Bouzes and Coutzes, it turned out, had not found the pay caravan. What they had found, charging all over the landscape looking for it, was half of the Persian cavalry, charging all over the landscape looking for it likewise. An impromptu battle had erupted, in which the heavily outnumbered Romans had taken a drubbing. The two brothers had been captured. In the end, most of the Roman cavalry had escaped, in disorganized groups, and were being encountered by Belisarius’ own army as it marched forward into position. Though badly demoralized and half-leaderless, the surviving members of the two regiments had been so delighted to find a large formation of Roman troops in the vicinity that they were rallying to the standards of Belisarius’ army.
When the officer concluded his tale, Belisarius refrained from commenting on the stupidity of Bouzes and Coutzes. Under the circumstances, he thought, it would be superfluous. He simply concluded the meeting with a brief review of his plans for the forthcoming battle, then sent everyone to bed.
“Things are going well,” he remarked to Maurice, once they were in private.
Maurice gave him a hard look. “You’re playing this one awfully close, young man.”
Belisarius eyed him. Maurice was not, in private, given to formality and subservience. Even in public, he satisfied himself with nothing more than the occasional “sir” and “my lord.” But he rarely addressed his general by his own name, and hadn’t called him a “young man” since—
Belisarius smiled crookedly. “I won that battle, too, if you recall.”
“By the skin of your teeth. And it took you weeks to recover from your wounds.” Morosely, rubbing his right side: “Took me even longer.”
Thinking the tent was too gloomy, Belisarius lit another lamp and placed it on the table. Then, after taking a seat in his chair, he examined the hecatontarch’s grim visage. He was quite confident of his own plans, despite their complexity, but he had learned never to ignore Maurice’s misgivings.
“Spit it out, Maurice. And spare me your reproaches concerning the two brothers.”
Maurice snorted. “Them? Drooling babes are cute, but they’ve no business leading armies. I care not a fig about that!” He waved a hand dismissively. “No, what bothers me is that you’re cutting everything too fine. You’re depending on almost perfect timing, and on the enemy to react exactly as you predict.” He gave Belisarius another stony look. “You may recall my first lessons to you when you were barely out of swaddling clothes. Never—”
“Never expect the enemy to do what you think he’s going to do, and never expect that schedules will be met on time. And, most of all, always remember the first law of battle: everything gets fucked up as soon as the enemy arrives. That’s why he’s called the enemy.”
Maurice grunted. Then:
“And whatever happened to your devious subtlety? That ‘oblique approach’ you’re so fond of talking about?” He held up a hand. “And don’t bother reminding me how shrewd your battle plan is! So what? This isn’t like you at all, Belisarius. You’ve never been one to substitute tactics for strategy. How many times have you told me the best campaign is the one which forces the enemy to yield by indirection, with the least amount of bloodshed? Much less a pitched battle which you’re forcing?”
Belisarius took in a deep breath and held it. The fingers of his left hand began drumming the table. For a moment, as he had done many times over the past weeks, he considered taking Maurice into his full confidence. Again, he decided against it. True, Maurice was close-mouthed. But—there was the first law of secrets: every person told a secret doubles the chance of having it found out.
“Stop drumming your fingers,” grumbled the hecatontarch. “You only do that when you’re being too clever by half.”
Belisarius chuckled, snapped his left hand into a fist. He decided on a halfway course. “Maurice, there is information which I possess which I can’t divulge to you now. That’s why I’m pushing this battle. I know I’m cutting too many corners, but I don’t have any choice.”
Maurice scowled. “What do you know about the Persians that I don’t?” It was not a question, really. More in the way of a scornful reproof.