by David Drake
"It's simple, Mark. As you will discover soon enough, my tactical methods use the infantry to far greater effect than Roman armies normally do. But for those tactics to work, the infantry must have the same pride and self-esteem as the cavalry. I can't build and maintain that morale if I have cavalrymen deriding the foot soldiers and refusing to take on their fair share of the hard work, which normally falls almost entirely on the infantry. I will not tolerate cavalrymen lounging around in the shade while foot soldiers sweat rivers, building encampments and fortifications. And mocking the foot soldiers, often enough. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir." Firmly, clearly.
"Good. You will be allowed to select the decarchs for your hundred. All ten of them."
Mark stood very straight. "Thank you, sir."
Belisarius repressed a smile. Sternly:
"Use your own judgment, but I urge you to consult with Peter. And you might also discuss the matter with Maurice, and Gregory. I think you'll find them quite helpful."
"I will do so, sir."
"A word of caution. Advice, rather. Avoid simply selecting from your own circle of friends. Even if they prove capable, it will produce resentment among others. A capable clique is still a clique, and you will undermine your own authority."
"Yes, sir."
"And, most of all, make sure your decarchs understand and accept my attitudes. You will be selecting them, which will reflect upon how I regard you. Your prestige among the cavalrymen whom you command will be thereby enhanced. But do not ever forget the corollary. I will hold you responsible for the conduct of your subordinates, as well as your own. Do I make myself clear?"
"As clear as day, sir." Another quick assessment of his new general. "Syrian day."
Now, Belisarius did smile. "Good. You may go."
Once Mark was gone, the three Thracians at the back of the tent relaxed and resumed their normal casual pose. In public, the members of Belisarius' personal retinue of three hundred cataphracts maintained certain formalities. Most of them, after all, held lowly official ranks. Even Maurice, their commander, was only a hecatontarch—the same official rank as the Syrian youth who had just left the tent.
In actual practice, the Thracian bucellarii served Belisarius as his personal staff. They had been carefully selected by him over a period of years, and the devotion of his retinue was fully reciprocated. Maurice, despite his rank, was in effect Belisarius' executive officer. Even Constantine, who was in overall command of the army's cavalry, along with the chiliarch Phocas who was his equivalent for the infantry, had learned to accept his actual authority. And, as they got to know the grizzled veteran, respect it as well.
"I believe the boy will work out quite nicely," commented Maurice. "Quite nicely. Once he gets blooded a bit." Maurice's smile vanished, replaced by a scowl. "I can't believe how badly your predecessor Libelarius let this army fall to pieces. Chiseling on fodder and gear is common enough. But we've even found cases where the men's pay was stolen. In some of the infantry regiments, at least."
"And the food!" exclaimed Basil, one of the other cataphracts. "Bad enough these bastards sell off some of the food, but they were cheating at both ends. The food was shit to begin with. Half-rotten when they bought it."
The third of the cataphracts chimed in. He was one of the few non-Thracians in Belisarius' retinue, an Armenian by the name of Ashot.
"What's even worse is the state of the army as a whole. What're we supposed to have, General? Eight thousand men, half cavalry?"
Belisarius nodded.
Ashot laughed scornfully. "What we've got, once you take a real count and strip away the names of fictitious soldiers whose pay these pigs have been pocketing, is five thousand men. Not four in ten of them cavalry."
Belisarius wiped his face again. He had spent most of his time, since arriving at the camp, trapped in the leaden, breezeless air of his tent. The heat was oppressive, and the lack of exercise was beginning to tell on him. "And," he concluded wearily, "the force structure's a joke. In order to hide the chiseling, this army's got twice as many official units as it does men to fill them properly."
"Nothing worse than a skeleton army," grumbled Maurice. "I found one infantry hundred that had all of twenty-two actual soldiers in it. With, naturally, a full complement of officers—a hecatontarch and all ten decarchs. Living high off the hog." He spit on the floor. "Four of those so-called decarchs didn't have a single soldier under their command. Not even one."
Belisarius rose and stretched. "Well, that's pretty much behind us. Within two more days, we'll have this army shaken down into a realistic structure, with decent officers. And decent morale restored to the troops, I think." He cast a questioning glance at Ashot and Basil. Belisarius relied on his low-ranked cataphracts to mingle with the troops and keep his fingers on the pulse of his army.
"Morale's actually high, General," said Ashot. Basil nodded agreement, and added:
"Sure, things are still crappy for the troops. And will be, for a bit. But they don't expect miracles, and they can see things are turning around. Mostly, though, the troops are cheerful as cherubs from watching one sorry-ass chiseler after another come into this tent, and then, within the hour, depart through the gates."
" `Deadly with a blade, is Belisarius,' " quoted Ashot, laughing. "They'd heard that, some of them. Now they all believe it."
"How's the drill going?" asked Belisarius.
Maurice made a fluttering motion with his hand.
"So-so. Just so-so. But I'm not worried about it. The troops are just expressing their last resentment by sloughing it during the drill. Give it a week. Then we'll start seeing results."
"Push it, Maurice. I'm not demanding miracles, but keep in mind that we don't have much time. I can't delay our departure to Mindouos for more than a fortnight."
Belisarius rose and walked over to the entrance of his tent. Leaning against a pole, he stared through the open flap at the camp. As always, his expression was hard to read. But Maurice, watching, knew the general was not happy with his orders.
The orders, received by courier a week earlier, were plain and simple: Move to Mindouos and build a fort.
Simple, clear orders. And, Maurice knew, orders which Belisarius considered idiotic.
Belisarius had said nothing to him, of course. For all the general's casual informality when dealing with his Thracian retinue, he maintained a sharp demarcation with regard to matters he considered exclusively reserved for command.
But Maurice knew the general as well as any man. And so he knew, though nothing had been said directly, that Belisarius thought the Roman Empire was deliberately provoking Persia, for no good reason, and was then piling stupidity onto recklessness by provoking the Mede without first seeing to it that the provocation would succeed.
No, Belisarius had said nothing to Maurice. But Maurice knew him well. And if Maurice lacked his general's extraordinary intelligence, he was by no means stupid. And very experienced in the trade of war.
Maurice did not feel himself qualified to make a judgment as to the Emperor's wisdom in provoking the Persians. But he did feel qualified to make a judgment on the means the Emperor had chosen to do so. And, he thought, given the state of the Byzantine forces in the area, provoking Persia was about as sensible as provoking a lion with a stick.
The Persians maintained a large army stationed near the upper Euphrates, close to the border. In quiet times, that army was billeted at the fortified city of Nisibis. Now, with hostilities looming, the Mede army had moved north and established a temporary camp, threatening the Anatolian heartland of the Roman Empire.
To oppose them—to provoke them, no less—the Romans had only seventeen thousand men in the area. Five thousand of those were represented by Belisarius' army, which, when he assumed command, had proven to be as brittle as a rotten twig. As badly corrupted an army as Maurice had seen anywhere.
The remaining twelve thousand men were stationed not far away, in Lebanon. That army, from what
Maurice had been able to determine, was in fairly good condition. Certainly it seemed to have none of the rampant corruption which they had encountered at Daras.
But—
Maurice was an old veteran, well past his fortieth year. He had learned long since that numbers did not weigh as heavily in war as morale and, especially, command. The Army of Lebanon was under the command of two brothers, Bouzes and Coutzes. Not bad fellows, Maurice thought, all things considered. Thracians themselves, as it happened, which predisposed Maurice in their favor. But—young, even younger than Belisarius. And, unfortunately, with none of the wily cunning which so often made Belisarius seem a man of middle age, or even older.
No, bold and brash, were the brothers. And, they had made clear, under no conditions willing to subordinate themselves to Belisarius. Nor could Belisarius force them to. Though he was more experienced than Bouzes and Coutzes—than both of them put together, thought Maurice glumly—and carried a far greater reputation, the brothers were officially ranked as high as he. It was a new rank, for them, and one in which they took great pride. Shiny new generaldom, which they were not about to tarnish by placing under the hand of another.
Outnumbered, under a divided command, his own army shaky from rot, the majority of the Roman forces under the command of brash, untested youth—and, now, ordered to poke the Persian lion.
Belisarius sighed, very faintly, and turned back to the interior of the tent.
"How is the other matter going?" he asked.
"The pilfering?" Belisarius nodded.
"We're bringing it under control," said Maurice. "Now that rations have started to flow properly again, the troops don't have any real reason to steal from the locals. It's more a matter of habit than anything else."
"That's exactly my concern," said Belisarius. "Looting's the worst habit an army can develop."
"Can't stop it, sir," said Maurice. Sometimes, he thought, his beloved general was impractical. Not often, true. He was startled to hear Belisarius' hand slamming the desk.
"Maurice! I don't want to hear the old voice of experience!"
The general was quite angry, Maurice noted, with some surprise. Unusual, that. The old veteran straightened his posture. He did not, however, flinch. Angry generals had long since failed to cause him to quiver in fear. Any generals, much less Belisarius.
And, sure enough, after a moment he saw the crooked smile make its appearance.
"Maurice, I am not a fool. I realize that soldiers look upon booty as one of their time-honored perks. And that's fine—as long as we're talking about booty." Belisarius tightened his own jaw. "It's one thing for an army to share in the spoils of a campaign, fairly apportioned in an organized manner, after the campaign's over and the victory is certain. It's another thing entirely for soldiers to get in the habit of plundering and stealing and generally taking anything they want whenever the mood strikes them. Let that happen, and pretty soon you don't have an army anymore. Just a mob of thieves, rapists, and murderers."
He eyed Maurice. "Speaking of which?"
"Hung 'em yesterday, sir. All four. The girl's surviving brother was able to identify them, once he got over his terror at being here. I sent him on to Aleppo, then, to join his sister."
"Have you heard from the monks?"
Maurice grimaced. "Yes. They've agreed to take care of the girl, as best they can. But they don't expect she'll recover, and—" Another grimace.
"And they had harsh words to say about Christian soldiers."
"Yes, sir."
"As well they might. Did the troops watch the execution?"
"Not the execution itself, no. At least, not the army as a whole. A lot of them did, of course. But I gave orders to let the bodies sway in the breeze, until the heat and the vultures make skeletons out of them. They'll all get the message, sir."
Belisarius wiped his face wearily. "For a time." He stared ruefully at the grimy cloth in his hand. The rag was too soaked to do more than smear the sweat. He reached out and hung it on a peg to dry.
"But there'll be another incident," he continued, after resuming his seat. "This army's had too much rot infect it. Soon enough, there'll be another incident. When it happens, Maurice, I'll have the officer in command of the men strung up alongside them. I won't accept any excuses. Pass the word."
Maurice took a deep breath, then let it out. He wasn't afraid of Belisarius, but he knew when the general wasn't to be budged.
"Yes, sir."
The general's gaze was hard.
"I'm serious about this, Maurice. Make certain the men understand my attitude. Make absolutely certain the officers do."
The general relented, slightly. "It's not simply a matter of the conduct one expects from Christian soldiers, Maurice. If the men can't understand that, then make sure they understand the practical side of it. You and I have both seen too many battles lost—or, at best, halfway won—because the troops got diverted at the critical moment. Allowing the enemy to escape, or rally for a counterattack, because they're busy scurrying around for some silver plate and chickens to steal, or a woman to rape. Or just the pleasure of watching a town burn. A town, more often than not, that's the only place to find billeting. Or would have been, if it weren't a pile of ashes."
"Yes, sir."
Belisarius eyed Maurice a moment longer, then smiled. "Trust me in this, old friend. I know you think I've got my head in the clouds, but I'll prove you wrong."
Maurice smiled back. "I've never thought you had your head in the clouds, General. Though, at times, the air you breathe is a bit rarefied."
The hecatontarch eyed his two subordinates and gestured slightly with his head. Immediately, Ashot and Basil left the tent.
"May I suggest you get some sleep, sir." Maurice did not even look toward Procopius. The veteran had made clear, in none too subtle ways, that he regarded the secretary much as he regarded an asp. Procopius set down his pen, arose, and exited the tent himself. Quite hastily.
After the others had left, Maurice made his own exit. But, at the entrance of the tent, he hesitated and turned back.
"I don't want you to misunderstand me, General. I'm skeptical that it'll work, that's all. Other than that, I've no problem with your policy. None. Measured out the ropes myself, I did, and cut the lengths. And enjoyed every moment of it."
Later, after the noises of the camp had died down, Belisarius reached into his tunic and withdrew the jewel. It was resting in the small pouch which Antonina had dug up. He opened the pouch and spilled the jewel onto his palm.
"Come on," he whispered. "You've had enough sleep. I need your help."
The facets spun and flickered. Energy was returning, now. And, during the long stasis, aim had been able to—digest, so to speak—its bizarre experiences. The thoughts were clearer now, still as alien but no longer impossible to fathom.
aim did not have much energy yet, but—enough, it decided.
And so it was that the general Belisarius, lying on his cot, almost asleep, suddenly bolted upright.
Again, his face, emerging from the ground. Coalescing from the remnants of spiderwebs and bird wings, and laurel leaves. Suddenly soaring into the heavens, utterly transformed. The wings were now the pinions of a dragon. The laurel leaves, bursting flame and thunder. And the spiderwebs—were the spinnings of his mind, weaving their traps, spreading their strands through an infinite distance.
future.
Chapter 6
"So much for diplomacy," snarled Bouzes, reining his horse around savagely. He glared over his shoulder at the retreating figures of the Persian commanders.
"Filthy Mede dogs," agreed his brother Coutzes. Setting his own horse in motion, he added, "God, how I despise them."
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.