“Well?” asked the hecatontarch.
“At nightfall, give the captured Persian officer my message for Firuz and let him go. Make sure he has a good horse. Then pass the word quietly to the men. I expect we’ll be leaving at dawn.”
“That soon?”
“Unless I’m badly mistaken, yes.” He glanced back at the entrance to the tent. “And I don’t think I’m mistaken.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Belisarius smiled crookedly. “I am mortified, Maurice, mortified.”
The hecatontarch grunted sarcastically, but forebore comment. “Ashot’s back,” he said.
“What did he think of the location?”
“Good. The hill will do nicely- if the wind blows the right way.”
“It should, by midday.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Belisarius shrugged. “We’ll just have to manage. Even if there’s no wind, the dust alone should do the trick. If the wind blows the wrong way, of course, we’ll be in a tight spot. But I’ve never seen it blow from the east until evening.” He took a seat at the table. “Now, send for the chiliarchs and the tribunes. I want to make sure they understand my plan perfectly.”
That night, immediately after the conclusion of the meeting with his chief subordinates, Belisarius lay down on his cot. For almost an hour he lay there in the darkness, thinking over his plans, before he finally fell asleep.
As the general pondered, aim delved through the corridors of his mind. Time after time, the facets threatened to splinter. Despair almost overwhelmed them. Just when the alien thoughts had begun to come into focus! And now, they were-somehow at odds with themselves. It was like trying to learn a language whose grammar was constantly changing. Impossible!
But aim was now growing in confidence, and so it was able to control the facets. With growing confidence, came patience. It was true, the thoughts were contradictory-like two images, identical, yet superimposed over each other at right angles. Patience. Patience. In time, aim sensed it could bring them into focus.
And, in the meantime, there was something of much greater concern. For, despite the blurring, there was one point on which all the paradoxical images in the general’s mind coalesced sharply.
At the very edge of sleep, Belisarius sensed a thought. But he was too tired to consider its origin. danger.
Chapter 7
Belisarius awoke long before dawn. Within a short time after rising, he was satisfied that the preparations for the march were well in hand. Both of his chiliarchs were competent officers, and it soon became apparent that the tribunes and hecatontarchs had absorbed fully the orders he had given them the night before.
Maurice came up to him. Belisarius recognized him from a distance, even though it was still dark. Maurice had a rolling gait which was quite unmistakable.
“Now?” asked Maurice.
Belisarius nodded. The two men mounted their horses and cantered through the gate. The Army of Lebanon was camped just beyond the fort, where its soldiers could enjoy the shade and water provided by the oasis. Within a few minutes, Belisarius and Maurice were dismounting before the command tent occupied by Bouzes and Coutzes.
The tent was much larger than the one Belisarius used, although not excessively so by the standards of Roman armies. Roman commanders had long been known for traveling in style. Julius Caesar had even carried tiles with him to floor his tent. (Although he claimed to have done so simply to impress barbarian envoys; Belisarius was skeptical of the claim.)
Upon their arrival, the sentries guarding the tent informed them that Bouzes and Coutzes were absent. They had left the camp in the middle of the night. Further questioning elicited the information that the brothers had taken two cavalry regiments along with them.
Belisarius uttered many profane oaths, very loudly. He stalked off toward the nearby tent, which was occupied by the four chiliarchs who were the chief subordinate officers of the Army of Lebanon. Maurice followed.
At the chiliarchs’ tent, a sentry began to challenge Belisarius, but quickly fell silent. The sentry recognized him, and saw as well that the general was in a towering rage. Deciding that discretion was the order of the day, the sentry drew aside. Belisarius stormed into the tent.
Three of the four chiliarchs were rising from sleep, groggy and bleary-eyed. One of them lit a lamp. Belisarius immediately demanded to know the whereabouts of the fourth. He allowed the three chiliarchs to stammer in confusion for a few seconds before he cut through the babble.
“So. I assume Dorotheus has accompanied the two cretins in this lunacy?”
The chiliarchs began to protest. Again, Belisarius cut them short.
“Silence!” He threw himself into a chair by the table in the center of the tent. He glared about for a moment, and then slammed his palm down on the table.
“I am being generous! The Emperor may forgive the idiots, if he decides they are just stupid.”
Mention of the Emperor caused all three of the chiliarchs to draw back a bit. The face of at least one of them, Belisarius thought, grew pale. But it was hard to tell. The interior of the tent was poorly lit.
Belisarius allowed the silence to fester. He knotted his brow. After a minute or so, he rose and began pacing about, exuding the image of a man lost in thoughtful calculation. Actually, he was scrutinizing the interior of the tent. He believed firmly that one could make a close assessment of officers by examining their private quarters, and took advantage of the opportunity to do so.
Overall, he was impressed. The chiliarchs maintained clean and orderly quarters. There was no indication of the drunken sloppiness which had characterized the tents of a number of the former officers of his own army. He also noted the austerity of their living arrangements. Other than weapons and necessary gear, the chiliarchs’ tent was bare of possessions.
The general was pleased. He prized austere living on campaign-not from any religious or moral impulse, but simply because he valued the ability to react and move quickly above all other characteristics in an officer. And he had found, with very few exceptions, that officers who filled their command quarters with lavish creature comforts were sluggards when confronted by any sudden change in circumstances.
He decided the pose of thoughtful concentration had gone on long enough. He stopped pacing, straightened his back, and announced decisively:
“There’s nothing for it. We’ll just have to make do with what we have.”
He turned to the three chiliarchs, who were now clustered together on the other side of the table.
“Assemble your army. We march at once.”
“But our commanders aren’t here!” protested one of the cavalry chiliarchs. Belisarius gave him a fierce look of disgust.
“I’m aware of that, Pharas. And you can be quite sure that if we fail to intercept the Persians before they march into Aleppo, the Emperor will know of their absence also. And do as he sees fit. But in the absence of Bouzes and Coutzes, I am in command of this army. And I have no intention of imitating their dereliction of duty.”
His announcement brought a chill into the room.
“The Persians are marching?” asked Hermogenes, the infantry chiliarch.
“The day after tomorrow.”
“How do you know?” demanded Pharas.
Belisarius sneered. “Doesn’t the Army of Lebanon have any spies?” he demanded. The chiliarchs were silent. The general’s sneer turned into a truly ferocious scowl.
“Oh, that’s marvelous!” he exclaimed. “You have no idea what the enemy is doing. So, naturally, you decided to send two full cavalry regiments charging off on a wild goose chase. Just marvelous!”
Pharas’ face was ashen. To some extent, it was the pallor of rage. But, for the most part, it was simple fear.
