hurt.
Yet—it was odd. There was something else. Belisarius hadn't noticed, at first, until a slight pause in the action enabled him to think. But the fact was that he was fighting much too well.
"Deadly with a blade, is Belisarius." He'd heard it said, and knew it for a cold and simple truth. But he had never been as deadly as he was that day. The cause lay not in any added strength or stamina. It was—odd. He seemed to see everything with perfect clarity, even in the hazy dust. He seemed to be able to gauge every motion by an enemy perfectly—and gauge his own strikes with equal precision. Time after time, he had slipped a blow by the barest margin—yet knowing, all the while, that the margin was adequate. Time after time, he had landed a blow of his own through the narrowest gaps, the slimmest openings—yet knowing, at the instant, that the gaps were enough. Time after time, he had begun to slip from his horse, only to find his balance again with perfect ease.
Odd. The truth was that he was leaving his own trail of gore and blood. It was like a path through a forest beaten by an elephant.
Even his cataphracts noticed. And complained, in the case of one.
"We're supposed to be protecting you, General," hissed Valentinian. "Not the other way around."
"Quit bitching," growled Anastasius. Chunk. Another Mede down. "I'm a big target. I need all the protection I can get." Chunk.
Valentinian began to snarl something, but fell silent, listening intently.
"I think—"
"Yes," said Belisarius. He had heard it too. The first cry for quarter, coming from a Persian throat. The cry had been cut off.
The general ceased his mayhem. Turned to Anastasius.
"Get Maurice—and the others. Now. I don't want to end the battle with atrocities. We're trying to win this war, not start a new one."
"No need," grunted Anastasius. He extended his right hand, pointing with his blood-covered mace. Belisarius turned and saw his entire Thracian retinue charging toward them on horseback.
Within seconds, Maurice drew up alongside them.
"I don't want a massacre, Maurice!" shouted Belisarius. "I'll handle the situation here, but the Huns—"
Maurice interrupted.
"They're already making for the Persian camp. I'll try to stop them, but I'll need reinforcement as soon as you can get there."
Without another word, the hecatontarch spurred his horse into a gallop. Seconds later, the entire body of Thracian cataphracts were thundering to