Destiny's shield

Three of those skiffs carried barrels of gunpowder. Two hauled cannons-brass three-pounders, one in each skiff. And two more carried the small band of Syrian grenadiers, and their wives and children, who had volunteered to accompany Irene to India. Trainers, if all went well, for whatever forces the Empress Shakuntala might have succeeded in gathering around her. Trainers, and their gear, for the future gunpowder-armed rebellion of south India.

Antonina's little hands gripped the rail. Her husband Belisarius, while he was in India, had done everything in his power to help create that rebellion. He was not a man to forget or abandon those he had sent in harm's way.

Not my husband, she thought, proudly, possessively.

She did not know the future. But Antonina would not have been surprised to learn that in humanity's future- any of those possible futures-the name of Belisarius would always be remembered for two things, if nothing else.

Military brilliance.

Loyalty.

She cast a last glance at the small and distant figure of her friend Irene and turned away from the rail. Then, walked-marched, rather-to the bow of her own ship and stared across the waters of the Mediterranean.

Stared to the southwest, now. Toward Alexandria.

She gripped the rail again, and even more tightly.

Silently, she made her vows. If Irene reached India safely, she would not be stranded. If Belisarius' determination to support the Andhra rebellion was thwarted, it would not be because Antonina failed her share of that task.

She would take Alexandria, and Egypt, and reestablish the Empire's rule. She would harness the skills and resources of that great province and turn it into the armory of Rome's war against Malwa.

That armory, among other things, would be used to support Shakuntala and her rebels. Many of those guns would go south. Guns, cannons, rockets, gunpowder-and the men and women needed to use them and train others in their use.

South, to Axum. Then, across the Erythrean Sea to Majarashtra. Somehow, someway, those weapons would find their way into the hands of the young Empress whom Belisarius had freed from captivity.

She clutched the rail, glaring at the still-unseen people who would resist her will. The same people-the same type of people, at least-who had sneered at her all her life.

Had a shark, in that moment, caught sight of the small woman at the prow of the Roman warship, it would have recognized her. It would not have recognized the body, of course-Antonina's shapely form did not evenly remotely resemble that of a fish-nor would its primitive brain have understood her intellect.

But it would have known. Oh, yes. Its own instincts would have recognized a kindred spirit.

Hungry. Want meat.

Chapter 23

Mesopotamia

Summer, 531 A.D.

At Peroz-Shapur, Belisarius ordered the first real break in the march since they had left Constantinople, three months earlier. The army would rest in Peroz-Shapur for seven days, he announced. All the soldiers were given leave to enjoy the pleasures of the city, save only those assigned-by all units, on a rotating basis-to serve as a military police force.

After announcing this happy news, before the assembled ranks of the army, Belisarius departed for his tent as quickly as possible. (Ten minutes, in the event, which was the time the troops spent cheering his name.) He left it to Maurice to make the savage, bloodcurdling and grisly warnings regarding the fate of any miscreant who transgressed the proper bounds of Persian hospitality.

The army was not taken aback by Maurice's slavering. His sadistic little monologue was even cheered. Though not, admittedly, for ten minutes. The grinning soldiers had no doubt that the threats would be made good. It was simply that the warnings were quite superfluous.

Those soldiers were in a very good mood. As well they should be.

First, there was the prospect of a week with no marching.

Second, there was the prospect of spending that week in a large and well-populated city. The Persians had already arranged billeting. Beds-well, pallets at least.

Finally-O rapturous joy! — there was the delightful prospect of spending those days in a large and well-populated city when every single man in the army had money to burn.

More money that most of them had ever seen in their lives, in fact. Between the Persian Emperor's involuntary largesse-there might have been three ounces of gold left in the villa when the army departed; probably not-and the considerable booty of the destroyed Malwa army, Belisarius' little army was as flush as any army in history.

They knew it-and the Persians in Peroz-Shapur knew it too. The Roman soldiers would have been popular, anyway, even if they had been penniless. Belisarius and his men had just scored the only great defeat for the Malwa since they began their invasion of Persia. And while Kurush and his seven hundred lancers received their fair share of the glory, most of it went to the arms of Rome.

The citizens of Peroz-Shapur had just been relieved of any immediate prospect of a siege, and the men who had eliminated that threat were also in position-literally overnight-to produce a massive infusion of cash into the city's coffers.

Hail the conquering heroes!

As the Romans marched into Peroz-Shapur, the streets were lined with cheering Persians. Many of those were simply there to applaud. Others-merchants, tavern-keepers, prostitutes, jewelers-had additional motives. Simple, uncomplicated motives, which suited the simple and uncomplicated Roman troops to perfection.

So, as he retired to his tent, Belisarius was not concerned that there would be any unfortunate incidents during the army's stay in Peroz-Shapur. Which was good, because the general needed some time for himself, free of distraction.

He wanted to think. And examine a possibility.

Baresmanas visited him in his tent, in midafternoon of the third day.

'Why are you not staying in the city?' he asked, after being invited within. The sahrdaran glanced around at the austere living quarters which Belisarius always maintained on campaign. Other than an amphora of wine, and the cooling breeze which blew in through the opened flaps, the general's tent showed no signs of a man enjoying a well-deserved rest.

Belisarius looked up from the pallet where he was sitting, half-reclined against a cushion propped next to the chest which contained his personal goods. Smiling, he closed the book in his hand and gestured toward the chair at his little writing desk. The chair and the desk were the only items of furniture in the tent.

'Have a seat, Baresmanas. You looked exhausted.'

The Persian nobleman, half-collapsing on the chair, heaved a sigh.

'I am exhausted. The city is a madhouse! People are carousing at every hour of the day and night!'

'Shamelessly and with wild abandon, I should imagine.' The general grinned. 'You can't get any sleep. You can't hear yourself think. To your astonishment, you find yourself remembering your tent with fond memories.'

Baresmanas chuckled. 'You anticipated this, I see.'

'I have no experience with Persian troops enjoying a celebration. Perhaps they're a subdued lot-'

'Ha!'

'No?' Belisarius grinned. 'But I do know what Roman soldiers are like. They'd drive the demons of the Pit to mad distraction, just from the noise alone.'

The general cocked his head. 'There have been no serious problems, I trust?'