But still-there was one question.
“Why did you come here, to the past? What can there possibly be here that would help you in-whatever dangers you face in your future?”
The jewel was fading rapidly now. But the faint image came again:
A face, emerging from the ground, made from spiderwebs and bird wings, and laurel leaves. His face.
Chapter 8
“It’s perfect,” pronounced Belisarius.
“It’s the silliest trap I ever saw,” pronounced Maurice. “Not even a schoolboy would fall for it. Not even a Hun schoolboy.”
“There are no Hun schoolboys.”
“Exactly my point,” grumbled Maurice.
Belisarius smiled-broadly, not crookedly.
“There’s nothing wrong with my plan and you know it. You’re just angry at your part in it.”
“And that’s another thing! It’s ridiculous to use your best heavy cavalry to-”
“Enough, Maurice.” The general’s voice was mild, but Maurice understood the tone. The hecatontarch fell silent. For a few minutes, he and Belisarius stood together atop the small hill on the left flank of the Roman forces. They said nothing, simply watched the gathering array of the Persian forces coming from the east. The enemy’s army was still some considerable distance away, but Belisarius could see the first detachments of light cavalry beginning to scout the Roman position.
Before the Medes could get more than a mile from the Roman lines, however, three ala of Hun light cavalry from the Army of Lebanon advanced to meet them. There was a spirited exchange of arrows before the Persian scouts retreated. Casualties were few, on either side, but Belisarius was quite satisfied with the results of the encounter. It was essential to his plan that the Persians not have the opportunity to scout his position carefully.
“That’ll keep the bastards off,” grunted Maurice.
“Best be about it,” said Belisarius. “It’s almost noon. The wind’ll be picking up soon.”
Maurice scanned the sky.
“Let’s hope so. If it doesn’t-”
“Enough.”
Belisarius strode down the back side of the hill toward his horse. Behind him, he heard Maurice begin to issue orders, but he could not make out their specific content. Instructions to the disgruntled Thracian cataphracts, no doubt.
Very disgruntled, indeed. The Thracian cataphracts looked upon foot travel-much less fighting on foot-with the enthusiasm of a drunk examining a glass of water. The elite, they were-and now, assigned to serve as bodyguards for a bunch of miserable, misbegotten, never-to-be-sufficiently-damned, common foot archers. Downright plebes. Barbarians, no less.
Which, in truth, they were. The four hundred archers atop the hill were a mercenary unit, made up entirely of Isaurian hillmen from southern Anatolia. An uncivilized lot, the Isaurians, but very tough. And completely accustomed to fighting on foot in rocky terrain, either with bows or with hand weapons.
Belisarius smiled. He knew his cataphracts. Once the Thracians saw the Isaurian archers at work, they would not be able to resist the challenge. Personally, Belisarius thought his cataphracts were better archers than any in the Army of Lebanon. They would certainly try to prove it. By the time the Persians tried to drive them off the hill, the Thracians would be in full fury.
Belisarius paused for a moment in his downward descent, and reexamined the hill.
Perfect. Steep sides, rocky. The worst possible terrain for a cavalry charge. And Persian nobles view fighting on foot like bishops view eternal damnation. God help the arrogant bastards, trying to drive armored horses up these slopes against dismounted Thracian cataphracts and Isaurian hillmen.
He resumed his descent down the western slope of the hill. Near the bottom, he came to the hollow where the Thracian horses were being held. A small number of the youngest and most inexperienced cataphracts had been assigned to hold the horses during the battle. They were even more disgruntled than their veteran fellows.
One of them, a lad named Menander, brought Belisarius his horse.
“General, are you sure I couldn’t-”
“Enough.” Then, Belisarius relented. “You know, Menander, it’s likely the Persians will send a force around the hill to attack our rear. I imagine the fighting here will be hot and furious.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. A desperate affair. Desperate.”
Belisarius hoped he was lying. If the Persians managed to get far enough around the hill to find the hollow where the Thracian horses were being held, it would mean that they had driven off the heavy cavalry guarding his left wing and his whole battle plan was in ruins. His army too, most likely.
But Menander cheered up. The boy helped Belisarius onto his horse. Normally, Belisarius was quite capable of vaulting onto his horse. But not today, encumbered as he was with full armor. No cataphract in full armor could climb a horse without a stool or a helping hand.
Once he was firmly in the saddle, Belisarius heaved a little sigh of relief. For the hundredth time, he patted himself on the back for his good sense in having all of his Thracian cavalry equipped with Scythian saddles instead of the flimsy Roman ones. Roman “saddles” were not much more than a thin pad. Scythian saddles were solid leather, and-much more to the point-had a cantle and a pommel. With a Scythian saddle, an armored cavalryman had at least half a chance of staying on his horse through a battle.
Belisarius heard noises behind him. Turning, he saw two of his cataphracts coming down the hill at a fast trot. As fast a “trot,” at least, as could be managed by men wearing: full suits of scale-mail armor-including chest cuirasses-covering their upper bodies, right arms, and their abdomens down to mid-thigh; open-faced iron helmets with side-flanges, of the German spangenhelm style favored by most of the Thracians; small round shields buckled to their upper left arms, leaving the left hand free to wield a bow; heavy quilted Persian-style cavalry trousers; and, of course, a full panoply of weapons. The weapons included a long lance, a powerful compound bow, a quiver of arrows, long Persian-style cavalry swords, daggers, and the special personal weapons of the individuals: in the case of one, a mace; in the case of the other, a spatha.
Belisarius recognized the approaching cataphracts, recognized their purpose, and began to frown fiercely. But when the two cataphracts neared, his words of hot reproach were cut off before he could utter them.
“Don’t bother, General,” said Valentinian.
“No use at all,” agreed Anastasius.
“Direct orders from Maurice.”
“Very direct.”
“You’re just the general.”
“Maurice is the Maurice.”
Belisarius grimaced. There was no point in trying to send Valentinian and Anastasius away. They wouldn’t obey his order, and he could hardly enforce it on them personally, since He eyed the two men.
Since I don’t think there are two tougher soldiers in the whole Roman army, that’s why.
So he tried reason.
“I don’t need bodyguards.”
“Hell you don’t,” came Valentinian’s sharp, nasal reply.
“Was ever a man needed a bodyguard, it’s you,” added Anastasius. As ever, the giant’s voice sounded like rumbling thunder. Professional church bassos had been known to turn green with envy, hearing that voice.
Menander was already bringing up the two cataphracts’ horses. Anastasius’ mount was the largest charger anyone had ever seen. Anastasius was devoted to the beast, as much out of genuine affection as simple self-preservation. No smaller horse could have borne his weight, in full armor, in the fury of a battlefield. Especially encumbered as the horse was with its own armor: scale mail covering the top of its head and its neck down to the withers, with additional sheets of mail protecting its chest and its front shoulders.
Anastasius more or less tossed Valentinian onto his horse. Then he mounted his own, with Menander’s help. By the time he was aboard, the young cataphract looked completely exhausted by the effort of hoisting him.