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 away, 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
