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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.

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