David Drake - Belisarius 3 - Destiny's Shield

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DESTINY'S SHIELD
ERIC FLINT and DAVID DRAKE
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this
book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely
coincidental.
Copyright (c) 1999 by Eric Flint & David Drake
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions
thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
ISBN: 0-671-57872-3
Cover art by Keith Parkinson
Interior maps by Randy Asplund
First paperback printing, June 2000
Library of Congress Catalog Number 99-22046
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH
Printed in the United States of America
to Donald
COSMIC IRONY
Belisarius sensed a new presence and immediately understood its meaning. He
saw a point of light in the void. A point, nothing more, which seemed
infinitely distant. But he knew, even in the seeing, that the distance was one
of time not space.
Time opened and the future came.
The point of light erupted, surged forward. A moment later, floating before
Belisarius, was one of the Great Ones. The general understood, now, that he
would never see them fully. Too much of their structure lay in mysterious
forces which would never be seen by earthly eyes.
A new voice came to him, like Aide's, in a way, but different. FORCE FIELDS,
ENERGY MATRICES. THERE IS LITTLE IN US LEFT OF OUR EARTHLY ORIGINS, AND NO
FLESH AT ALL.
He saw into the being, now. Saw the glittering network of crystals which
formed the Great One's -- heart? Soul? And there came a sense of mirth; vast,
yet whimsical.
And the general knew, then -- finally -- that these almost inconceivable
beings were truly his own folk. He had but to look in a mirror, to see the
crooked smile that would, someday, become that universe-encompassing irony --
and that delight in irony. . . .
BOOKS IN THIS SERIES
An Oblique Approach
In the Heart of Darkness
Destiny's Shield
Fortune's Stroke
BAEN BOOKS by DAVID DRAKE
Hammer's Slammers
The Tank Lords
Caught in the Crossfire
The Butcher's Bill
The Sharp End
Independent Novels and Collections
The Dragon Lord
Birds of Prey
Northworld Trilogy
Redliners
Starliner
Mark II: The Military Dimension
All the Way to the Gallows
The General Series: (with S.M. Stirling)
The Forge
The Hammer
The Anvil
The Steel
The Sword
The Chosen
The Reformer
The Undesired Princess and The Enchanted Bunny
(with L. Sprague de Camp)
Lest Darkness Fall and To Bring the Light
(with L. Sprague de Camp)
Enemy of My Enemy:
Terra Nova
(with Ben Ohlander)
Armageddon
(edited with Billie Sue Mosiman)
BAEN BOOKS by ERIC FLINT
Mother of Demons
1632
Prologue
It was the Emperor's first public appearance since he had been acclaimed the
new sovereign of Rome, and he was nervous. The ambassador from Persia was
about to be presented to his court.
"He's going to be mean to me, Mommy," predicted the Emperor.
"Hush," whispered the Empress Regent. "And don't call me 'Mommy.' It's
undignified."
The Emperor stared up at the tall imposing figure of his new mother, seated on
her own throne next to him. Meeting her cold black eyes, he hastily looked
away.
His new mother made him nervous, too. Even though his old mother said his new
mother was a good friend, the Emperor wasn't fooled. The Empress Regent
Theodora was not a nice lady.
The Empress Regent leaned over and whispered into his ear:
"Why do you think he'll be mean to you?"
The Emperor frowned.
"Well -- because Daddy gave the Persians such a fierce whipping." Then,
remembering: "My old daddy, I mean."
The Emperor glanced guiltily at the figure of his new father, standing not far
away to his right. Then, meeting the sightless gaze of those empty sockets, he
looked away. Very hastily. Not even his real mother tried to claim that
Justinian was a "nice man."
Theodora, again, hissing:
"And don't call the Empire's strategos 'daddy.' It's not dignified, even if he
is your stepfather."
The Emperor hunched down on his throne, thoroughly miserable.
It's too confusing. Nobody should have this many mommies and daddies.
He began to turn his head, hoping to catch a reassuring glimpse of his real
parents. He knew they would be standing nearby, among the other high notables
of the Roman court. But the Empress
Regent hissed him still.
"Stop fidgeting! It's not regal."
The Emperor made himself sit motionless. He grew more and more nervous,
watching the stately advance of the Persian ambassador down the long aisle
leading to the throne.
The Persian ambassador, he saw, was staring at him. Everybody was staring at
him. The throne room was packed with Roman officials, every one of whom had
their eyes fixed on the Emperor. Most of them, he thought, were not very nice
-- judging, at least, from sarcastic remarks he had heard his parents make.
All four of his parents. The scurrilous nature of officialdom was one of the
few subjects they did not quarrel about.
The ambassador was now much closer. He was rather tall, and slender of build.
His complexion was perhaps a bit darker than that of most Greeks. His face was
lean-jawed and aquiline, dominated by a large nose. His beard was cut in the
short square style favored by Persians.
The ambassador was wearing the costume of a Persian nobleman. His gray hair
was capped by the traditional gold-embroidered headdress, which Persians
called a citaris. His tunic, though much like a Roman one, had sleeves which
reached all the way down to the wrists. His trousers also reached far down,
almost covering the red leather of his boots.
Seeing the bright color of the ambassador's boot-tips, the Emperor felt a
momentary pang. His old father -- his real father -- had a pair of boots just
like those. "Parthian boots," they were called. His father favored them, as
did many of his Thracian cataphracts.
The ambassador was now close enough that the Emperor could make out his eyes.
Brown eyes, just like his father's. (His old father; his new father had no
eyes.)
But the Emperor could detect none of the warmth which was always in his old
father's eyes. The Persian's eyes seemed cold to him. The Emperor lifted his
gaze. High above, the huge mosaic figures on the walls of the throne room
stared down upon him. They were saints, he knew. Very holy folk. But their
eyes, too, seemed cold. Darkly, the Emperor suspected they probably hadn't
been very nice either. The severe expressions on their faces reminded him of
his tutors. Sour old men, whose only pleasure in life was finding fault with
their charge.
He felt as if he were being buried alive.
"I'm hot," he complained.
"Of course you're hot," whispered Theodora. "You're wearing imperial robes on
a warm day in April. What do you expect?"
Unkindly:
"Get used to it." Then:
"Now, act properly. The ambassador is here."
Twenty feet away, the Persian ambassador's retinue came to a halt. The
ambassador stepped forward two paces and prostrated himself on the thick,
luxurious rug which had been placed for that purpose on the tiled floor of the
throne room.
That rug, the Emperor knew, was only brought out from its special storage
place for the use of envoys representing the Persian King of Kings, the
Shahanshah. It was the best rug the Roman Empire owned, he had heard.
Persia was the traditional great rival of the Roman Empire. It wouldn't do to
offend its representatives. No, it wouldn't do at all.
The Persian ambassador was rising. Now, he was stepping forward. The
ambassador extended his hand, holding the scroll which proclaimed his status
to the Roman court. The motion brought a slight wince to the face of the
ambassador, and the Roman Emperor's fear multiplied. The wince, he knew, was
caused by the great wound which the ambassador had received to his shoulder
three years before.
The Emperor's real father had given him that wound, at a famous place called
Mindouos.
He's going to be mean to me.
"I bring greetings to the Basileus of Rome from my master Khusrau Anushirvan,
King of Kings of Iran and non-Iran."
The ambassador spoke loudly, so everyone in the huge throne room could hear.
His voice was very deep, as deep as anyone's the Emperor had ever heard except
church singers.
"My name is Baresmanas," continued the ambassador. "Baresmanas, of the Suren."
The Emperor heard a whispering rustle sweep the throne room. He understood the
meaning of that rustle, and felt a moment's pride in his understanding. For
weeks, now, his tutors had drilled him mercilessly in the history and
traditions of Persia. The Emperor had not forgotten his lessons.
Officially, the Suren were one of the sahrdaran, the seven greatest noble
families of Persia. Unofficially, they were the greatest. Rustam, the
legendary hero of the Aryans -- their equivalent of Hercules -- was purported
to have been of that family. And the Persian general who shattered Crassus'
Roman army at Carrhae had been a Suren.
Sending a Suren ambassador, the Emperor knew, was the Shahanshah's way of
indicating his respect for Rome. But the knowledge did not allay his fear.
He's going to be mean to me.
The stern, haughty, aristocratic face of the Persian ambassador broke into a
sudden smile. White teeth flashed in a rich, well-groomed beard.
"It is a great pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty," said the ambassador.
Baresmanas bowed toward Theodora. "And your mother, the Regent Theodora."
The Emperor reached out his hand to take the scroll. After unrolling the
parchment, he saw with relief that the document was written in Greek. The
Emperor could read, now, though still with no great facility. And this
document was full of long-winded words that he didn't recognize at all. He
began studying it intently until he heard a slight cough.
Out of the corner of his eye, the Emperor saw the Empress Regent nodding
graciously. Remembering his instructions, the Emperor hastily rolled up the
parchment and followed her example. Then, seeing the hint of a frown on
Theodora's brow, he belatedly remembered the rest of her coaching.
"We welcome the representative of our brother," he piped, "the Basileus of
Pers -- "
The Emperor froze with fear at his blunder.
By long-standing protocol, the Emperor of Rome always called the Emperor of
Persia the "Basileus" rather than the "King of Kings." By using the same title
as his own, the Roman Emperor thereby indicated the special status of the
Persian monarch. No other ruler was ever granted that title by Romans, except,
on occasion, the negusa nagast of Ethiopia.
But Persians never called themselves Persians. That term was a Greek
bastardization of the Persian province of Fars, the homeland of the old
Achaemenid dynasty. Persians called their land Iran -- land of the Aryans.
They were immensely snooty on the matter, too, especially the distinction
between Aryans and all lesser breeds. Many non-Aryan nations were ruled by the
Shahanshah, but they were not considered part of the land of the Aryans
itself. Those were simply "non-Iran."
The Emperor's paralysis was broken by the slight, encouraging smile on the
ambassador's face.
" -- the Basileus of Iran and non-Iran," he quickly corrected himself.
The ambassador's smile widened. A very friendly gleam came into his brown
eyes. For a moment -- a blessed moment -- the Roman Emperor was reminded of
his father. His old father.
He glanced at the mutilated face of his new father, the former Emperor
Justinian. That sightless face was fixed upon him, as if Justinian still had
eyes to see. That sightless, harsh, bitter face.
It's not fair, whimpered the Emperor in his mind. I want my old father back.
My real father.
The ambassador was backing away. The Emperor of Rome began to sigh with
relief, until, catching a hint of Theodora's disapproval, he stiffened with
imperial dignity.
Maybe he won't be mean to me, after all.
The ambassador was fifteen feet off, now. He still seemed to be smiling.
It's not fair. The Sassanids are from Fars, too, so why can't we call them
Persians?
Now, he did sigh, slightly. He felt the Empress Regent's disapproval, but
ignored it.
It's too much to remember all at once.
Another sigh. The Empress Consort hissed. Again, he ignored her reproof.
I'm the Emperor. I can do what I want.
That was patently false, and he knew it.
It's not fair.
I'm only eight years old.
The ambassador was thirty feet away, now. Out of hearing range. Theodora
leaned over.
The Emperor braced himself for her reproach.
Nasty lady. I want my old mother back.
But all she said was:
"That was very well done, Photius. Your mother will be proud of you." Then,
with a slight smile: "Your real mother."
"I'm proud of you, Photius," said Antonina. "You did very well." She leaned
over the throne's armrest and kissed him on the cheek.
Her son flushed, partly from pleasure and partly from guilt. He didn't think
being kissed in public by his mother fit the imperial image he was supposed to
project. But, when his eyes quickly scanned the throne room, he saw that few
people were watching. After the Empress Regent had left, to hold a private
meeting with the Persian ambassador and his father (both of his fathers), the
reception had dissolved into a far more relaxed affair. Most of the crowd were
busy eating, drinking and chattering. They were ignoring, for all practical
purposes, the august personage of the Emperor. No-one standing anywhere near
to him, of course, committed the gross indiscretion of actually turning their
back on the throne's small occupant. But neither was anyone anxious to
ingratiate themselves to the new Emperor. Everyone knew that the real power
was in the hands of Theodora.
Photius was not disgruntled by the crowd's indifference to him. To the
contrary, he was immensely relieved. For the first time since the reception
began, he felt he could relax. He even pondered, tentatively, the thought of
reaching up and scratching behind his ear.
Then, squaring his shoulders, he did so. Scratched furiously, in fact.
I'm the Emperor of Rome. I can do what I want.
"Stop scratching behind your ear!" hissed his mother. "You're the Emperor of
Rome! It's undignified."
The Emperor sighed, but obeyed.
It's not fair. I never asked them to make me Emperor.
Chapter 1
CONSTANTINOPLE
Spring, 531 A.D.
As soon as Antonina put Photius to bed, she hastened to the imperial audience
chamber. By the time she arrived, the Persian ambassador was reaching the
conclusion of what had apparently been a lengthy speech.
Taking her seat next to Belisarius, Antonina scanned the room quickly. Except
for the guards standing against the walls, the huge chamber was almost empty.
The usual mob of advisers who sat in on Theodora's audiences was absent. The
only Romans present to hear the Persian ambassador were Theodora, Justinian,
and Belisarius.
Baresmanas himself was the only Persian present. Antonina knew that the
extremely limited participation had been at the request of the Persians. That
fact alone made clear the seriousness with which they took this meeting. She
focussed her attention on the ambassador's final remarks.
"And so," said Baresmanas sternly, "I must caution you once again. Do not
think that Roman meddling in the current internal situation in Persia will go
unchallenged. Your spies may have told you that our realm verges on civil war.
I, for one, do not believe that is true. But even if it is -- all Aryans will
unite against Roman intrusion. Do not doubt that for a moment."
The ambassador's stern expression relaxed, replaced by a semi-apologetic smile
which was, under the circumstances, quite warm. Antonina was struck by
Baresmanas' change in demeanor. She suspected that the friendly face which now
confronted the Roman Empress and her top advisers was much closer to the man
himself than the stiff mask which had delivered the previous words.
"Of course, it is quite possible that all of my teeth-baring is unnecessary. I
do not mean to be rude. Rome is known for its wisdom as well as its martial
prowess, after all. It is quite possible -- likely, I should say -- that the
thought of intervening in Persia has never once crossed your mind."
Antonina was impressed. Baresmanas had managed to deliver the last sentence
with a straight face. The statement, of course, was preposterous. For the last
five hundred years, no Roman emperor had spent more than three consecutive
days without at least thinking about attacking Persia. The reverse, needless
to say, was equally true.
She leaned over and whispered into Belisarius' ear:
"What's this about?"
His reply also came in a whisper:
"The usual, whenever the Persians have to find a new emperor. Khusrau's been
the leading candidate ever since Kavad died -- he's been officially
proclaimed, actually -- but his half-brother Ormazd is apparently not
reconciled to the situation. Baresmanas was sent here by Khusrau to warn us
not to muck around in the mess."
Antonina made a little grimace.
"As if we would," she muttered.
Belisarius smiled crookedly. "Now, love, let's not be quite so self-righteous.
It has happened, you know. Emperor Carus took advantage of the civil war
between Bahram II and Hormizd to invade Persia. Even captured their capital of
Ctesiphon."
"That was over two hundred years ago," she protested softly.
"So? Persians have long memories. So do we, for that matter. Carus' invasion
was retribution for Ardashir's attack on us during our civil war after
Alexander Severus was murdered."
Antonina shrugged. "The situation's different. We've got the Malwa to worry
about, now."
Belisarius started to make some response, but fell silent. The great double
doors to the audience chamber were opening. A moment later, a worn-looking
Persian officer was being ushered in by Irene Macrembolitissa, the chief of
the Roman Empire's spy network.
"Speaking of which -- " he muttered.
Antonina started. "You think -- ?"
He shrugged. "We'll know soon enough. But we've been expecting the Malwa to
invade Mesopotamia, sooner or later. From the look of that Persian officer, I
suspect 'sooner' has arrived."
The Persian officer had reached Baresmanas. The ambassador was standing some
fifteen feet away from Theodora. Although a chair had been provided for him,
Baresmanas apparently felt that his stern message would carry more weight if
delivered standing.
The ambassador stooped slightly to hear what the officer had to say. The newly
arrived Persian whispered urgently into his ear.
Antonina could see an unmistakable look of surprise and apprehension come to
the ambassador's face. But Baresmanas was an experienced diplomat. Within
seconds, the ambassador had regained his composure. By the time the Persian
officer finished imparting whatever report he had brought with him,
Baresmanas' expression was impassive and opaque.
When the officer finished, Baresmanas nodded and whispered a few words of his
own. Immediately, the man bowed to the Roman Empress and hastily backed out of
the room.
Antonina glanced over at Irene. The spymaster, after ushering the officer into
the audience chamber, had discreetly taken position against the wall next to
the door.
Antonina's gaze met Irene's. To all outward appearance, the spymaster's own
face seemed void of expression. But Antonina knew Irene very well, and could
not miss her friend's suppressed excitement.
Behind Baresmanas' back, Irene gave Antonina a quick little gesture. Thumbs
up.
Antonina sighed. "You're right," she whispered to her husband. "Irene's like a
shark smelling blood."
"The woman does love a challenge," murmured Belisarius. "I think she'd rather
be tortured in the Pit for eternity than go for a week without excitement." A
chuckle. "Provided, of course, that Satan let her keep her books."
Baresmanas cleared his throat, and addressed Theodora once again.
"Your Majesty, I have just received some important news. With your permission,
I would like to leave now. I must discuss these matters with my own
entourage."
Theodora nodded graciously. Then:
"Would you like to schedule another meeting?"
Baresmanas' nod was abrupt, almost curt.
"Yes. Tomorrow, if possible."
"Certainly," replied Theodora.
Antonina ignored the rest of the interchange between the Empress and
Baresmanas. Diplomatic formalities did not interest her.
What did interest her was Irene.
"What do you think?" she whispered to Belisarius. "Is she going to be the
first person in history to actually explode?"
Belisarius shook his head. He whispered in return:
"Nonsense. Spontaneous human eruption's impossible. Says so in the most
scholarly volumes. Irene knows that perfectly well. She owns every one of
those tomes, after all."
"I don't know," mused Antonina, keeping a covert eye on her friend against the
wall. "She's starting to tremble, now. Shiver, quiver and quake. Vibrating
like a harp string."
"Not possible," repeated Belisarius. "Precluded by all the best philosophers."
Baresmanas was finally ushered out of the room.
Irene exploded.
"It's on! It's on! It's on! It's on! It's on!"
Bouncing like a ball. Spinning like a top.
"The Malwa invaded Mesopotamia! Attacked Persia!"
Quiver, shiver; quake and shake.
"My spies got their hands on the message! Khusrau's instructed Baresmanas to
seek Roman help!"
Vibrating like a harp string; beating like a drum.
"See?" demanded Antonina.
Chapter 2
Three nights later, the imperial audience chamber was again the scene of a
meeting. After concluding an initial round of discussions with Baresmanas,
Theodora had summoned her top advisers and officials.
Theodora had a multitude of advisers, but the ten people in that room
constituted the majority of what both she and Belisarius thought of as the
"inner circle." Membership in that circle depended not on formal post or
official position -- although post and position generally accompanied them.
Membership in the inner circle depended on two far more important things:
First, the personal trust of Belisarius and what passed for "personal trust"
from the perennially suspicious Theodora.
Second, knowledge of the great secret. Knowledge of the messenger from the
future, the crystalline quasi-jewel which called itself Aide, who had attached
itself to Belisarius and warned the Roman Empire's greatest general that his
world had become the battleground for powerful and mysterious forces of the
far distant future.
Theodora herself occupied a place in her circle of advisers, sitting below a
great mosaic depicting Saint Peter. The seating arrangement was odd, for an
imperial conference -- the more so in that Theodora was not sitting on a
throne, but a simple chair. ("Simple," at least, by imperial standards.)
Traditionally, when Roman sovereigns discussed affairs of state with their
advisers, the advisers stood on their feet while the monarchs lounged in
massive thrones.
But --
"Of course we should accept the Persian proposal," came a harsh voice.
The Empress cocked her head and examined the speaker. He returned her gaze,
with his scarred and empty eye-sockets.
Justinian was the cause of that peculiar seating arrangement. By custom, the
former Emperor could no longer sit by her side. Officially, he was nothing now
but one of her advisers. But Theodora had not been able to bear the thought of
humiliating her husband further, and so she had gladly accepted Belisarius'
suggestion that she solve the problem in the simplest way possible.
Henceforth, when she met with her advisers, Theodora would sit with them in a
circle.
"Explain, Justinian," said Anthony Cassian. The newly-elevated Patriarch of
Constantinople leaned forward in his chair, clasping his pudgy hands.
"Yes, do," added Germanicus forcefully. The commander of the Army of Illyria
was scowling.
Germanicus nodded to Theodora. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, I do not
view any alliance with Persia favorably. Damn the Medes, anyway! They've
always been our enemy. Persia and the Malwa Empire can claw each other to
pieces, as far as I'm concerned."
A murmur of protest began to rise from several of the people sitting in the
room.
"Yes, yes," snapped Germanicus, "I know that Malwa is our ultimate enemy." He
glanced at Belisarius' chest, where the "jewel" from the future lay nestled in
a pouch under the general's tunic. "But I don't see why -- "
Justinian's harsh voice interrupted. "Damn the Persians. And the Malwa! It's
the dynasty I'm thinking about." Justinian's bony hands clenched the arms of
his chair. "Don't fool yourselves," he snarled. "Do you really think the
aristocracy is happy with the situation? Do you really?" He cawed a harsh,
humorless laugh. "This very night -- I guarantee it -- half the Greek nobility
is plotting our overthrow."
"Let them plot all they want," said Sittas, shrugging. The heavyset general
smiled cheerfully.
"I'm a Greek nobleman, myself, mind you. So I'm not about to dispute
Justinian's words. If anything, he's being charitable. By my own estimate,
two-thirds of the Greek aristocracy is plotting our overthrow. This very
night, just as he says."
Sittas yawned. "So are the rats in my cellar, I imagine. I'm more concerned
about the rats."
Chrysopolis shook his head vigorously. "You are much too complacent, Sittas,"
he argued. "I myself share Justinian's concerns."
Chrysopolis had replaced the executed traitor John of Cappadocia as the
empire's praetorian prefect. He was the one other member of the inner circle,
who, like Germanicus, was not personally well-known to Belisarius. But the
general himself had proposed his inclusion. Among the highest Roman officials
who survived the purge after the failed coup d'etat which had been suppressed
by Belisarius and Antonina a few months before, Chrysopolis had a reputation
for ability and -- a far rarer characteristic among those circles --
scrupulous honesty.
"Do you really think this alliance would have that good an effect?" he asked.
"Of course," stated Justinian. He held up a thumb. "First. The Army will be
ecstatic. Persia's the enemy they fear, not Malwa. Anything that prevents
another war with Persia will meet their approval. Even after Belisarius' great
victory at Mindouos, the Army still has no desire to match Persian lancers on
the field of battle."
"The Malwa will be worse," pointed out Antonina. "Their numbers are much
larger, and they have the new gunpowder weapons."
Justinian shrugged. "So? Roman soldiers have no experience with the Malwa, so
they're not worried about them. Over time, that will probably change. But it's
the present I'm concerned with. And, right now, I can think of no better way
to cement the Army's allegiance to the dynasty than for Photius to forge a
Hundred Years' Peace with Persia."
Justinian held up his forefinger alongside his thumb. "Two. It'll please the
populace at large, especially in the borderlands." His head turned, the
sightless sockets fixing on Anthony Cassian. "The peasants of the region are
already delighted with Cassian's succession to the Patriarchate. They're
Monophysite heretics, the lot of them, and they know Cassian will rein in the
persecution."
"I have no formal authority over Patriarch Ephraim of Antioch," demurred
Anthony. "The border regions fall under his jurisdiction."
"The hell with Ephraim," hissed Justinian. "If the dynasty's hold on the
throne stabilizes, we'll crush that bastard soon enough. I know it, you know
it, Ephraim knows it -- and so do the peasants of the borderlands."
Belisarius saw that Germanicus was still scowling. The Illyrian general, quite
obviously, was unmoved by Justinian and Chrysopolis' concerns. Belisarius
decided it was time to intervene.
"We can live with Persia, Germanicus," he stated. "We have, after all, for a
millennium. We cannot live with Malwa. The Malwa seek to rule the world. Their
invasion of Persia is simply the first step toward their intended conquest of
Rome. I say we fight them now, on Persian soil, with Persia's lancers as our
allies. Or else we will fight them later, on Roman soil, with the Persian
lancers shackled into the ranks of Malwa's gigantic army alongside their
Rajput and Kushan vassals."
Germanicus eyed him skeptically. Belisarius repressed a sigh. He was
aggravated by the man's stubbornness, but he could not in good conscience
condemn him for it. The commander of the Army of Illyria had only been made
privy to the great secret a month before. Germanicus, like Chrysopolis, had no
longstanding personal relationship with Belisarius. But he was a close kinsman
of Justinian and an excellent general in his own right. Theodora had urged his
inclusion in the inner circle -- this was the one subject where she never
issued commands to Belisarius -- and Belisarius had agreed.
Abstractly, he knew, the Illyrian general accepted the truth of Aide's nature,
and the crystal's warning of the future. But, like most generals, Germanicus
was conservative by temperament. Persia, not India, was the traditional rival
of the Roman Empire.
No, he could not condemn Germanicus for his prejudiced blindness. He simply
returned the man's glare with a serene, confident gaze.
After a moment, Germanicus stopped glaring.
"Are you so certain, Belisarius?" he asked. The Illyrian general's tone was
not hostile, simply -- serious. Like most Roman soldiers he had the deepest
respect for Belisarius.
Belisarius nodded his head firmly. "Trust me in this, Germanicus. If Malwa is
not checked, the day will come when the Roman Empire will vanish as if it had
never existed."
After a moment, Germanicus sighed. "Very well, then. I will defer to your
judgement. I'm not happy about it, but -- " He sat up, squaring his shoulders.
"Enough. I withdraw my objections."
Theodora saw that all of her advisers had reached the same conclusion.
"So be it," she announced. "We'll tell the Persian ambassador that we accept
the offer of alliance. In principle, at least. Let's move on to the specifics
of their proposal."
She turned to Irene Macrembolitissa. Officially, Irene was the most junior
member of the high bureaucracy, having been elevated only recently to the post
of sacellarius, the "keeper of the privy purse." Her actual power was immense.
She was Theodora's spymaster and the chief of the Empire's unofficial secret
摘要：

DESTINY'SSHIELDERICFLINTandDAVIDDRAKEThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright(c)1999byEricFlint&DavidDrakeAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyform.ABaen...

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