Destiny's shield

up.

'It's not the same, general. It's true, our men have been grousing a lot-but that's just due to the unaccustomed exertions of this forced march.'

The man scowled. On his heavy-set, low-browed face, the expression made him seem like an absolute dullard. But his ensuing words contradicted the impression.

'You've got to distinguish between that and what's eating the Constantinople men. They're a lot of pampered garrison troops. True, they're not nobility, except the officers-not that unit-but they've picked up the attitude. They're used to lording it over everybody, friend and foe alike.' The scowl deepened. The man's brow disappeared almost completely. 'Especially over their own, the snotty bastards. That girl in Callinicum wasn't the first tavern maid they've been free with, you can be sure of that. Probably been quite a few in Constantinople itself given that same treatment-and had it hushed up afterward, by the capital's authorities.'

A little growl from several of the other officers under the canopy indicated their concurrence.

'Illyrian soldiers aren't exactly famous for their gentle manners, either,' commented Belisarius mildly.

Liberius winced. In point of fact, Illyrian troops had the reputation of being the most atrocity-prone of any Roman army, other than outright mercenaries.

'It's still not the same,' he stated-forcefully, but not sullenly. Belisarius was impressed by the man's dispassionate composure.

Liberius gestured toward Bouzes and Coutzes, and the other officers from the Syrian army. 'These lads are used to dealing with Persians. Civilized, the Medes are. Sure, when war breaks out both sides have been known to act badly. But, even then, it's a matter between empires. And in between the wars-which is most of the time-the borderlands are quiet and peaceful.'

Several of the Syrian officers nodded. Liberius continued: 'What you don't get is what we have in Illyricum-constant, unending skirmishes with a lot of barbarian savages. Border villages ravaged by some band of Goths or Avars who are just engaging in casual plunder. Their own kings-if you can call them that- don't even know about it, most of the time.' He shrugged. 'So we repay the favor on the nearest barbarian village.'

The scowl returned in full force. 'That is not the same thing as raping a girl in your own town-and then murdering half her family in the bargain!'

Again, the growl of agreement swept the room. Louder, this time. Much louder.

Belisarius glanced at Timasius. Liberius' slow-thinking commander had finally caught up with his subordinate's thoughts. He too, now, was nodding vehemently.

Belisarius was satisfied. For the moment, at least. But he made a note to speak to the Illyrian commanders in the near future. To remind them that they would soon be operating in Persia, and that the treatment which Illyrians were accustomed to handing out to barbarians in the trans-Danube would not be tolerated in Mesopotamia.

He moved out of the shade, toward his horse. 'All right, then.'

His officers made to follow. Belisarius waved them back. 'No,' he announced. 'I'll handle this myself.'

'What?' demanded Coutzes. 'You're not taking anyone with you?'

Belisarius smiled crookedly, holding up two fingers.

'Two.' He pointed toward Valentinian and Anas-tasius, who had been waiting just outside the canopy throughout the conference. As soon as they saw his gesture, the two cataphracts began mounting their horses.

Once he was on his own horse, Belisarius smiled down at his officers-all of whom, except Maurice, were staring at him as if he were insane.

'Two should be enough,' he announced placidly, and spurred his horse into motion.

As the three men began riding off, Valentinian muttered something under his breath.

'What did he say?' wondered Bouzes. 'I didn't catch it.'

Maurice smiled, thinly. 'I think he said 'piss on crazy strategoi.' '

He turned back toward the shade of the shelter. 'But maybe not. Be terribly disrespectful of the high command! Maybe he just said 'wish on daisies, attaboy.' Encouraging his horse, you know. Poor beast's probably as sick of this desert as we are.'

As they headed down the road, Belisarius waved Valentinian and Anastasius forward. Once the two men were riding on either side, he said:

'Don't touch your weapons unless the muti-ah, dispirited troops-take up theirs.'

He gave both men a hard glance. Anastasius' heavy face held no expression. Valentinian scowled, but made no open protest.

A thin smile came to the general's face. 'Mainly, what I want you to do after we arrive at the Greeks' camp is to disagree with me.'

Anastasius' eyes widened. 'Disagree, sir?'

Belisarius nodded. 'Yes. Disagree. Not too openly, mind. I am your commanding officer, after all. But I want you to make clear, in no uncertain terms, that you think I'm an idiot.'

Anastasius frowned. Valentinian muttered.

'What was that last, Valentinian?' queried Belisarius. 'I'm not sure I caught it.'

Silence. Anastasius rumbled: 'He said: 'That won't be hard.' '

'That's what I thought he said,' mused Belisarius. He grinned. 'Well! You won't have any difficulty with the assignment, then. It'll come naturally to you.'

Valentinian muttered again, at some length. Anastasius, not waiting for a cue, interpreted. 'He said-I'm summarizing-that clever fellows usually wind up outsmarting themselves. Words to that effect.'

Belisarius frowned. 'That's all? It seemed to me he muttered quite a few more words than that. Entire sentences, even.'

Anastasius shook his head sadly. 'Most of the other words were just useless adjectives. Very redundant.' The giant bestowed a reproving glance on his comrade. 'He's given to profanity.'

They were nearing the encampment of the Con-stantinople garrison troops. Belisarius spurred his horse into a trot. After Valentinian and Anastasius dropped back to their usual position as his bodyguards, Belisarius cocked his head and said:

'Remember. Disagree. Disapprove. If I say something reasonable, scowl. Pleasant, snarl. Calm and soothing-spit on the ground.'

Mutter, mutter, mutter.

Belisarius repressed his smile. He did not ask for a translation. He was quite sure the words had been pure profanity.

They began encountering the first outposts of the Constantinople garrison. Within a minute, trotting forward, they passed several hundred soldiers, huddled in small groups at the outer perimeter of the route camp. As Belisarius had expected, a large number of the troops were holding back from the body of men milling around in the center. These would be the faint-hearts and the fence-sitters-or the 'semi-loyalists,' if you preferred.

He made it a point to bestow a very cordial smile upon all those men. Even a verbal greeting, here and there. Valentinian and Anastasius immediately responded with their own glowers, which Valentinian accompanied by a nonstop muttering. The garrison troops responded to the general's smile, in the main, with expressions of uncertainty. But Belisarius noted that a number of them managed their own smiles in return. Timid smiles; sickly smiles-but smiles nonetheless.

I knew it, he thought, with considerable self-satisfaction.

Aide's voice came into his mind. Knew what? And what is going on? I am confused.

Belisarius hesitated, before responding. To his-'its,' technically, but the general had long since come to think of Aide as 'he'-consciousness, insubordination and rebellion were bizarre conceptions. Aide had been produced by a race of intelligent crystals in the far distant future and sent back in time, to save them from enslavement (and possibly outright destruction) by those they called the 'new gods.' The intelligence of those crystals was utterly inhuman, in many ways. One of those ways was their lack of individuality. Each crystal, though distinct, was a part