A sudden surge of warmth came from the jewel. Tears almost came to Belisarius’ eyes. He was reminded of that precious moment, weeks earlier, when Photius had finally accepted him. The boy had been skittish, at first, not knowing what to make of this unknown, strange, large man who called himself his father. But the time had come, one evening, when the boy fell asleep before the fire. And, as he felt the drowsiness, had clambered into his stepfather’s lap and lain his little head upon a large shoulder. Trusting in the parent to keep him warm and safe through the night.
Belisarius was silent for a time, pondering. He knew something had gone awry, terribly wrong, in that future he could not imagine. Danger. Danger. Danger.
He realized that the jewel was nearing exhaustion and decided that he must put off further questioning. Communication was becoming easier, slowly. Patience, patience. He had danger enough in the present to deal with, in any event.
But still—there was one question.
“Why did you come here, to the past? What can there possibly be here that would help you in—whatever dangers you face in your future?”
The jewel was fading rapidly now. But the faint image came again:
A face, emerging from the ground, made from spiderwebs and bird wings, and laurel leaves. His face.
Chapter 8
“It’s perfect,” pronounced Belisarius.
“It’s the silliest trap I ever saw,” pronounced Maurice. “Not even a schoolboy would fall for it. Not even a Hun schoolboy.”
“There are no Hun schoolboys.”
“Exactly my point,” grumbled Maurice.
Belisarius smiled—broadly, not crookedly.
“There’s nothing wrong with my plan and you know it. You’re just angry at your part in it.”
“And that’s another thing! It’s ridiculous to use your best heavy cavalry to—”
“Enough, Maurice.” The general’s voice was mild, but Maurice understood the tone. The hecatontarch fell silent. For a few minutes, he and Belisarius stood together atop the small hill on the left flank of the Roman forces. They said nothing, simply watched the gathering array of the Persian forces coming from the east. The enemy’s army was still some considerable distance away, but Belisarius could see the first detachments of light cavalry beginning to scout the Roman position.
Before the Medes could get more than a mile from the Roman lines, however, three ala of Hun light cavalry from the Army of Lebanon advanced to meet them. There was a spirited exchange of arrows before the Persian scouts retreated. Casualties were few, on either side, but Belisarius was quite satisfied with the results of the encounter. It was essential to his plan that the Persians not have the opportunity to scout his position carefully.
“That’ll keep the bastards off,” grunted Maurice.
“Best be about it,” said Belisarius. “It’s almost noon. The wind’ll be picking up soon.”
Maurice scanned the sky.
“Let’s hope so. If it doesn’t—”
“Enough.”
Belisarius strode down the back side of the hill toward his horse. Behind him, he heard Maurice begin to issue orders, but he could not make out their specific content. Instructions to the disgruntled Thracian cataphracts, no doubt.
Very disgruntled, indeed. The Thracian cataphracts looked upon foot travel—much less fighting on foot—with the enthusiasm of a drunk examining a glass of water. The elite, they were—and now, assigned to serve as bodyguards for a bunch of miserable, misbegotten, never-to-be-sufficiently-damned, common foot archers. Downright plebes. Barbarians, no less.
Which, in truth, they were. The four hundred archers atop the hill were a mercenary unit, made up entirely of Isaurian hillmen from southern Anatolia. An uncivilized lot, the Isaurians, but very tough. And completely accustomed to fighting on foot in rocky terrain, either with bows or with hand weapons.
Belisarius smiled. He knew his cataphracts. Once the Thracians saw the Isaurian archers at work, they would not be able to resist the challenge. Personally, Belisarius thought his cataphracts were better archers than any in the Army of Lebanon. They would certainly try to prove it. By the time the Persians tried to drive them off the hill, the Thracians would be in full fury.
Belisarius paused for a moment in his downward descent, and reexamined the hill.
Perfect. Steep sides, rocky. The worst possible terrain for a cavalry charge. And Persian nobles view fighting on foot like bishops view eternal damnation. God help the arrogant bastards, trying to drive armored horses up these slopes against dismounted Thracian cataphracts and Isaurian hillmen.