Destiny's shield

'Odd,' he remarked. 'Hearing you make such sarcastic remarks about blacksmiths, I mean. I always thought you admired the fellows.'

'I do,' came the vigorous response. 'Spent half my time, as a kid, hanging around the smithy. Wanted to be a blacksmith myself, when I grew up.'

The general turned and began walking through the gate back to the villa, Maurice at his side.

'I wasn't poking fun at blacksmiths, Maurice. I was ridiculing generals who think they're blacksmiths.'

He shook his head. 'Smithing's a craft. And, like any craft, it has its own special rules. Fine rules-as long as you don't confuse them with the rules of another trade. The thing about an anvil, you see, is that it's just a big lump of metal. Anvils don't fight back.'

A half hour later, after parting company with Maur-ice, Belisarius rode his horse into the Constantinople encampment. Valentinian and Anastasius accompanied him, as always, trailing just a few yards behind.

The Greek troops were already up and about. Fed, watered, fully armed and armored-and champing at the bit. The soldiers greeted him enthusiastically when he rode up. Belisarius listened to their cheers carefully. There was nothing feigned in those salutations, he decided. Word had already spread, obviously, that Belisarius would be fighting with them in the upcoming battle. As he had estimated, the news that their general would be sharing the risks of a cavalry charge had completed the work of cementing the cataphracts' allegiance.

I've got an army, finally, he thought with relief. Then, a bit sardonically: Now, I've only got to worry about surviving the charge.

Aide spoke in his mind:

I think you should not do this. It is very dangerous. They will have rockets.

Belisarius scratched his chin before making his reply.

I don't think that will be a problem, Aide. The Syrians should have the enemy cavalry confused and disorganized by the time we charge. If we move in fast they'll have no clear targets for their rockets.

Aide was not mollified.

It is very dangerous. You should not do this. You are irreplaceable.

Belisarius sighed. Aide's fears, he realized, had nothing to do with his estimation of the tactical odds. They were far more deeply rooted.

No man is irreplaceable, Aide.

That is not true. You are. Without you, the Malwa will win. Link will win. We will be lost.

The general spoke, very firmly. If I am irreplaceable, Aide, it is because of my ability as a general. True?

Silence.

Belisarius demanded: True?

Yes, came Aide's grudging reply.

Then you must accept this. The risk is part of the generalship.

He could sense the uncertainty of the facets. He pressed home the lesson.

I have a small army. The enemy is huge. If I am to win-the war, not just this battle-I must have an army which is supple and quick to act. Only a united, welded army can do that.

He paused, thinking how best to explain. Aide's knowledge and understanding of humanity was vast, in many ways-much greater than his own. But the crystalline being's own nature made some aspects of human reality obscure to him, even opaque. Aide often astonished Belisarius with his uncanny understanding of the great forces which moved the human race. And then, astonished him as much with his ignorance of the people who made up that race.

Humanity, as a tapestry, Aide understood. But he groped, dimly, at the human threads themselves.

We are much like Malwa, we Romans. We, too, have built a great empire out of many different peoples and nations. They organize their empire by rigid hierarchical rules-purity separated from pollution, by carefully delineated stages. We do it otherwise. Their methods give them great power, but little flexibility. And, most important, nothing in the way of genuine loyalty.

We will only defeat them with cunning-and loyalty.

He closed in on his point, almost ruthlessly. He could feel Aide resisting the logic.

It is true, Aide. I am the premier general of Rome because of my victories over Persians and barbarians. I won those victories with border troops-Thracians, of course, but also Syrians and Illyrians. The Greek soldiers who form the heart of the Roman army know little of me beyond my reputation.

That is too abstract. For the war against Malwa, those men are key. I must have their unswerving loyalty and trust. Not just these men, today, but all the others who will follow.

Firmly, finally:

There is no other way. A general can only gain the loyalty of troops who know he is loyal to them, also. I have already shown the garrison troops that I cannot be trifled with. Now I must show them that I will not trifle with them. Their charge is the key to the battle. If it is pressed home savagely, it will fix the enemy's attention on the Greeks. They will not dream that there might be others-even more dangerous-hidden in the woods.

Silence. Then, plaintively:

It will be very dangerous. You might be killed.

Belisarius made no answer. By now, he was approaching the center of the Constantinople encampment. He could see Agathius astride his armored charger, fifty yards away, surrounded by his tribunes and hecatontarchs. The young chiliarch was issuing last-minute instructions. He was not bellowing or roaring those commands histrionically, however, as Belisarius had seen many Roman officers do on the morning of a battle. Even at a distance, the relaxed camaraderie of the Con-stantinople command group was obvious.

Aide's voice cut through the general's satisfaction.

I would miss you. Very much.

Belisarius focussed all his attention on the facets. He was dazzled, as so many times before, by the kaleidoscopic beauty of that strangest of God's creations. That wondrous soul which called itself Aide.

I would miss you, also. Very much.

A small part of his mind heard Agathius' welcoming hail. A small part of his mind raised a hand in acknowledgement. For the rest-

Whimsy returned.

Let's try to avoid the problem, shall we?

The facets flashed and spun, assuming a new configuration. A shape-a form-Belisarius had never sensed in them, before, began to crystallize.

I will help, came the thought. Firm, solid-lean and sinewy.

Almost weaselish.

Those sorry bastards are fucked. Fucked!

Belisarius started with surprise. Aide's next words caused him to twist in his saddle, to make sure that he had not heard Valentinian himself.

Mutter, mutter, mutter.

'I didn't say a thing,' protested Valentinian, seeing the general's accusing eyes. With an air of aggrieved injury, he pointed a thumb at the huge cataphract riding next to him. 'Ask him.'

'Man's been as silent as a tomb, general,' averred Anastasius. 'Although I doubt he's been thinking philosophical thoughts, as I have. I always contemplate before a battle, you know. I find the words of Marcus Aurelius particularly-'

Valentinian muttered. Anastasius cocked an eye.

'What was that? I didn't catch it.'

Belisarius grinned.

'I think he said 'sodomize philosophy.' But, maybe not. Maybe he said 'sod of my patrimony.' Praying to the ancestral spirits of Thrace, you understand, for their protection in the coming fray.'

Mutter, mutter, mutter.

Mutter, mutter, mutter.