The Oracle (Fargo Adventures 11)

At last, the brothers reached what had been Genseric’s inner sanctum, then, years later, Hilderic’s. The flickering light revealed a desk and chair of ivory and ebony. On the floor beneath it, a detailed mosaic from the old pagan mythology—Echo, behind one of two olive trees flanking the temple, pining for Narcissus, who lay at the foot of the stairs, the handsome youth gazing downward, his finger almost touching the blue and white pattern of the pool in front of the temple.

“I have searched this room, this house, a thousand times,” Gelimer said. “There is no map.”

“Perhaps it was Hilderic’s final revenge. Sending you searching for something that doesn’t exist. What exactly did he tell Ammatas?”

“That unless I faced my vanity, I would fail to see that which is right in front of me.”

Tzazon grabbed the torch from him, pointing toward the floor. “Narcissus admiring his reflection. There’s the answer to your riddle.”

Gelimer stared at the shadows cast upon the mosaic by the dancing flame. Echo was looking at Narcissus, who seemed not to know she was there. Behind him was a building, which looked very much like the Temple of Saturn. “His reflection,” Gelimer said as he repeated the sibyl’s words in his head. All that is left is shadow, and naught remains but vanity. He looked up at his brother. “Vanity. That’s the map. Narcissus is pointing directly at it.”

“A map of what?” Tzazon said, scrutinizing the pattern in the blue and white mosaic beneath Narcissus.

Prologue

PART II

War has no eyes.

– SWAHILI PROVERB –

DECEMBER 15, 533 A.D.

Tricamarum (50 kilometers west of Carthage),

Kingdom of the Vandals, North Africa

Gelimer held up his hand, signaling his army to a halt, as he and his brother, Tzazon, rode on alone to the top of the hill to survey the Roman encampment in the distance. A sense of fatality overwhelmed Gelimer as he studied the enemy, fifteen thousand strong. The sun glinted off the metal scale armor of the Roman cavalry and infantry as they sat around their fires, preparing their meals. “This is fruitless,” he told Tzazon.

“Forget about the words of that witch-woman.”

The sibyl’s prophecy was all Gelimer thought about. Though he had sent men to search what was left of the now dry reflecting pool in front of the Temple of Saturn, they came up empty-handed. One man died after falling from his horse, the others refused to go back, fearing the curse. Gelimer had even tried to meet with the sibyl again, but they found her cave behind the temple abandoned. “I cannot lose you, too, Tzazon—”

His brother glanced at him in exasperation. “How can you trust in pagan prophecies?”

“I beg you, do not fight this battle. Go back to the stockade and guard our women and children. You’ll give them courage.”

“And look like a coward to my cavalry? Besides, it’s my death that’s foretold. Let me be the one to decide.” He drew his sword, held it on high, and wheeled his horse to face his troops, crying, “Onward!”

With a mighty roar in response, the cavalry drew their swords and followed Tzazon into battle before Gelimer had a chance to countermand the order. Crossing the stream, they charged at Belisarius’s center. On the right flank, Gelimer’s troops held back.

Euric, his next in command, rode up beside him. “My Lord,” he said. “Your men await your orders.”

Gelimer rode over to the waiting troops, then held up his sword, repeating Tzazon’s battle cry. “Onward!”

Euric raised his blade, shouting, “Hail, Gelimer!” They rode forth, bringing up the right flank as Tzazon took the center. Arrows flew toward them from the Romans, but the Vandals lifted their shields, rendering most of them useless. A few found their mark, the casualties dropping, but their ranks quickly filled, the Vandals repeating their battle cry as they drove into the ranks of Roman horsemen.

Swords clashed, the ring of steel deafening to Gelimer’s ears. A Roman horseman charged, his spear poised toward Gelimer’s chest. Gelimer parried with his shield, urged his horse around and brought his sword down, knocking the spear from his grasp. The Roman tried to draw his own blade, but Gelimer came in for the kill, driving the sharp tip beneath his armpit, knocking him from his mount. The king quickly turned, taking on a second horseman.

More Roman arrows pierced the Vandal ranks. Gelimer whirled his horse around, saw the archers riding behind the cavalry, and was about to call for his flank to work their way toward them, when suddenly Belisarius ordered the Roman Army to retreat.

The Vandals cheered, and Tzazon looked triumphant as he galloped toward Gelimer. “Cowards,” he said. “You see? We have nothing to fear.”

“Do not be so quick to judge,” Gelimer replied, surveying the battlefield.

“They have twice the number of dead.” Tzazon rode off toward his men, signaling them for their next attack.

Gelimer, unable to shake his sense of foreboding, watched Tzazon and his cavalry chase after the fleeing enemy as they tried to regroup not once but twice. The third time, the Roman horsemen ignored both the right and the left flanks, instead picking away at the center where Tzazon was fighting.