Destiny's Shield

Belisarius' mind was now wandering very far from the moment. He knew of the Moslem Caliphates of the future that would have been. Aide had shown him. Just as Aide had shown him the fall of the Roman Empire, almost a thousand years in the future. The sack of Constantinople at the hands of the so-called Fourth Crusade. The final conquest of Byzantium, a quarter of a millennium later, by a new people called the Turks.

Belisarius wondered, now, as he often had before, what he thought of all that Aide had shown him. He was a general in the service of the Roman Empire. Indeed, one of the greatest generals which Rome ever produced. He knew that for a simple fact. And knew, also, that he was the only general in the long history of that great Empire who fought for it while understanding, all along, that the Empire was doomed.

He hoped to saved Rome, and the world, from the Malwa tyranny. But he would not save Rome itself. Rome would fall—someday, somehow. If not by the hand of Sultan Mehmet and his Janissaries, by the hand of someone else. All human creations fell, or collapsed, or simply decayed. Someday, somehow, somewhere.

Mentally, Belisarius shrugged. His was not the task of creating a perfect human future. His was the task of making sure that people had a future they could create. Create badly, perhaps—but create. Not be forced into a mold created for them.

Maurice was still waiting patiently for an answer. Belisarius smiled, and gave him the simple one.

"Yes, he can do it. He will do it."

Maurice grunted. The grunt carried a great deal of satisfaction—which was odd, really, for a Roman soldier. But Maurice had met Khusrau Anushirvan, and, like many people, even that crusty veteran had come under the spell of the Persian Emperor's powerful personality.

"What do you think?" he now asked. "About the proposal for a dynastic marriage, I mean?"

Belisarius smiled again. "I think it's a great idea. Theodora'll be twitchy about it, of course. But Justinian will seize on it with both hands."

Maurice frowned. "Why?"

"Because Justinian always has his—`mind's eye,' let's call it—on the position of the dynasty. His dynasty, for all that Photius isn't his own son. And he knows that there'd be nothing that would cement the army's allegiance more than a dynastic marriage with a Persian Princess."

Maurice tugged his beard thoughtfully. "True enough," he agreed. "Anything that would prevent another bloody brawl with those tough fucking deh-gans. Bad for your retirement prospects, that is."

A thought came to him. His eyes widened, slightly. "Now that I think about it— When was the last time a Roman Emperor married a Persian noblewoman?"

Belisarius chuckled. "It's never happened, Maurice. The Persians consider us Roman mongrels unfit for their blood."

"That's what I thought," mused Maurice. "God, the army'll be tickled pink. They already think of Photius as one of their own, you know. If he marries a Persian sahrdaran's daughter—"

The chiliarch broke off, eyeing the figure of Baresmanas below. "Does he know about it, d'you think? It's his daughter we're talking about, after all. Maybe he won't like the idea."

Belisarius laughed, clapping the chiliarch on the shoulder.

"Unless I'm badly mistaken, Maurice, the whole thing was Baresmanas' idea in the first place."

As if he had been cued, Baresmanas chose that moment to turn his head and look up at the two Roman officers standing on the very top of the rock-pile. For a moment, he and Belisarius stared at each other. Then, Baresmanas hopped off the rock—his shoulder might be half-crippled, but he was still quite spry for a middle-aged man—and began climbing toward them.

As soon as he reached the hill-top, Baresmanas asked, "So—what do you think?"

For a moment, the Roman general was startled. How could Baresmanas have overheard—?

Then, realizing that the sahrdaran was talking about their military situation, Belisarius grimaced.

"We're not going to be able to surprise them with another flank attack, that's for sure."

Baresmanas nodded. Neither he nor Belisarius had really thought that option would be available. Having been shattered at Anatha, the Malwa would not make the mistake of overconfidence again. The army approaching them from the southeast was much larger than the force they had faced at the hunting park. Still, the commander of those oncoming Malwa was keeping a massive guard on his flanks. Well out on his flanks, using his best troops for the job. On his left, in the desert, the Malwa commander was using Lakhmids on camelback. On his right, in the fertile terrain on the other side of the almost-dry Euphrates, he was using Kushan cavalry. Four thousand of them, according to Kurush's scouts, maintaining an excellent marching order, with a large contingent of skirmishers guarding their own flank.

There would be no way to surprise the Malwa with any clever maneuver with concealed troops. Not this time.