Destiny's shield b-3

by Eric Flint

  "Besides," she added, "the presence of Axumite sarwen would create political problems. I want to quell the ultra-Chalcedonian fanatics in Egypt without alienating the majority of orthodox Greeks. You know they'll look on Ethiopians as allies of the Monophysites. Foreign heretics, used by the empire against them."

  Thoughtfully, Eon nodded. Antonina laid a friendly hand on his arm.

  "So, I must decline your offer. Though I do thank you for it. Please pass those thanks on to your father."

  "I will."

  "Pass on to him also Rome's agreement to the proposed alliance. When she gets to Axum, Irene can negotiate the details with the negusa nagast. She is fully authorized to do so, and you may tell your father that she carries Empress Theodora's complete confidence. Providing an escort for her is the best use of your sarwen, at the moment."

  She broke into her own smile.

  "And I'm happier this way. I hate sending Irene into that maelstrom in India. But at least I'll have the comfort of knowing she has you, and Ousanas, and four hundred Dakuen to protect her."

  Her shoulders shuddered, just slightly. "For that matter, I'll be happier knowing she doesn't have to face Red Sea pirates without-"

  "Pirates," growled Eon. He barked a laugh.

  Behind him stood three officers of the Dakuen sarwe. Leaders of the Prince's own royal regiment, they considered themselves-quite rightly-as elite soldiers. And seamen, for that matter. They matched the Prince's growl with their own glares, Eon's barking laugh with their own sneers of derision.

  "Pirates," they murmured. So might a pride of lions, if they could, mutter the word, hyenas. Or, for that matter, elands. Impalas.

  Meat.

  Antonina grinned. She gave the Prince a warm embrace. He returned it, somewhat gingerly, in the way that a courteous and well-bred young royal returns the embrace of a respected, admired-and very voluptuous-older woman.

  "Be off," she whispered. "Take care of Irene for me, and for Theodora. And take care of yourself."

  A moment later, Eon and his officers made their own easy and effortless descent into the skiff. Once they were aboard, the line was cast off and the boat began pulling away. The officers did their own rowing. In the Axumite tradition, they had all risen from the ranks. They were accustomed to the task, and did it with familiar expertise. Quickly, the skiff pulled toward the waiting Ethiopian warship.

  Antonina and Irene stared at each other, for a time, during that short voyage. Close friends-best friends-they had become, during the past three years of joint work and struggle against the Malwa menace. Each of them, now, was taking her own route into the maw of the beast. In all likelihood, they would never see each other again.

  Antonina fought back her tears.

  "God, I'll miss you," she whispered. "So much."

  Thirty yards away, she saw Irene turn her head aside. She did not miss the slight sheen in those distant eyes. Irene, she knew, was fighting back her own tears.

  Antonina tore her gaze from the figure of her friend and stared at Eon. The Prince was sitting in the stern-sheet of the skiff. Antonina could see his head slowly turning, as he scanned the surface of the waves.

  Already, she realized, Eon was fulfilling his promise to protect Irene from any danger.

  Then, seeing the arrogant ferocity lurking in Eon's huge shoulders, she could not help smiling. She found great comfort in those shoulders.

  Sharks, of course, do not have shoulders. But if they did, so might a great shark confront the monsters of the sea.

  Tuna. Squid. Devil-rays.

  Meat.

  By the time the skiff bearing Irene reached its destination, other skiffs were making their own way to the Axumite warship from other Roman craft, bearing their own cargoes.

  Three of those skiffs carried barrels of gunpowder. Two hauled cannons-brass three-pounders, one in each skiff. And two more carried the small band of Syrian grenadiers, and their wives and children, who had volunteered to accompany Irene to India. Trainers, if all went well, for whatever forces the Empress Shakuntala might have succeeded in gathering around her. Trainers, and their gear, for the future gunpowder-armed rebellion of south India.

  Antonina's little hands gripped the rail. Her husband Belisarius, while he was in India, had done everything in his power to help create that rebellion. He was not a man to forget or abandon those he had sent in harm's way.

  Not my husband, she thought, proudly, possessively.

  She did not know the future. But Antonina would not have been surprised to learn that in humanity's future-any of those possible futures-the name of Belisarius would always be remembered for two things, if nothing else.

  Military brilliance.

  Loyalty.

  She cast a last glance at the small and distant figure of her friend Irene and turned away from the rail. Then, walked-marched, rather-to the bow of her own ship and stared across the waters of the Mediterranean.

  Stared to the southwest, now. Toward Alexandria.

  She gripped the rail again, and even more tightly.

  Silently, she made her vows. If Irene reached India safely, she would not be stranded. If Belisarius' determination to support the Andhra rebellion was thwarted, it would not be because Antonina failed her share of that task.

  She would take Alexandria, and Egypt, and reestablish the Empire's rule. She would harness the skills and resources of that great province and turn it into the armory of Rome's war against Malwa.

  That armory, among other things, would be used to support Shakuntala and her rebels. Many of those guns would go south. Guns, cannons, rockets, gunpowder-and the men and women needed to use them and train others in their use.

  South, to Axum. Then, across the Erythrean Sea to Majarashtra. Somehow, someway, those weapons would find their way into the hands of the young Empress whom Belisarius had freed from captivity.

  She clutched the rail, glaring at the still-unseen people who would resist her will. The same people-the same type of people, at least-who had sneered at her all her life.

  Had a shark, in that moment, caught sight of the small woman at the prow of the Roman warship, it would have recognized her. It would not have recognized the body, of course-Antonina's shapely form did not evenly remotely resemble that of a fish-nor would its primitive brain have understood her intellect.

  But it would have known. Oh, yes. Its own instincts would have recognized a kindred spirit.

  Hungry. Want meat.

  Chapter 23

  Mesopotamia

  Summer, 531 A.D.

  At Peroz-Shapur, Belisarius ordered the first real break in the march since they had left Constantinople, three months earlier. The army would rest in Peroz-Shapur for seven days, he announced. All the soldiers were given leave to enjoy the pleasures of the city, save only those assigned-by all units, on a rotating basis-to serve as a military police force.

  After announcing this happy news, before the assembled ranks of the army, Belisarius departed for his tent as quickly as possible. (Ten minutes, in the event, which was the time the troops spent cheering his name.) He left it to Maurice to make the savage, bloodcurdling and grisly warnings regarding the fate of any miscreant who transgressed the proper bounds of Persian hospitality.

  The army was not taken aback by Maurice's slavering. His sadistic little monologue was even cheered. Though not, admittedly, for ten minutes. The grinning soldiers had no doubt that the threats would be made good. It was simply that the warnings were quite superfluous.

  Those soldiers were in a very good mood. As well they should be.

  First, there was the prospect of a week with no marching.

  Second, there was the prospect of spending that week in a large and well-populated city. The Persians had already arranged billeting. Beds-well, pallets at least.

  Finally-O rapturous joy! — there was the delightful prospect of spending those days in a large and well-populated city when every single man in the army had money to burn.

  More money
that most of them had ever seen in their lives, in fact. Between the Persian Emperor's involuntary largesse-there might have been three ounces of gold left in the villa when the army departed; probably not-and the considerable booty of the destroyed Malwa army, Belisarius' little army was as flush as any army in history.

  They knew it-and the Persians in Peroz-Shapur knew it too. The Roman soldiers would have been popular, anyway, even if they had been penniless. Belisarius and his men had just scored the only great defeat for the Malwa since they began their invasion of Persia. And while Kurush and his seven hundred lancers received their fair share of the glory, most of it went to the arms of Rome.

  The citizens of Peroz-Shapur had just been relieved of any immediate prospect of a siege, and the men who had eliminated that threat were also in position-literally overnight-to produce a massive infusion of cash into the city's coffers.

  Hail the conquering heroes!

  As the Romans marched into Peroz-Shapur, the streets were lined with cheering Persians. Many of those were simply there to applaud. Others-merchants, tavern-keepers, prostitutes, jewelers-had additional motives. Simple, uncomplicated motives, which suited the simple and uncomplicated Roman troops to perfection.

  So, as he retired to his tent, Belisarius was not concerned that there would be any unfortunate incidents during the army's stay in Peroz-Shapur. Which was good, because the general needed some time for himself, free of distraction.

  He wanted to think. And examine a possibility.

  Baresmanas visited him in his tent, in midafternoon of the third day.

  "Why are you not staying in the city?" he asked, after being invited within. The sahrdaran glanced around at the austere living quarters which Belisarius always maintained on campaign. Other than an amphora of wine, and the cooling breeze which blew in through the opened flaps, the general's tent showed no signs of a man enjoying a well-deserved rest.

  Belisarius looked up from the pallet where he was sitting, half-reclined against a cushion propped next to the chest which contained his personal goods. Smiling, he closed the book in his hand and gestured toward the chair at his little writing desk. The chair and the desk were the only items of furniture in the tent.

  "Have a seat, Baresmanas. You looked exhausted."

  The Persian nobleman, half-collapsing on the chair, heaved a sigh.

  "I am exhausted. The city is a madhouse! People are carousing at every hour of the day and night!"

  "Shamelessly and with wild abandon, I should imagine." The general grinned. "You can't get any sleep. You can't hear yourself think. To your astonishment, you find yourself remembering your tent with fond memories."

  Baresmanas chuckled. "You anticipated this, I see."

  "I have no experience with Persian troops enjoying a celebration. Perhaps they're a subdued lot-"

  "Ha!"

  "No?" Belisarius grinned. "But I do know what Roman soldiers are like. They'd drive the demons of the Pit to mad distraction, just from the noise alone."

  The general cocked his head. "There have been no serious problems, I trust?"

  Baresmanas shook his head.

  "No, no. A slew of complaints from indignant matrons, of course, outraged at the conduct of their wanton daughters. But even they seem more concerned with the unfortunate consequences nine months from now than with the impropriety of the moment. We Aryans frown on bastardy, you know."

  Belisarius smiled. "Every folk I know frowns on bastardy-and then, somehow, manages to cope with it."

  He scratched his chin. "A donation from the army, do you think? Discreet sort of thing, left in the proper hands after we depart. City notables, perhaps?"

  Baresmanas considered the question.

  "Better the priesthood, I think." Then, shrugging:

  "The problem may not be a major one, in any event. The matrons are more confused than angry. It seems any number of marriage proposals have been advanced-within a day of the army's arrival, in some cases! — and they don't know how to deal with them. As you may be aware, our customs in that respect are more involved than yours."

  As it happened, Belisarius was quite familiar with Persian marital traditions. Unlike the simple mono-gamy of Roman Christians, Persians recognized several different forms of marriage. The fundamental type-what they called patixsayih-corresponded quite closely to the Christian marriage, except that polygamy was permissible. But other marriages were also given legal status in Persia, including one which was "for a definite period only."

  Belisarius smiled. He was quite certain that his Syrian troops, with their long acquaintance with Medes, had passed on this happy knowledge to the other soldiers.

  His smile, after a moment, faded to a more thoughtful expression.

  "It occurs to me, Baresmanas-"

  The sarhdaran interrupted. His own face bore a pensive little smile.

  "Roman troops will be campaigning in Mesopotamia for quite some time. Years, possibly. Peroz-Shapur, because of its location, will be a central base-the central base, in all likelihood-for that military presence. Soldiers are men, not beasts. They will suffer from loneliness, many of them-a want in the heart, as much as a lust in the body."

  Belisarius was struck again, as he had been many times before, by the uncanny similarity between the workings of his mind and that of the man sitting across from him in the tent. He was reminded of the odd friendship which had developed between him and Rana Sanga, while he had been in India. There, also, differences in birth and breeding had been no barrier-even though Sanga was his sworn enemy.

  For a moment, he wondered how the Rajput King was faring in his campaign in Bactria.

  All too well, I suspect, came the rueful thought. Yet I cannot help wishing the man good fortune-in his life, at least, if not his purpose.

  He brought his thoughts back to the matter at hand.

  "I think we can make a suitable arrangement, Baresmanas. Talk to your priesthood, would you? If they are willing to be cooperative, I will encourage my soldiers to approach their romantic liaisons with a more-ah, what shall I call it. .?"

  The sahrdaran grinned.

  "Long-term approach," he suggested. "Or, for those who are incorrigibly low-minded, guaranteed recreation."

  Baresmanas stroked his beard. The gesture positively exuded satisfaction. A well-groomed man by temperament, he had taken advantage of the stay in Peroz-Shapur to have the beard properly trimmed and shaped. But some of his pleasure, obviously, stemmed from the prospective solution of a problem. A minor problem, now-but small tensions, uncorrected, have a way of festering.

  "Yes, yes," he mused. "I foresee no problems from the Mazda priests. Even less from the matrons! It is in every Persian's interest to avoid the shame of illegitimacy, after all. The absence of a legal father is a small thing to explain-especially if there is a subsidy for the child."

  He eyed the general, a bit skeptically.

  Understanding the look, Belisarius shrugged.

  "The subsidy is not a problem. The army is rich. Well over half of that booty is in my personal possession. Much of it is my personal share. The rest is in my trust as a fund for the disabled, along with widows and orphans. Between the two, there's plenty to go around."

  "And your soldiers?"

  "I can't promise you that all of them will act responsibly, Baresmanas. I do not share the commonly-held opinion that soldiers have the morals of street cats, mind you. But I'm hardly about to hold them up as models of rectitude, either. Many of my troops won't care in the slightest what bastards they leave behind them-even leaving aside the ones who like to boast about it. But I will spread the word. If my commanders support me-which they will-"

  He paused for an instant, savoring the words.

  Which they will. Oh, yes, I have my army now.

  "— then the soldiers will begin to develop their own customs. Armies tend to be conservative. If taking a Persian wife while on campaign in Mesopotamia-a wife of convenience, perhaps, but a wife nonetheless-becomes ingrained in
their habits, they'll frown on their less reputable comrades. Bad thing, being frowned on by your mates."

  He gave Baresmanas his own skeptical eye.

  "You understand, of course, that many of those soldiers will already have a wife back home. And that any Persian wife will not be recognized under Roman law?"

  Baresmanas laughed. "Please, Belisarius!" He waved his hand in a grand gesture of dismissal. "What do we pure-blood Aryans care about the superstitious rituals of foreign barbarians, practiced in their far-off and distant lands?"

  A thought came from Aide.

  "Thou hast committed fornication!"

  "But that was in another country, and besides, the wench is not patixsayih."

  It's from a future poet. A bit hesitantly: It's appropriate, though, isn't it?

  Belisarius was astonished. He had never seen Aide exhibit such a subtle grasp of the intricacies of human relationships.

  The "jewel" exuded quiet pride. Belisarius began to send a congratulatory thought, when his attention was drawn away by Baresmanas' next words:

  "What are you reading?"

  Belisarius glanced down at the book in his lap. For a moment he was confused, caught between his interrupted dialogue with Aide and Baresmanas' idle query. But his attention, almost immediately, focussed on the question. To Baresmanas, the matter had been simply one of polite curiosity. To Belisarius, it was not.

  "As a matter of fact, I was meaning to speak to you about it." He held up the volume. "It's by a Roman historian named Ammianus Marcellinus. This volume contains books XX through XXV of his Rerum Gestarum."

  "I am not familiar with the man. One of the ancients? A contemporary of Livy or Polybius?"

  Belisarius shook his head. "Much more recent than that. Ammianus was a soldier, actually. He accompanied Emperor Julian on his expedition into Persia, two centuries ago." He tapped the book on his lap. "This volume contains his memoirs of the episode."

  "Ah." The sahrdaran's face exhibited an odd combination of emotions-shame, satisfaction.

  "The thing began badly for us, true," he murmured. "Most of the towns we just marched through-Anatha, for instance-were destroyed by Julian. So was Peroz-Shapur, now that I think about it. Burnt to a shell. In the end, however-"