When the courier left, Baresmanas gave Belisarius a quick look which, subtly, conveyed both apology and request.
Understanding, Belisarius rose and said: “It’s late, and we’re all tired. I think it would be best to continue this discussion later. We’ll have plenty of opportunity to talk during our march south.”
The other Romans immediately followed his example. Within two minutes, they were mounting their horses outside the pavilion and riding toward the Roman encampment nearby.
“Something’s up,” said Coutzes.
“Politics,” announced his brother. “Got to be.”
Belisarius was a bit startled. Abstractly, he knew Bouzes and Coutzes were not stupid. But the brothers had behaved with such thoroughgoing foolishness, during his previous encounter with them three years earlier, that he had not expected such quick perspicacity.
He said nothing in reply, however. Not until he and Maurice parted company with the brothers at their tent, and began riding toward the Thracian part of the encampment.
“He’s right, you know,” commented Maurice.
Belisarius nodded. “They’ve got a succession crisis. Khusrau’s new to the throne and he’s got lots of half-brothers. Ormazd, in particular, was not happy with the situation. Civil war probably would have broken out, if the Malwa hadn’t invaded. Persians can sneer at us crude adoption-happy Romans all they want, but they’ve got their own sorry history of instability whenever the throne’s up for grabs. Often enough in the past, when a Persian Emperor died, a civil war erupted. One claimant from the Sassanid dynasty fighting another. Three or four of them at once, sometimes.”
They rode on a little further in silence. Then, Maurice smiled and remarked:
“I thought you did quite well, by the way. Lying through your teeth, I mean. The little touch about the crumbling brick walls of Ranapur was especially nice. Had such a ring of authenticity about it. Completely avoided the—uh, awkwardness—of explaining to a couple of Persian sahrdaran that your experience with fortifications in the new age of gunpowder comes from the advice of a fucking barbarian—a Gaul, no less—who won’t even be born for twelve hundred years.”
Belisarius grimaced. Maurice plowed on cheerfully.
“You did let one thing slip, though. When you mentioned that you hoped the only weapons the Malwa had were siege guns, rockets and grenades.”
Belisarius winced. But Maurice seemed determined to till the entire field.
“Bad slip, that. Fortunately, the Persians didn’t catch it. Or they might have asked: ‘what particular weapons do you fear seeing?’ ”
The chiliarch glanced at his general slyly. “Then what would you have said?”
Belisarius stared ahead, stiff-faced, silent.
“Oh, yes,” chuckled Maurice. “Difficult, that would have been.”
He mimicked Belisarius’ distinctive baritone: “I hope we don’t see mobile artillery. Or, even worse, handcannons. You know—the stuff we Romans have been trying to develop through our secret weapons project, guided by visions of the future from a magical jewel some of us call the Talisman of God. Not, mind you, with any instant success.”
They were at the tent which they shared. Belisarius dismounted. On the ground, he stared up at Maurice’s grinning countenance. Then said, firmly, even severely, “I have the utmost confidence in John of Rhodes.”
Maurice shook his head. “That’s because you’ve never worked with him.”
The chiliarch dismounted from his own horse, and followed Belisarius into the tent. “I have, on the other hand,” he grumbled. “Quite the exciting experience, that is.”
Chapter 9
RHODES
Summer, 531 a.d.
“Get down, you idiot!”
Antonina ducked behind the barricade. Just in time. There was a sharp, nasty-sounding, explosive crack. An instant later, an object went whizzing overhead somewhere in her vicinity.
John’s head popped up behind his own barricade. When Antonina gingerly looked up, she found the naval officer’s blue eyes glaring at her fiercely.
“How many times do I have to tell you?” he demanded. “This stuff is dangerous!”
The other observers of the test, five Roman officers, were beginning to rise from behind the heavy wooden barricades which surrounded, on three sides, the cannon which had been tested.
The late, lamented cannon. Lying on its side, off the heavy wooden cradle, with one of the wrought iron bars which made up its barrel missing. Seeing that gaping, scorched split running down the entire length of the barrel, Antonina winced. The missing iron bar was the object which had whizzed past—and it could have easily taken off her head.