An Oblique Approach

"All right," he said, grunting. "But I hope this works."

"It will, Maurice, it will. The timing doesn't have to be that perfect. We just have to get to the battleground before the Persians do. And as for the enemy's reactions—I think that letter I sent off to Firuz will do the trick nicely."

"Why? What did you say in it?"

"Well, the essence of the letter was a demand that he refrain from threatening my shiny new fort. But I conveyed the demand in the most offensive manner possible. I boasted of my martial prowess and sneered at that of the Medes. I tossed in a few well-chosen remarks on the subject of Persian cowardice and unmanliness. I dwelt lovingly on the full-bellied worms which would soon be the caskets of Persian troops—assuming, of course, that the slimy things were hungry enough to feed on such foul meat."

"Oh my," muttered Maurice. He stroked his gray beard.

"But I thought the polishing touch," concluded Belisarius cheerfully, "was my refusal to build a bath in the fortress. Firuz wouldn't need the bath, I explained, because after I slaughtered him, I would toss his remains into the latrine. Which is where they belong, of course, since he's nothing but a walking sack of dog shit."

"Oh my." Maurice pulled up a chair and sat down slowly. For the hecatontarch, the simple act was unusual. A stickler for proprieties was Maurice. He almost never sat while in his general's headquarters.

"We'd better win this battle," he muttered, "or we're all for it." His right hand clenched his sword hilt. His left hand was spread rigidly on the table.

Belisarius leaned over and patted the outstretched hand. "So you can see, Maurice, why I think Firuz will show up at the battlefield."

Maurice made a sour expression. "Maybe. They're touchy, Persian nobles. But if he's smart enough to override his anger, he'll pick a battlefield of his own choosing."

Belisarius leaned back and shrugged.

"I don't think so. I don't think he's that smart, and anyway—the battle site I selected overlooks the stream that provides all the water for his camp. Whether he likes it or not, he can't very well just let us sit there unmolested."

"You would," retorted Maurice instantly.

"I wouldn't have camped there in the first place."

Maurice's right hand released its grip on the sword, and came up to stroke his beard. "True, true. Idiotic, that—relying on an insecure water supply. If you can't find a well or an oasis, like we did, you should at least make sure the water comes from your own territory."

The hecatontarch straightened up a bit. "All right, General. We'll try it. Who knows, it might even work. That's the one and only good thing about the first law of battles—it cuts both ways."

A moment later, Maurice arose. His movements had regained their usual vigor and decisiveness. Belisarius left his chair and accompanied the hecatontarch out of the tent.

"How soon do you expect to reach the battlefield?" asked Belisarius.

Maurice took the reins of his horse and mounted. Once in the saddle, he shrugged.

"We're making good time," he announced. "It'll slow us down a bit, having to gather up what's left of the two cavalry regiments, but—we should be able to start digging in by midafternoon tomorrow."

Belisarius scratched his chin. "That should leave enough time. God knows the soldiers have had enough practice at it lately. Make sure—"

"Make sure the cavalry does its share," concluded Maurice. "Make sure the artillery's well-positioned. Make sure there's food ready for the Army of Lebanon when it arrives. And whatever else, make sure the hill is secure."

Belisarius smiled up at him. "Be off. You've got a long ride back to our army. But there's a lovely moon out tonight."

Maurice forbore comment.

Back in his tent, lying on his cot, Belisarius found it difficult to fall asleep. In truth, he shared some of Maurice's concern. He was gambling too much. But he saw no other option.

His fist closed around the pouch holding the jewel. At once, a faint thought came.

danger.

He sat up, staring down. A moment later, after opening the pouch, the jewel was resting in the palm of his hand.

The thought came again, much stronger.

danger.

"It was you, last night," he whispered.

danger.

"I know that! Tell me something I don't know. What are you?"

The facets shivered and reformed, splintered and came together, all in a microsecond. But aim never vanished, never even wavered. In a crystalline paroxysm, the facets forged a thought which could penetrate the barrier. But aim was overconfident, tried to do too much. The complex and fragile thought shattered into pieces upon first contact with the alien mind. Only the residue remained, transmuted into an image: