Destiny's shield

'What do you think?' he now asked. 'About the proposal for a dynastic marriage, I mean?'

Belisarius smiled again. 'I think it's a great idea. Theodora'll be twitchy about it, of course. But Justinian will seize on it with both hands.'

Maurice frowned. 'Why?'

'Because Justinian always has his-'mind's eye,' let's call it-on the position of the dynasty. His dynasty, for all that Photius isn't his own son. And he knows that there'd be nothing that would cement the army's allegiance more than a dynastic marriage with a Persian Princess.'

Maurice tugged his beard thoughtfully. 'True enough,' he agreed. 'Anything that would prevent another bloody brawl with those tough fucking deh-gans. Bad for your retirement prospects, that is.'

A thought came to him. His eyes widened, slightly. 'Now that I think about it- When was the last time a Roman Emperor married a Persian noblewoman?'

Belisarius chuckled. 'It's never happened, Maurice. The Persians consider us Roman mongrels unfit for their blood.'

'That's what I thought,' mused Maurice. 'God, the army'll be tickled pink. They already think of Photius as one of their own, you know. If he marries a Persian sahrdaran's daughter-'

The chiliarch broke off, eyeing the figure of Baresmanas below. 'Does he know about it, d'you think? It's his daughter we're talking about, after all. Maybe he won't like the idea.'

Belisarius laughed, clapping the chiliarch on the shoulder.

'Unless I'm badly mistaken, Maurice, the whole thing was Baresmanas' idea in the first place.'

As if he had been cued, Baresmanas chose that moment to turn his head and look up at the two Roman officers standing on the very top of the rock-pile. For a moment, he and Belisarius stared at each other. Then, Baresmanas hopped off the rock-his shoulder might be half-crippled, but he was still quite spry for a middle-aged man-and began climbing toward them.

As soon as he reached the hill-top, Baresmanas asked, 'So-what do you think?'

For a moment, the Roman general was startled. How could Baresmanas have overheard-?

Then, realizing that the sahrdaran was talking about their military situation, Belisarius grimaced.

'We're not going to be able to surprise them with another flank attack, that's for sure.'

Baresmanas nodded. Neither he nor Belisarius had really thought that option would be available. Having been shattered at Anatha, the Malwa would not make the mistake of overconfidence again. The army approaching them from the southeast was much larger than the force they had faced at the hunting park. Still, the commander of those oncoming Malwa was keeping a massive guard on his flanks. Well out on his flanks, using his best troops for the job. On his left, in the desert, the Malwa commander was using Lakhmids on camelback. On his right, in the fertile terrain on the other side of the almost-dry Euphrates, he was using Kushan cavalry. Four thousand of them, according to Kurush's scouts, maintaining an excellent marching order, with a large contingent of skirmishers guarding their own flank.

There would be no way to surprise the Malwa with any clever maneuver with concealed troops. Not this time.

'We will have to rely on your main plan, then,' said Baresmanas. The sahrdaran heaved a sigh. 'Casualties will be high.'

Belisarius tightened his lips. 'Yes, they will. But I don't see any other option.'

Baresmanas turned his head, staring to the west. Across the river, he could see the huge camp where Ormazd's twenty thousand lancers and archers had taken position, after arriving the week before. Even at the distance, he could see Ormazd's own pavilion, towering over the much-less-elaborate tents of his soldiers.

'If he does not-'

'He will,' said Belisarius confidently. His crooked smile came, in full force.

'You will have noticed, I'm sure, that Ormazd pitched his camp there-instead of further down the river.'

Baresmanas nodded, scowling. 'The swine,' he growled. 'Upstream of the dam, where he pitched his camp, there is no way he can cross the Euphrates in time to give you help, should you need it. He should have taken position several miles further down, where the riverbed is almost empty.'

Belisarius shook his head.

'Not a chance, Baresmanas. His troops would take the brunt of the assault, then. Whereas now-'

'They are obviously out of the action,' concluded the sahrdaran. 'The Malwa will recognize that immed-iately, and concentrate most of their forces here. They will only need to keep a screen against the chance of Ormazd attacking their left.'

Belisarius chuckled, making clear his opinion on the likelihood of Ormazd ordering any massive sally. The Persian Emperor's half-brother, it was clear, intended to sit on his hands while the Romans and the Malwa army slugged it out on the other side of the Euphrates.

'How did he explain it?' demanded Baresmanas angrily.

Belisarius shrugged. 'In all truth, he didn't have much explaining to do. I didn't press him on the matter, Baresmanas. I want him where he is.'

Baresmanas' scowl deepened. Intellectually, the sahrdaran understood Belisarius' stratagem. Emotionally, however, the Aryan nobleman still choked at the idea of actually using another Aryan's expected treachery. A Sassanid, no less.

Baresmanas eyed the Roman general. 'I forget, sometimes, just how incredibly cold-blooded you can be,' he muttered. 'I cannot think of another man who would develop a battle plan based on his expectation that an ally would betray him. Take such a possibility into account, certainly-any sane commander does that, when fighting with foreign allies. But to plan on it- No, more! To actually engineer it, to maneuver for it!-'

Baresmanas fell silent, shaking his head. Belisarius, for his part, said nothing. There was nothing to say, really. Despite the many ways in which he and Baresmanas were much alike, there were other ways in which they were as different as two men could be.

For all his sophistication and scholarship, Bares-manas was still, at bottom, the same man who had spent his boyhood admiring Persian lancers and archers. Spent hours of that boyhood watching dehgans on the training fields of his father's vast estate, demonstrating their superb skill as mounted archers.

Whereas Belisarius, for all his own sophistication and subtleties, was still-at bottom-the same man who had spent his boyhood admiring Thracian blacksmiths. Spent hours of that boyhood watching the blacksmiths on his father's modest estate, demonstrating their own more humble but-when all is said and done-much more powerful craft. Men die by the dehgan's steel. People live by the blacksmith's iron.

Even as a boy, however, Belisarius had had a subtle mind. So, where other boys admired the strength of the blacksmith, and gasped with awe at the mighty strokes of hammer on anvil, Belisarius had seen the truth. A blacksmith was a strong man, of necessity. But a good blacksmith did everything he could to husband that strength. Time after time, watching, the boy Belisarius had seen how cunningly the blacksmith positioned the glowing metal, and with what a precise angle he wielded the hammer.

So, he said nothing to Baresmanas. There was nothing to say.

A few minutes later, called down by one of his tribunes with a problem, Maurice left the artificial hilltop. Belisarius and Baresmanas remained there alone, studying the huge Malwa force advancing toward them.

They did not speak, other than to exchange an occasional professional assessment of the enemy's disposition of its forces. On that subject, not surprisingly, they were always in agreement. If Baresmanas did not have his Roman ally's sheer military genius, he was still an experienced and competent general in his own right.

Underlying that agreement, however, and for all their genuine friendship, two very different souls readied for the coming battle.

The one, an Aryan sahrdaran-noblest man of the noblest line of the world's noblest race-sought strength and courage from that very nobility. Sought for it, found it, and awaited the battle with a calm certitude in his own valor and honor.

The other, a Thracian born into the lower ranks of Rome's parvenu aristocracy, never even thought of