Eric Flint - An Oblique Approach

Belisarius, riding alongside, held his tongue. He saw no point in contradicting the brothers. His relations with them were tense enough as it was.

In truth, Belisarius rather liked Persians. The Medes had their faults, of course. The most outstanding of which—and the one which had occasioned the brothers' outburst—was the overweening arrogance of Persian officials. An arrogance which had once again been displayed in the recently concluded parley.

The parley had taken place in the no-man's-land which marked, insofar as anything did, the border between Roman and Persian territory. A brief discussion, on a patch of barren landscape, between six men on horseback. Belisarius and the brothers Bouzes and Coutzes had spoken for the Roman side. The Medes had been represented by Firuz, the Persian commander, and his two principal subordinates, Pityaxes and Baresmanas.

Firuz had demanded the parley. And then, at the parley, demanded that the Romans dismantle the fortress which Belisarius' army had almost completed. Or he would dismantle it for them.

Such, at least, had been the essence of the demand. But Firuz had insisted on conveying the demand in the most offensive manner possible. He had boasted of his own martial prowess and sneered at that of the Romans. (Not forgetting to toss in numerous remarks concerning Roman cowardice and unmanliness.) He had dwelt lovingly on the full-bellied vultures which would soon be the caskets of Roman troops—assuming, of course, that the carrion-eaters were hungry enough to feed on such foul meat.

And so on, and so forth. Belisarius repressed a smile. He thought the polishing touch had been Firuz' demand that Belisarius build a bath in the fortress. He would need the bath, the Persian commander explained, to wash Roman blood and gore off his body. Among which body parts, Firuz explained, the brains of Belisarius himself would figure prominently. The brains of Bouzes and Coutzes would not, of course, as they had none.

Belisarius glanced at Bouzes and Coutzes. The brothers were red-faced with rage. Not for the first time—no, for perhaps the thousandth time—Belisarius reflected on the stupidity of approaching war with any attitude other than craftsmanship. Why should a sane man care what some Persian peacock had to say about him? All the better, as far as Belisarius was concerned, that Firuz was filled with his own self-esteem and contempt for his enemy. It made defeating him all the easier. An arrogant foe was easily duped.

For the first half-hour of their trek back to the Roman fort at Mindouos, Belisarius simply relaxed and enjoyed the ride. It was early afternoon, and the heat was already intense, but at least he was not confined within a stifling tent. And, soon enough, a cooling breeze began to develop. The breeze came from the west, moreover, so it had the further advantage of blowing the dust of their travel behind them.

Yet, that same pleasant breeze brought Belisarius' mind back to his current predicament. He had been giving that breeze much thought, these past days. Very reliable, it was, always arising in early afternoon, and always blowing from the west to the east. He treasured that reliability, caught as he was in a situation with so many variable factors.

As the three men rode back to the camp in silence, therefore, Belisarius began to consider his options. His natural inclination, given the circumstances, would have been to stall for time. For all Firuz' vainglory, Belisarius did not think the Persian was actually ready to launch a war immediately. Stall, stall, stall—and then, perhaps, the Emperor Justinian and his advisers would come to their senses.

But the knowledge that Belisarius now possessed, from the jewel, made that option unworkable. He simply didn't have the time to waste in this idiotic and unnecessary conflict between Byzantium and Persia. Not while the forces of Satan were gathering their strength in India.

I've got to bring this thing to a head, and quickly, and be done with it. The only way to do that is with a resounding victory. Soon.

Which, of course, is easier said than done. Especially with—

He glanced again at the brothers. Bouzes and Coutzes looked enough alike that Belisarius had taken them, at first, for twins. Average height, brown-haired, hazel-eyed, muscular, snub-nosed, and— He would have smiled if he hadn't been so irritated. In truth, the Persian's insult had cut close to the quick. If the brothers had any brains at all, Belisarius had seen precious little indication of them.

After three days of argument, he had managed to get the brothers to agree, grudgingly, to combine their forces. Three days! —to convince them of the obvious. There had been no hope, of course, of convincing them to place the combined force under his command. Belisarius had not even bothered to raise the matter. The brothers would have taken offense, and, in high dudgeon, retracted their agreement to combine forces.

Eventually, as they neared the fort at Mindouos, Belisarius decided on his course of action. He saw no alternative, even though he was not happy with the decision. It was a gamble, for one thing, which Belisarius generally avoided.

But , he thought, glancing at the brothers again, a gamble with rather good odds.

Now, if Maurice can manage—

He broke off the thought. They were almost at the fortress. The transition from the barren semidesert to the vivid green of the oasis where he had situated his fort was as startling as ever. In no more time than a few horse paces, they moved from a desolate emptiness to a populated fertility. Much of that population was soldiery, of course, but there were still a number of civilians inhabiting the oasis, despite the danger from the nearby Persians. Three grubby but healthy-looking bedouin children, standing under a palm tree nearby, watched the small group of Roman officers trot past. One of them shouted something in Arabic. Belisarius did not quite make out the words—his Arabic was passable but by no means fluent—but he sensed the cheerful greeting in the tone.

"Hell of job you did here, Belisarius," remarked Bouzes admiringly, gazing up at the fortress. His brother concurred immediately, then added: "I don't see how you did it, actually. In the time you had. Damned good fort, too. Nothing slap-dash about it."

"I've got some good engineers among my Thracian retinue, for one thing."

"Engineers? Among cataphracts? "

Belisarius smiled. "Well, they're not really cataphracts, not proper ones. A bunch of farmers, at bottom, who just picked up the skills."

"Wish we had some real cataphracts," muttered Bouzes. "Don't much care for the snotty bastards, but they're great in a fight."

His brother returned to the subject. "Even with good engineers, I still don't see how you got the work done so quickly."

"The basic way I did it was by setting the cavalry to work and challenging them to match the infantry."

The brothers gaped.

"You had cavalry doing that kind of shit work?" demanded Bouzes. He frowned. "Bad for morale, I would think."

"Not the infantry's," rejoined Belisarius. "And, as for the cavalry's morale, you might be surprised. They wailed like lost souls, at first. But, after a bit, they started rising to the challenge. Especially after they heard the infantry taunting them for a lot of weaklings. Then I announced prizes for the best day's work, and the cavalry started pitching into it. They never were as good as the infantry, of course, but by the end they were giving them quite a run for their money. Won a few prizes, even."

Bouzes was still frowning. "Still—even if it doesn't affect their morale directly, it—still."

"Saps their self-esteem, over time," agreed his brother. "Bound to. It's dog work."