North and west of the villa, just beyond the wall, began the small forest which formed the actual hunting park. Those woods were dense, and covered many square miles of territory. Maurice’s troops were hidden away in a part of that forest, about two miles northeast of the villa. To the south, the villa was separated from the Euphrates by a much thinner stretch of woods. The river was less than a mile away.
Examining the scene, Maurice could see that the forest and the river would act as a funnel, channeling the Malwa directly toward the villa. The area to the east of the villa was the only terrain on which a large army could move. No general would even consider trying to maneuver through the forest. Maurice had been able to get his cataphracts into those woods, true. But he was just setting an ambush, hiding his troops behind the first screen of trees. Even then, the task had been difficult.
He studied the open terrain east of the villa more closely. That would be the battleground. Units of the Constantinople garrison were visible, here and there, eating their morning meal. To the southwest, nestled on the edge of the woods lining the river, Maurice could see portions of the barns, horsepens, and corrals where the imperial livestock were fed and sheltered.
Then, more carefully, Maurice examined the wall which enclosed the compound itself—the villa proper, with its adjoining buildings and the gardens. Finally, very closely, he studied the gateway in which he and Belisarius were standing.
He did not seem exactly thrilled by what he saw.
“A lame mule could kick that wall apart,” he grumbled. “And as for this ridiculous so-called gate—I’d pit a half-grown puppy against it. Give three-to-one odds on the mutt.”
Belisarius glanced at the objects of Maurice’s disfavor. The general smiled. “Pretty though, aren’t they?”
He patted Maurice on the shoulder.
“Relax, you morose old bastard. This is a hunting villa, not a fortress. The outer wall’s purely decorative, I admit. But the villa itself was built for an Emperor. It’s solid enough, even where the separate buildings connect with each other. Besides, Bouzes’ boys did wonders last night, beefing it up. They’ll hold—long enough, at least.”
Maurice said nothing, but the sour expression on his face never faded.
The general’s smile broadened. “Like I said—morose old bastard.”
“I’m not morose,” countered Maurice. “I’m a pessimist. What if your trap doesn’t work?”
Belisarius shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll just have to fight it out, that’s all.” He waved at the villa. “Sure, it isn’t much—but it’s better than anything the Malwa have.”
Before Maurice could reply, a cheery hail cut him off. Turning, he and Belisarius saw that Coutzes had arrived. The commander of the Syrian light cavalry was trotting up the road leading to the villa. With him were all three of the cavalry’s tribunes as well as Abbu, his chief scout.
Maurice glanced up at the sky. The sun was just beginning to peek over the eastern horizon. “If he’s got news already, they either did a hell of a good job themselves, last night—or the enemy’s breathing down our necks.”
Belisarius chuckled. “Like I said—morose.” He gestured with his head. “Look at those insouciant fellows, Maurice! Do those smiling faces look like men running for their lives?”
Maurice scowled. “Don’t call soldiers ‘insouciant.’ It’s ridiculous. Especially when it comes to Abbu.”
The chiliarch studied the approaching figure of the scout leader. His somber mien lightened, somewhat. Maurice approved of Abbu. The Arab had a world-view which closely approximated his own. Every silver lining has a cloud; into each life a deluge must fall.
Abbu’s first words, upon reining in his horse: “The enemy is laying a terrible trap for us, general. I foresee disaster.”
Coutzes laughed. “The old grouch is just pissed because he had to work so hard last night.”
“No enemy is that stupid!” Abbu snarled. “We practically had to lead them by the hand!” The Arab’s close-set eyes were almost crossed with outrage. Belisarius had to restrain his own laugh.
Abbu’s face was long and lean, dominated by heavy brows and a sheer hook of a nose. His hair was salt and pepper, but his beard was pure white. There was no air of the benign grandfather about him, however—the scar running from his temple down into the lush beard gave the man a purely piratical appearance.