In the Heart of Darkness

And then-we can substitute a different-' He groped for unfamiliar, as yet unknown terms.

Weapons platform.

'Yes. Exactly.'

Belisarius straightened his back, stretched his arms. The movement broke his concentration, slightly. He saw Dadaji Holkar kneeling on his pallet, engrossed in silent prayer. The slave looked up. Holkar and Belisarius exchanged a silent stare for a moment, before the Maratha bowed his head and resumed his devotions. For all the solemnity in the man's posture, Belisarius was amused to note the smile on his face. He had never said a word to Holkar concerning Aide, but he knew that the Maratha had drawn his own conclusions. Conclusions, Belisarius was certain, which were not too far from the truth.

Belisarius closed his eyes and returned to the task at hand.

'You keep showing me things which are much too complex and difficult to make,' he whispered. 'We must stay within the simple limits that are possible, in the next few years.'

A flash of exasperation came from Aide. A new vision erupted.

A man shuffling through a forest, stooped, filthy, clad in rough-cured animal skins. In his hand he clutched an axe. The blade of the weapon was a crudely shaped piece of stone, lashed to the handle with rawhide.

Belisarius chuckled. 'I think we can manage a bit more than that, Aide. We are civilized, after all.'

Again, exasperation. Again, a vision:

A man standing in a chariot. He was clad in gleaming bronze armor-a breastplate, greaves. A magnificent, ornate helmet, capped by a horse-crest, protected his head. His left arm carried a large, round shield. In his right hand he held a spear. The chariot was a small vehicle, carried on a single axle, drawn by two horses. The back of the chariot was open. Beside the armored warrior, there was only room for a charioteer, who handled the racing horses while the spearman concentrated on the approaching foe.

Belisarius started to laugh softly. Aide was still sulking. The image, for all its clarity, was a mocking rendition of an impossible, legendary figure. Achilles before the walls of Troy.

But then, suddenly, the laugh broke off.

'Yes!' hissed Belisarius. 'Chariots!'

Now he did laugh, loudly. 'Mother of God-nobody's used chariots in warfare for centuries! But with rockets- and some changes-'

The facets splintered, reformed, shattered, coalesced-all in an instant, trying to follow the branching trail of the general's thoughts. The kaleidoscope swirled around sequences. Aide brought sudden order. A new image, melded from crystal vision and human reasoning:

Another chariot. A bit longer, and wider. Also drawn on a single axle, also open to the rear. Again, a single charioteer handled the reins. But now, the warrior who accompanied him wore only light leather armor and no hand weapon beyond a semi-spatha scabbarded to his waist. He was not a spearman, but a rocketeer. Rising from the center of the chariot was a solid pole, five feet tall. Atop the pole, swiveling on a simple joint, was a bundle of six tubes-three abreast, in two tiers. The warrior aimed the launchers ahead and to the side, at an enemy army advancing some few hundred yards distant. He called out a signal. He and the charioteer crouched. The rocketeer touched a slowmatch to quick fuses. An instant later, a half-dozen rockets were hissing their way toward the approaching army.

The charioteer turned the horses, raced away. Behind, other chariots copied the same maneuver. Within not more than a minute, the ranks of the enemy were being shredded by a hail of rockets. The missiles were not very accurate, but made up for the lack by their numbers and the manner of their explosion.

Fragmentation warheads, came the thought from Aide. This time, the thought was saturated with satisfaction. Shrapnel.

Belisarius slumped back, sighing. He rubbed his eyes wearily.

'Yes, there's promise there.' Again, he scratched his chin. 'But these-katyushas-will only work on level ground. In mountain terrain, we'll need something different. Something that a small squad of men can carry by hand, and that can be fired over hills.'

The facets flashed excitement.

Mortars.

Belisarius' eyes widened. 'Show me,' he commanded.

A small motion caught his eye. The Maratha slave had finished his prayers and was lying down on his pallet in preparation for sleep. His face could not be seen, for it was turned away. Belisarius put aside his dialogue with Aide, and devoted a moment to contemplating the man Dadaji Holkar.

Aide did not object, nor interrupt. There were many things about humanity which Aide did not understand. Of no human, perhaps, was that more true than of Belisarius. Belisarius, the one human of the ancient past whom the crystals had selected as the key to preserving their future. The choice had been theirs, but they had been guided by the Great Ones.

Find the general who is not a warrior.

Belisarius, the great general.

That strange thing Aide was coming to know, slowly, haltingly, gropingly.

Belisarius, the man. That stranger thing Aide already knew.

So Aide waited patiently. Waited during that moment of sorrow for another man's anguish. Waited, patiently, not because it understood grief but because it understood the future. And knew that its own future was safeguarded not by the weapons it was showing the general, but by the nature of the man himself.

The moment passed. The man receded.

'Show me,' commanded the general.

Chapter 4

Constantinople

Spring 530 AD

'You're positive?' demanded Theodora. 'There's no mistake?'

The Empress of Rome leaned forward in her luxurious chair. No expression showed on her face beyond a certain tense alertness. But the knuckles of her hands, gripping the armrests, were white as snow, and the tendons stood out like cables.

Irene met the dark-eyed gaze squarely.

'I am certain, Your Majesty. I've only met Narses face-to-face on three occasions, but I know him quite well. I've studied the man for years, as one professional-and possible competitor-will study another. I could not possibly mistake his appearance, undisguised. Nor he mine, for that matter-that's why I took such elaborate precautions with our disguises.'

Theodora transferred her piercing gaze to Hermogenes. The young general winced, shrugged.

'I can't vouch for it myself, Your Majesty, one way or the other. I've never met Narses.' He took a deep breath. 'But I do know Irene, and if she says it was Narses-'

The Empress stilled him with a curt gesture. The black eyes moved on to Maurice.

'It was Narses,' growled Maurice. 'I've met the man many times, Empress, in the service of my lord Belisarius. We've never been personally introduced, and I doubt if he'd recognize me. But he's a distinctive-looking man. I'd know him anywhere, as long as he was undisguised and the light was good.' The grey-haired veteran took his own deep breath. 'The man was undisguised. His face-his whole figure-was clearly visible the moment he stepped out of Balban's villa to wait for his palanquin. And the light was good enough. A half-moon in a clear sky.'

The Empress looked away. Still, there was no expression on her face.

Irene spoke hesitantly: 'It's possible he's playing a double game. Simply trying to draw out treason before he-'