“Never expect the enemy to do what you think he’s going to do, and never expect that schedules will be met on time. And, most of all, always remember the first law of battle: everything gets fucked up as soon as the enemy arrives. That’s why he’s called the enemy.”
Maurice grunted. Then:
“And whatever happened to your devious subtlety? That ’oblique approach’ you’re so fond of talking about?” He held up a hand. “And don’t bother reminding me how shrewd your battle plan is! So what? This isn’t like you at all, Belisarius. You’ve never been one to substitute tactics for strategy. How many times have you told me the best campaign is the one which forces the enemy to yield by indirection, with the least amount of bloodshed? Much less a pitched battle which you’re forcing?”
Belisarius took in a deep breath and held it. The fingers of his left hand began drumming the table. For a moment, as he had done many times over the past weeks, he considered taking Maurice into his full confidence. Again, he decided against it. True, Maurice was close-mouthed. But-there was the first law of secrets: every person told a secret doubles the chance of having it found out.
“Stop drumming your fingers,” grumbled the hecatontarch. “You only do that when you’re being too clever by half.”
Belisarius chuckled, snapped his left hand into a fist. He decided on a halfway course. “Maurice, there is information which I possess which I can’t divulge to you now. That’s why I’m pushing this battle. I know I’m cutting too many corners, but I don’t have any choice.”
Maurice scowled. “What do you know about the Persians that I don’t?” It was not a question, really. More in the way of a scornful reproof.
Belisarius waved his own hand dismissively. “No, not the Persians.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t presume to know more about the Medes than you! No, it involves-other enemies. I can’t say more, Maurice. Not yet.”
Maurice considered his general carefully. He wasn’t happy with the situation, but-there it was.
“All right,” he said, grunting. “But I hope this works.”
“It will, Maurice, it will. The timing doesn’t have to be that perfect. We just have to get to the battleground before the Persians do. And as for the enemy’s reactions-I think that letter I sent off to Firuz will do the trick nicely.”
“Why? What did you say in it?”
“Well, the essence of the letter was a demand that he refrain from threatening my shiny new fort. But I conveyed the demand in the most offensive manner possible. I boasted of my martial prowess and sneered at that of the Medes. I tossed in a few well-chosen remarks on the subject of Persian cowardice and unmanliness. I dwelt lovingly on the full-bellied worms which would soon be the caskets of Persian troops-assuming, of course, that the slimy things were hungry enough to feed on such foul meat.”
“Oh my,” muttered Maurice. He stroked his gray beard.
“But I thought the polishing touch,” concluded Belisarius cheerfully, “was my refusal to build a bath in the fortress. Firuz wouldn’t need the bath, I explained, because after I slaughtered him, I would toss his remains into the latrine. Which is where they belong, of course, since he’s nothing but a walking sack of dog shit.”
“Oh my.” Maurice pulled up a chair and sat down slowly. For the hecatontarch, the simple act was unusual. A stickler for proprieties was Maurice. He almost never sat while in his general’s headquarters.
“We’d better win this battle,” he muttered, “or we’re all for it.” His right hand clenched his sword hilt. His left hand was spread rigidly on the table.
Belisarius leaned over and patted the outstretched hand. “So you can see, Maurice, why I think Firuz will show up at the battlefield.”
Maurice made a sour expression. “Maybe. They’re touchy, Persian nobles. But if he’s smart enough to override his anger, he’ll pick a battlefield of his own choosing.”
Belisarius leaned back and shrugged.
“I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s that smart, and anyway-the battle site I selected overlooks the stream that provides all the water for his camp. Whether he likes it or not, he can’t very well just let us sit there unmolested.”
“You would,” retorted Maurice instantly.
“I wouldn’t have camped there in the first place.”
Maurice’s right hand released its grip on the sword, and came up to stroke his beard. “True, true. Idiotic, that-relying on an insecure water supply. If you can’t find a well or an oasis, like we did, you should at least make sure the water comes from your own territory.”
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,
