“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:
A metallic bird, bejewelled, made of hammered silver and gold-enamelling. Perched on a painted, wrought-iron tree. One of the marvelous constructs made for the Emperor Justinian’s palace.
“You were never made by Grecian goldsmiths,” muttered Belisarius. “Why are you here? What do you want from me? And where are you from?” aim surged: future.
Belisarius blew out an exasperated sigh. “I know the future!” he exclaimed. “You showed it to me. But can it be changed? And where are you from?”
Frustration was the greater for the hope which had preceded it. aim itself almost splintered, for an instant. But it rallied, ruthless with determination. Out of the flashing movement of the facets came a lesson learned. Patience, patience. Concepts beyond the most primitive could not yet cross the frontier. Again: future.
The general’s eyes widened.
Yes! Yes! Again! The facets froze, now ruthless in their own determination. future. future. future.
“Mary, Mother of God.”
Belisarius arose and walked slowly about in his tent. He clenched the jewel tightly in his fist, as if trying to force the thoughts from the thing like he might squeeze a sponge.
“More,” he commanded. “The future must be a wondrous place. Nothing else could have created such a wonder as you. So what can you want from the past? What can we possibly have to offer?”
Again, a metallic bird. Bejewelled, made of hammered silver and gold enamelling. Perched on a painted, wrought-iron tree. But now the focus was sharper, clearer. Like one of the marvelous constructs made for the Emperor Justinian’s palace, yes, but vastly more intricate and cunning in its design.
“ Men created you?” he demanded. “Men of the future?” yes.
“I say again: what do you want?” aim hesitated, for a microsecond. Then, knew the task was still far beyond its capability. Patience, patience. Where thought could not penetrate, vision might:
Again, the thunderclap. Again: the tree shattered, the ceremony crushed beneath a black wave. Again: crystals, strewn across a barren desert, shriek with despair. Again, in an empty, sunless sky, giant faces begin to take form. Cold faces. Pitiless faces. Human faces, but with all of human warmth banished.
The general frowned. Almost “Are you saying that we are the danger to you? In the future? And that you have come to the past for help? That’s crazy!”
The facets shivered and spun, almost in a frenzy. Now they demanded and drove the demand upon aim. But aim had learned well. The thoughts were still far too complex to breach the frontier. Imperiously it drove the facets back: patience, patience.
Again, the giant faces. Human faces. Monstrous faces. Dragon-scaled faces.
“Mary, Mother of God,” he whispered. “It’s true.”
An explosive emotion erupted from the jewel. It was like a child’s wail of-not anger, so much as deep, deep hurt at a parent’s betrayal. A pure thought even forced its way through the barrier. you promised.
Truly, thought Belisarius, it was the plaint of a bereaved child, coming from a magical stone.
The general weighed the jewel. As before, he was struck by its utter weightlessness. Yet it did not float away, somehow, but stayed in his hand. Like a trusting child.
“I do not understand you,” he whispered. “Not truly, not yet. But-if you have truly been betrayed, I will do for you what I can.”
That thought brought another smile, very crooked. “Though I’m not sure what I could do. What makes you think I could be of help?”
A sudden surge of warmth came from the jewel. Tears almost came to Belisarius’ eyes. He was reminded of that precious moment, weeks earlier, when Photius had finally accepted him. The boy had been skittish, at first, not knowing what to make of this unknown, strange, large man who called himself his father. But the time had come, one evening, when the boy fell asleep before the fire. And, as he felt the drowsiness, had clambered into his stepfather’s lap and lain his little head upon a large shoulder. Trusting in the parent to keep him warm and safe through the night.
Belisarius was silent for a time, pondering. He knew something had gone awry, terribly wrong, in that future he could not imagine. Danger. Danger. Danger.
He realized that the jewel was nearing exhaustion and decided that he must put off further questioning. Communication was becoming easier, slowly. Patience, patience. He had danger enough in the present to deal with, in any event.