Baresmanas could remember little of the battle's final moments. Only the confusion and the choking dust; the growing, horrible knowledge that they had been outwitted and outmaneuvered; the shock and pain, as he lay dazed and bleeding on the trampled ground, his shoulder almost severed.
Most of all, he remembered the terror which had coursed through his heart, as if hot iron instead of blood flowed through his veins. Terror, not for himself, but for his helpless children. The Persian camp was unprotected, then, from the triumphing Romans. Baresmanas had known the Roman soldiers would ravage it like wolves, especially their Hun auxiliaries, raping and murdering.
And so they had; or, at least, had started to do.
Until Belisarius, and his cataphracts, had put a stop to the atrocities. He had been as decisive and ruthless toward his own Huns as he had been toward the Persians.
Weeks later, after he had been ransomed by his family, Baresmanas had heard the tale from his daughter Tahmina. Seeing the oncoming Huns, she and her brother had hidden themselves under the silk cushions in their tent. But the savages had not been fooled. A squad of Huns had found Tahmina soon enough, and dragged her out of the tent. Her brother had tried to come to her rescue, but it had been a futile gesture. The Huns had not killed the boy-alive, he would bring a good price on the slave market. They had simply split his scalp with a blow, casually, while they began stripping off his sister's clothing.
The Roman general had arrived then, accompanied by his cataphracts, and ordered the Huns to cease. Tahmina had described to Baresmanas how the Hun who held her by the hair had taunted Belisarius. And how the general, cold-faced, had simply spoken the name of his cataphract. A cataphract whose face was even colder, and as wicked-looking as a weasel. The cataphract had been as quick and deadly as a weasel, too. His arrows had slaughtered the Huns holding Tahmina like so many chickens.
Belisarius.
Strange, peculiar man. With that odd streak of mercy, lying under the edge of his ruthless and cunning brain.
Baresmanas turned his head, staring back at the fire. And now, for the first time since he learned of the Malwa butchery of Mesopotamia, could see the enemy roasting in the flames.
Chapter 4
It was the most beautiful cathedral Justinian had ever seen. More beautiful, and more majestic, than he had even dreamed. The capstone to his life. The Hagia Sophia that he had planned to build.
The Mese, the great central thoroughfare of Constantinople, began at the Golden Gate and ended at the base of the cathedral. Down its entire length-here in scatters; there, mounded up in piles like so much offal-were the bodies of the plague victims.
Half the city was dead, or dying. The stench of uncollected rotting bodies mingled with the sickly smell of burning cadavers to produce a thick miasma, hanging over Constantinople like a constant fog. The same miasma that he had seen hanging over Italy, and North Africa, and every province which Belisarius had reconquered for him.
Justinian the Great. Who, in the name of restoring the greatness of the Roman Empire, had bankrupted the eastern half to destroy the western. And left the entire Mediterranean a war-ravaged breeding ground for the worst plague in centuries.
Justinian jerked erect in his chair.
'No more,' he croaked. 'I can bear it no longer.'
He leaned forward and extended his arm, shakily. In the palm of his hand rested a shimmering, glowing object. A jewel, some might have called it. A magical gem.
Belisarius took the 'jewel' from Justinian and replaced it in its pouch. A moment later, the pouch was once again suspended from his neck.
The 'jewel' spoke in his mind.
He is not a nice man.
Belisarius smiled crookedly.
No, Aide, he is not. But he can be a great man.
The crystalline being from the future exuded skepticism.
Not sure. Not a nice man, at all.
'Are you satisfied, Justinian?' Belisarius asked.
The former emperor nodded.
'Yes. It was everything you said. I almost wish, now, that I had never asked for the experience. But I needed-'
He made a vague motion with his hand, as if to summon up unknown words.
Belisarius provided them:
'You needed to know if your suspicions were warranted, or not. You needed to know if the elevation of my stepson to the imperial throne stemmed from motives of personal ambition and aggrandizement, or-as I claimed at the time-from the needs of the war against the Malwa.'
Justinian lowered his head. 'I am a mistrustful man,' he muttered. 'It is rooted in my nature.' He opened his mouth to speak again. Clamped it shut.
'There is no need, Justinian,' said Belisarius. 'There is no need.'
The general's smile grew more crooked still. He had had this conversation once before, in a nightmare vision. 'It would take you hours to say what you are trying to say. It will not come easily to you, if at all.'
Justinian shook his head. 'No, Belisarius. There
'I apologize.'
The third occupant of the room chuckled. 'Even in this,' he said, 'you are still arrogant. Do you think you are the world's only sinner, Justinian? Or simply its greatest?'
Justinian swiveled his head.
'I will ignore that remark,' he said, with considerable dignity. 'And are
'Quite certain,' replied the stony voice of the monk. 'It is a messenger sent by the Lord to warn us all.'
'Especially me,' muttered Justinian. The blind man rubbed his mangled eye-sockets. 'Has Theodora-?'
'No,' replied Belisarius. 'I offered, once, but she declined. She said she preferred to take the future as it comes, rather than seeing it in a vision.'
'Good,' stated Justinian. 'She does not know about the cancer, then?'
It was Belisarius' turn to jerk erect in his chair, startled. 'No.
'Seventeen years,' stated Justinian. His voice was very bleak. 'She will die, then, from cancer.'
The Macedonian cleared his throat. 'If we succeed in defeating the Malwa-'
Justinian waved him off. 'That's irrelevant, Michael. Whatever other evils the Malwa will bring, they are not responsible for cancer. And don't forget-the vision which the jewel gave me was of the future that would have been. The future where the Malwa were never elevated to world mastery by this demonic power called Link. The future where I remained emperor, and we reconquered the western Mediterranean.'
He fell silent, head bowed. 'I am right, Belisarius, am I not?'
Belisarius hesitated. He cast his thoughts toward Aide.
He is right, came the reply. Aide forestalled the next question:
