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
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