Swoop—away, away. Gone now, almost. A faint dot, no more.
A faint voice; laughing voice:
CALL IT—ANCESTOR WORSHIP.
When Belisarius returned to the world, he simply stared for a time. Looking beyond the hanging canopy to the great band of stars girdling the night sky. The outposts of that great village of the future.
Then, as he had not done in weeks, he withdrew Aide from his pouch.
There was no need, really. He had long since learned to communicate with the “jewel” without holding it. But he needed to see Aide with his own eyes. Much as he often needed to hold Photius with his own hands. To rejoice in love; and to find comfort in eternity.
Aide spoke.
You did not answer me.
Belisarius:
Weren’t you there—when I met the Great One?
Uncertainly:
Yes, but— I do not think I understood. I am not sure.
Plaintively, like a child complaining of the difficulty of its lessons:
We are not like you. We are not like the Great Ones. We are not human. We are not—
Be quiet, Aide. And stop whining. How do you expect to grow up if you whimper at every task?
Silence. Then: We will grow up?
Of course. I am your ancestor. One of them, at least. How do you think you got into the world in the first place?
Everything that is made of us grows up. Certainly my offspring!
A long, long silence. Then: We never dreamed. That we, too, could grow.
* * *
Aide spoke no more. Belisarius could sense the facets withdrawing into themselves, flashing internal dialogue.
After a time, he replaced the “jewel” in the pouch and lay down on his pallet. He needed to sleep. A battle would erupt soon, possibly even the next day.
But, just as he was drifting into slumber, he was awakened by Aide’s voice.
Very faint; very indistinct.
What are you saying? he mumbled sleepily. I can’t hear you.
That’s because I’m muttering.
Proudly:
It’s good you can’t hear me. That means I’m doing it right, even though I’m just starting.
Very proudly:
I’ll get better, I know I will. Practice makes perfect. Valentinian always says that.
The general’s eyes popped open. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered.
I thought I’d start with Valentinian. Growing up, I mean. He’s pretty easy. Not the swordplay, of course. But the muttering’s not so hard. And—
A string of profanity followed.
Belisarius bolted upright.
“Don’t use that sort of language!” he commanded. Much as he had often instructed his son Photius. And with approximately the same result.
Mutter, mutter, mutter.
Chapter 16
By the time Belisarius arrived at the hunting park, the Arab scouts had already had one brief skirmish with the advance units of the oncoming Malwa army. When they returned, the scouts repor-ted that the Malwa main force was less than ten miles away. They had been able to get close enough to examine that force before the Malwa drove them off.
There was good news and bad news.
The good news, as the scout leader put it:
“Shit-pot soldiers. Keep no decent skirmishers. Didn’t even see us until we were pissing on their heads. Good thing they didn’t bring women. We seduce all of them. Have three bastards each, prob-ably, before shit-pot Malwa notice their new children too smart and good-looking.”
The bad news:
“Shit-pot lot of them. Big shit-pot.”
Belisarius looked to the west. There was only an hour of daylight left, he estimated.
He turned to Maurice. “Take all the bucellarii and the katyushas. When the Persians arrive, I’ll have them join you.” He pondered, a moment. “And take the Illyrians, too.”
A quick look at Timasius, the Illyrian commander. “You’ll be under Maurice’s command. Any problem with that?”
Timasius shook his head—without hesitation, to Belisarius’ relief. His opinion of the Illyrian rose. Smart, the man might not be. But at least he was well-disciplined and cooperative.
The general studied the woods to the northeast.
“Judging from what I saw as we rode in, I think there’ll be plenty of good cover over there. I want all the men well hidden, Maurice. No fires, tonight, when you make camp. You’ll be my surprise, when I need it, and I don’t want the Malwa alerted.”