.' "
Hiss.
Anastasius: "But maybe not. Maybe the bad-tempered skinny cutthroat said: `Fuck old commoners, anyway.' Stupid thing to say, under the circumstances, of course. Especially since he's a commoner himself. But maybe that's what he said. He's bad-tempered about everything, you know."
Hiss.
Belisarius never turned his head. Just smiled. Crookedly, at first, then broadly.
Well, maybe Maurice is right. God hel
p the Mede who tries to get in my way, that's for sure.
Once he reached the fortified camp at the center of the Roman lines, Belisarius dismounted and entered through the small western gate. Valentinian and Anastasius chose to remain outside. It was too much trouble to dismount and remount, and there was no way to ride a horse into that camp.
The camp was nothing special, in itself. It had been hastily erected in one day, and consisted of nothing much more than a ditch backed up by an earthen wall. Normally, such a wall would have been corduroyed, but there were precious few logs to be found in that region. To some degree, the soldiers had been able to reinforce the wall with field stones. Where possible, they had placed the customary cervi—branches projecting sideways from the wall—but there were few suitable branches to be found in that barren Syrian terrain. Some of the more far-sighted and enterprising units had brought sharpened stakes with them to serve the purpose, but the wall remained a rather feeble obstacle. A pitiful wall, actually, by the traditional standards of Roman field fortifications.
But Belisarius was not unhappy with the wall. Not, not in the slightest. Quite the contrary. He wanted the Persian scouts to report to Firuz that the Roman fortification at the center of their lines was a ramshackle travesty.
The real oddity about the camp was not the camp itself but its population density—and the peculiar position of its inhabitants. Some Roman infantrymen were standing on guard behind the wall, as one might expect. The great majority, however, were lying down behind the wall and in the shallow trenches which had been dug inside the camp. The camp held at least four times as many soldiers as it would appear to hold, looking at it from the Persian side.
Belisarius heard the cornicens blaring out a ragged tune. Very ragged, just as he had instructed. As if the men blowing those horns were half-deranged with fear. The soldiers standing visible guard began acting out their parts.
As Belisarius watched, the infantry chiliarch of the Army of Lebanon trotted up. Hermogenes was grinning from ear to ear.