by Eric Flint
"And you, my peshwa."
As the huge fleet sailed toward the harbor of Suppara, Dadaji Holkar held his small Empress in his arms. Thin arms, they were, attached to the slender shoulders of a middle-aged scholar. But, in that moment, they held all the comfort which the girl needed.
If an Empress found shelter there, the man himself found a greater comfort in the sheltering. His own family was lost to him, perhaps forever, but he had found another to give him comfort in his search. A child, here. A brother, there on the fortress above.
A bigger, tougher kind of brother. The kind every bookish man wishes he had.
"Mine, too," he murmured, staring at the clouds of gunsmoke wafting over the distant harbor. "My Mahadandanayaka. My Bhatasvapati."
Chapter 30
THE EUPHRATES
Autumn, 531 a.d.
"Tell me again," said Belisarius.
Standing next to the general on top of the giant pile of rocks which the Kushans had hauled out of the Nehar Malka, Maurice decided to misunderstand the question.
"Fifteen thousand cavalry they've got now," he gruffed. He pointed a stubby, thick finger at the cloud of dust rising out of the desert some ten miles to the southeast. "Five thousand of them, by my estimate, are Lakhmid Arabs. They're riding camels, the most, and—"
Belisarius smiled crookedly.
"Tell me again, Maurice."
The chiliarch puffed out his cheeks. Sighed. "This is not my province, general. I don't have any business mucking around in—"
"I'm not asking you to muck around," growled Belisarius. "And spare me the protestations of humble modesty. Just tell me what you think."
Again, Maurice puffed out his cheeks. Then, exhaled noisily.
"What I think, general, is that the Emperor of Persia is offering the Roman Empire a dynastic marriage. Between Photius and the eldest daughter of his noblest sahrdaran."
Maurice glanced down at Baresmanas. The father of the daughter in question was perched sixty feet away on a large boulder further down the man-made hill. Out of hearing range. Maurice continued:
"He'd offer one of his own daughters in marriage—Khusrau made that clear enough—but he doesn't have any. So Baresmanas' daughter is the best alternative, other than choosing from one of his brothers' or half-brothers' various girls."
Belisarius shook his head. "That's the last thing he'd do. Khusrau's trying to bridle that crowd of ambitious brothers. And, if I'm reading him right, trying to cement the most trustworthy layers of the nobility to his rule."
The general scratched his chin, idly staring at the cloud of dust in the desert. His eyes were not really focussed on the sight, however. From experience, he knew that the Malwa army advancing on him would not be in position to attack until the following day. In the meantime—
"Khusrau's canny," he said. "Part of our conversations in Babylon consisted of his questions regarding the Roman methods of organizing our Empire. I think he's planning—groping, is maybe a better way to put it—to break Persia from its inveterate—"
He paused. The word "feudalism" would mean nothing to Maurice. It had meant nothing to Belisarius, either, until Aide explained it to him.
"—traditions," he concluded, waving his hand vaguely.
"Think he can do it?" asked Maurice. "Persians are set in their ways."
Belisarius pondered the question. Aide had given him, once, a vision of the Persia which Khusrau Anushirvan had created, in the future which would have been if the "new gods" hadn't intervened in human history. The greatest Emperor of the Sassanid dynasty had tried to impose centralized, imperial authority over the unruly Aryan nobility, inspired by Rome's example, to some degree; guided by his own keen intelligence, for the rest.
In many ways, Khusrau would succeed. He would break the military power of the great aristocracy. He would win the allegiance of the dehgans, transform them into the social base for a professional army paid and equipped by the Emperor, and place them under the authority of his own generals—spahbads, he would call them. Never again would ambitious sahrdarans or vurzurgans pose a threat to the throne.
Khusrau would succeed elsewhere, too. His greatest reform—the one for which history would call him "Khusrau the Just"—would be his drastic overhaul of taxation. Khusrau would institute a system of taxation which was not only far less burdensome to the common folk but which also stabilized the imperial treasury.
Yet—
If there was one thing which Aide had shown Belisarius, it was that human history never moved in simple, clear channels. Khusrau's dynasty—the Sas-sanid dynasty—would vanish into history, as all dynasties did. But his tax system would remain. The Arab conquerors of Persia would be so impressed by it that they would use it as the model for the tax system of the great Moslem Caliphates.
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 th
ing 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.
"We will have to rely on your main plan, then," said Baresmanas. The sahrdaran heaved a sigh. "Casualties will be high."
Belisarius tightened his lips. "Yes, they will. But I don't see any other option."
Baresmanas turned his head, staring to the west. Across the river, he could see the huge camp where Ormazd's twenty thousand lancers and archers had taken position, after arriving the week before. Even at the distance, he could see Ormazd's own pavilion, towering over the much-less-elaborate tents of his soldiers.
"If he does not—"
"He will," said Belisarius confidently. His crooked smile came, in full force.
"You will have noticed, I'm sure, that Ormazd pitched his camp there—instead of further down the river."
Baresmanas nodded, scowling. "The swine," he growled. "Upstream of the dam, where he pitched his camp, there is no way he can cross the Euphrates in time to give you help, should you need it. He should have taken position several miles further down, where the riverbed is almost empty."
Belisarius shook his head.
"Not a chance, Baresmanas. His troops would take the brunt of the assault, then. Whereas now—"
"They are obviously out of the action," concluded the sahrdaran. "The Malwa will recognize that immed-iately, and concentrate most of their forces here. They will only need to keep a screen against the chance of Ormazd attacking their left."
Belisarius chuckled, making clear his opinion on the likelihood of Ormazd ordering any massive sally. The Persian Emperor's half-brother, it was clear, intended to sit on his hands while the Romans and the Malwa army slugged it out on the other side of the Euphrates.
"How did he explain it?" demanded Baresmanas angrily.
Belisarius shrugged. "In all truth, he didn't have much explaining to do. I didn't press him on the matter, Baresmanas. I want him where he is."
Baresmanas' scowl deepened. Intellectually, the sahrdaran understood Belisarius' stratagem. Emotionally, however, the Aryan nobleman still choked at the idea of actually using another Aryan's expected treachery. A Sassanid, no less.
Baresmanas eyed the Roman general. "I forget, sometimes, just how incredibly cold-blooded you can be," he muttered. "I cannot think of another man who would develop a battle plan based on his expectation that an ally would betray him. Take such a possibility into account, certainly—any sane commander does that, when fighting with foreign allies. But to plan on it— No, more! To actually engineer it, to maneuver for it!—"
Baresmanas fell silent, shaking his head. Belisarius, for his part, said nothing. There was nothing to say, really. Despite the many ways in which he and Baresmanas were much alike, there were other ways in which they were as different as two men could be.
For all his sophistication and scholarship, Bares-manas was still, at bottom, the same man who had spent his boyhood admiring Persian lancers and archers. Spent hours of that boyhood watching dehgans on the training fields of his father's vast estate, demonstrating their superb skill as mounted archers.
Whereas Belisarius, for all his own sophistication and subtleties, was still—at bottom—the same man who had spent his boyhood admiring Thracian blacksmiths. Spent hours of that boyhood watching the blacksmiths on his father's modest estate, demonstrating their own more humble but—when all is said and done—much more powerful craft. Men die by the dehgan's steel. People live by the blacksmith's iron.
Even as a boy, however, Belisarius had had a subtle mind. So, where other boys admired the strength of the blacksmith, and gasped with awe at the mighty strokes of hammer on anvil, Belisarius had seen the truth. A blacksmith was a strong man, of necessity. But a good blacksmith did everything he could to husband that strength. Time after time, watching, the boy Belisarius had seen how cunningly the blacksmith positioned the glowing metal, and with what a precise angle he wielded the hammer.
So, he said nothing to Baresmanas. There was nothing to say.
* * *
A few minutes later, called down by one of his tribunes with a problem, Maurice left the artificial hilltop. Belisarius and Baresmanas remained there alone, studying the huge Malwa force advancing toward them.
They did not speak, other than to exchange an occasional professional assessment of the enemy's disposition of its forces. On that subject, not surprisingly, they were always in agreement. If Baresmanas did not have his Roman ally's sheer military genius, he was still an experienced and competent general in his own right.
Underlying that agreement, however, and for all their genuine friendship, two very different souls readied for the coming battle.
The one, an Aryan sahrdaran—noblest man of the noblest line of the world's noblest race—sought strength and courage from that very nobility. Sought for it, found it, and awaited the battle with a calm certitude in his own valor and honor.
The other, a Thracian born into the lower ranks of Rome's parvenu aristocracy, never even thought of nobility. Thought, not once, of honor or of valor. He simply waited for the oncoming enemy, patiently, like a blacksmith waits for iron to heat in the furnace.
A craftsman at his trade. Nothing more.
And nothing less.
Chapter 31
ALEXANDRIA
Autumn, 531 a.d.
"This is madness!" shouted one of the gym-nasiarchs. The portly notable was standing in the forefront of a small crowd packed into the audi-ence chamber. All of them were men, all of them were finely dressed, and most were as fat as he was.
Alexandria's city council.
"Madness!" echoed another member of the council.
"Lunacy!" cried a third.
Antonina was not certain which particular titles those men enjoyed. Gymnasiarchs also, perhaps, or possibly exegetai.
She did not care. The specific titles were meaningless—hoary traditions from the early cen-turies of the Empire, when the city council actually exercised power. In modern Alexandria, membership in the council was purely a matter of social prestige. The real authority was in the hands of the Praetorian Prefect, the commander of the Army of Egypt, and—above all—the Patriarch.
After disembarking her troops, Antonina had immediately seized a palace in the vicinity of the Great Harbor. She was not even sure whose palace it was. The owner had fled before she and her soldiers occupied the building, along with most of his servants.
Each of the many monarchs who had ruled Eg
ypt in the eight hundred and sixty-two years since the founding of Alexandria had built their own palaces. The city was dotted with the splendiferous things. Over the centuries, most of those royal palaces had become the private residences of the city's high Greek nobility.
No sooner had she established her temporary headquarters than the entire city council appeared outside the palace, demanding the right to present their petitions and their grievances. She had invited them in—well over a hundred of the self-important folk—simply in order to gauge the attitude of Alexandria's upper crust.
Within ten minutes after they surged into the audience chamber, they had made their sentiments clear. As follows:
One. The Empire was ruled by a madwoman.
Two. The mad Empress had sent another madwoman to spread the madness to Alexandria.
Three. They, on the other hand, were not mad.
Four. Nor would they tolerate madness.
Five. Not that they themselves, of course, would think of raising their hands in violence against the Empress and her representive—perish the thought, perish the thought—even if they were nothing but a couple of deranged females. But—
Six. The dreaded mob of Alexandria, always prone to erupt at the slightest provocation, was even now coming to a furious boil. Any moment now, madness would be unleashed in the streets. Which—
Seven. Was the inevitable fate for madwomen.
Eight. Who were, they reiterated, utterly mad. Insanity personified. Completely out of their wits. Bereft of all sense and reason. Raving—
Antonina had had enough. "Arrest them," she said. Demurely. Ladylike. "The whole lot."
A little flip of the hand. "Stow them in the hold of one of the grain ships, for now. We'll figure out what to do with them later."
As Ashot and his cataphracts carried out her order, Antonina ignored the squawls of outrage issued by the city's notables as they were hog-tied and frog-marched out of the palace. She had other problems to deal with.
