Belisarius I Thunder at Dawn

by David Drake

  Belisarius glanced at the little tableau, then stared back at the three clan chiefs. He met their glares with an icy gaze. Then stepped up very close and said softly, in quite good Hunnish:

  "My name is Belisarius. I have just destroyed an entire Persian army. Do you think I can be intimidated by such as you?"

  After a moment, two of the clan leaders looked away. The third, the oldest, held the glare.

  Belisarius nodded slightly toward the three young Huns holding the girl.

  "Your clan?" he asked.

  The clan chief snorted. "Clanless. They—"

  "Valentinian."

  Belisarius knew no archer as quick and accurate as Valentinian. The Hun holding the girl by her hair took Valentinian's first arrow. In the chest, straight through the heart. The cataphract's second arrow, following instantly, dropped another. Anastasius, even with an already-drawn bow, fired only one arrow in the same time. No man but he could have drawn that incredible bow. His arrow went right through his target's body.

  Three seconds. Three dead mercenaries.

  Belisarius had not watched. His eyes had never left those of the clan chieftain.

  Now, he smiled. Tough old man. The chieftain was still glaring.

  Again, softly, still in Hunnish: "You have a simple choice. You can disobey me, in which case no Hun will survive this battle. Or you can obey me, and share in the great booty from Nisibis."

  Finally, something got through. The clan chieftain's eyes widened.

  "Nisibis? Nisibis?"

  Belisarius nodded. His smile widened.

  The clan chieftain peered at him suspiciously.

  "Nisibis is a great town," he said. "You do not have siege equipment."

  Belisarius shrugged. "I have a few scorpions and onagers. We can let the Persians on the walls of Nisibis catch sight of them. But that doesn't matter. I have the most powerful weapon of all, clan leader. I have a great victory, and the fear which that victory will produce."

  The clan leader hesitated still.

  "Many Persian soldiers escaped. They will flee to Nisibis and tell—"

  "Tell what, clan leader? The truth? And who will believe those soldiers? Those defeated soldiers—that routed rabble—when they tell the notables of Nisibis that they have nothing to fear from the Roman army which just destroyed them?"

  The clan leader laughed. For all his barbarity, the man did not lack decisiveness. A moment later he was bellowing commands to his men. Without hesitation, the other two clan leaders joined their voices to his.

  Huns with clan status took their leaders seriously. Those without clan status took the slaughtered corpses of three of their fellows seriously. Within two minutes, a small group of women and children were clustered under the shelter of the cataphracts. Some of them looked to have been badly abused, thought Belisarius, but it could have been worse. Much worse.

  The Huns even began piling up their loot, but Belisarius told the clan leaders that the mercenaries could keep the booty. He simply wanted the survivors.

  "Why do you care, Greek?" asked the old chieftain. The question was not asked belligerently. The man was simply puzzled.

  Belisarius sighed. "I'm not Greek. I'm Thracian."

  The chieftain snorted. "Then it makes no sense at all! Greeks are odd, everyone knows it. They think too much. But why—"

  "A thousand years ago, chieftain, these people were already great with knowledge. At a time when your people and mine were no better than savages in skins."

  Which is just about where you are still, thought Belisarius. But he didn't say it.

  The clan chieftain frowned.

  "I do not understand the point."

  Belisarius sighed, turned away.

  "I know," he muttered. "I know."

  * * *

  Two weeks later, Nisibis capitulated.

  It was not a total capitulation, of course. The Romans would not march into the city. The notables needed that face-saving gesture to fend off the later wrath of the Persian emperor. And Belisarius, for his own reasons, did not want to risk such a triumphant entry. He thought he had his troops well under control, but—there was no temptation so great, especially to the mercenaries who made up a large part of the army, as the prospect of sacking a city without a siege.

  No, best to avoid the problem entirely. Persians, like Romans, were civilized. Treasure lost was simply treasure lost. Forgotten soon enough. Atrocities burned memory into the centuries. The centuries of that stupid, pointless, endless warfare between Greek and Persian which had gone on too long already.

  So, there was no march and no atrocities. But, of course, there was treasure lost aplenty. Oh, yes. Nisibis disgorged its hoarded wealth. Some of it in the form of outright tribute. The rest as ransom for the nobles. (Whom Nisibis would keep, in reasonably pleasant captivity, until the nobles repaid the ransom.)

  The Romans marched away from the city with more booty than any of its soldiers had ever dreamed of. Within three days, as the word of victory spread, the army was surrounded by camp followers. Among these, in addition to the usual coterie, were a veritable host of avid liquidators. The soldiers of Belisarius' own army immediately converted their booty into portable specie and jewelry. They had learned from experience that their general's stern logistical methods made it impossible to haul about bulky treasure. Like the great Philip of ancient Macedon, Belisarius used mules for his supply train. The only wheeled vehicles he allowed were the field ambulances and the artillery engines.

  Observing, and then questioning, the Army of Lebanon quickly followed their example.

  A great general, Belisarius, a great general. A bit peculiar, perhaps. Unbelievably ruthless, in some ways. Tales were told, by campfire, of slaughtered Persian cavalry, and a decapitated chiliarch. The first brought grins of satisfaction, the last brought howls of glee. Strangely squeamish, in others. Tales were told of women and children returned, reasonably unharmed, to the Persians in Nisibis—and spitted Huns. The first brought heads shaking in bemusement, the last, howls of glee. (Even, after a day or so, to most Huns, whose sense of humor was not remotely squeamish.)

  A peculiar general. But—a great general, no doubt about it. Best to adopt his ways.

  Adding to the army's good cheer was the extraordinary largesse of the general's cataphracts. Fine fellows, those Thracians, the very best. Buy anyone a drink, anytime, at any place the army stopped. Which it did frequently. The great general was kind to victorious troops, and the host of camp followers set up impromptu tabernae at every nightfall. They seemed to be awash in wealth, the way they spread their money around.

  Which, indeed, they were. As commanding general, Belisarius had come in for a huge percentage of the loot—half of which he had immediately distributed to his bucellarii, as was his own personal tradition. The tradition pleased his cataphracts immensely. It pleased Belisarius even more. Partly for the pleasure which generosity gave his warm heart. But more for the pleasure which calculation gave his cold, crooked brain. True, his cataphracts were devoted to him anyway, from their own customs and birthright. But it never hurt to cement that allegiance as tightly as possible.

  No, he thought, remembering the head of a stubborn chiliarch; and the arrow-transfixed chests of Hun thugs, it never hurts.

  Three individuals only, of that great army returning in triumph, did not share in the general joy and good will.

  Two of them were brothers from Thrace. Who, though they had come through their recent experience essentially unharmed in body, were much aggrieved in their minds.

  As Belisarius had suspected, Bouzes and Coutzes were not actually stupid. They had had plenty of time, in their captivity at Nisibis, to ponder events of the past. And to draw certain conclusions about a never-found pay caravan.

  On the first night of the march back to Mindouos, the brothers had entered Belisarius' tent. Quite forcefully. They had shouldered Maurice aside, which would indicate that their recent conversion from stupidity was still shaky and skin deep.
Then, they had confronted the general with his duplicity and treachery.

  Within the next few minutes, Bouzes and Coutzes learned a lesson. Others had learned that lesson before them. Some, like a Hun clan chieftain, had even managed to survive the experience.

  So did they, barely.

  Belisarius gave them three simple choices.

  One: They could acquiesce to his triumph, pretend that nothing untoward had happened, and salvage what was left of their reputations. With Belisarius' help, a suitable cover story would be manufactured. They would even come into their share of the booty.

  Two: They could leave now and trumpet their outrage to the world. Within a year, if Justinian was feeling charitable due to his victory over the Persians, they would be feeding the hogs back at their estate in Thrace. Pouring slops into the trough. If the Emperor was not feeling charitable—charity was not his most outstanding trait—they would be feeding the hogs at one of Justinian's many estates. From inside the trough, since they themselves would be the slop.

  Or, finally, if their outrage was simply too great to bear, they could choose yet a third alternative:

  Valentinian.

  The brothers, in the end, bade farewell to stupidity. Not easily, true, and not without bitter tears and warm embraces to their departing friend. But, in the end, they managed to send stupidity on his way.

  By the very end of the evening, in fact, they were in quite a mellow mood. Large quantities of wine helped bring on that mellowness, as did the thought of large sums of booty. But, for the most part, it was brought by one small, fierce consolation.

  At least—this time—honest Thracian lads had been swindled by another Thracian. Not by some damned Greek or Armenian.

  After they left, Belisarius blew out the lantern and lay down on his cot.

  He was exhausted, but sleep would not come. There was something he needed to know. He let his mind wander through its own labyrinth, until he found the place he had come to think of as the crack in the barrier.

  He sensed the jewel's presence.

  It was you, wasn't it? Helping me in the battle?

  It was then that Belisarius discovered the third—individual?—who did not share in the general self-satisfaction of the army. The jewel's thoughts were incoherent, at first. Strangely, there seemed to be some underlying hostility to them. Not reproach, or accusation, as there had been before. More like—

  Yes. Exasperation.

  That's odd. Why would—

  A thought suddenly came into focus.

  yes. helped. difficult.

  Then, with a definite sense of exasperation:

  very difficult.

  Then, much like a younger brother might say to a dimwitted elder:

  stupid.

  Stupid? What is stupid?

  you stupid.

  Belisarius sat up, astonished.

  Me? Why am I stupid?

  Extreme exasperation:

  not you you. all you. all stupid.

  Now, with great force:

  cretins.

  Belisarius was frowning fiercely. He couldn't begin to think what might have so upset the jewel.

  He sensed a new concept, a new thought, trying to force its way through the barrier. But the thought fell away, defeated.

  Suddenly a quick vision flashed through his mind:

  A scene from the day's battle. A mass of cavalrymen, hacking away at each other, falling from their mounts. Knees clenched tightly on the barrel chests of horses. Hands clutching pommels. Men falling from their horses every time they were struck or misjudged their own blows.

  cretins.

  Another vision. Nothing but a quick flashing image:

  A horseman galloping across the steppe. A barbarian of some kind. Belisarius did not recognize his tribe. He rode his horse with complete grace and confidence. The image flashed to his legs. His feet.

  The thought finally burst through.

  stirrups.

  Belisarius' mouth fell open.

  "I'll be Goddamned," he whispered. "Why didn't anybody ever think of that?"

  stupid.

  Chapter 9

  Constantinople

  Autumn, 528 AD

  "The man of the hour!" cried Sittas. "O hail the triumphant conq'rer!" He drained his cup in one quaff. "I'd rise to greet you, Belisarius, but I'm afraid I'd swoon in the presence of so august a personage." He hiccuped. "I'm given to hero worship, you know. Terrible habit, just terrible." He seized the flagon resting on the small table next to his couch and waved it about. "I'd pour you a drink, too, but I'm afraid I'd spill the wine. Trembling in the company of so legendary a figure, you understand, like a giddy schoolgirl."

  Sittas refilled the cup. His meaty hand was steady as a rock.

  "Speaking of which," he continued, "—giddy schoolgirls, that is—let me introduce you to my friend." Sittas waved his other hand in the general direction of a woman sitting on the couch next to him. "Irene Macrembolitissa, I present you the famed General Belisarius. And his lovely wife, Antonina."

  Belisarius advanced across the room and bowed politely—to the woman, not Sittas.

  Irene was quite striking in appearance. Not pretty, precisely, but attractive in a bold sort of way. She had a light complexion, chestnut hair, brown eyes, and a large aquiline nose. She appeared to be in her late twenties, but Belisarius thought she might be older.

  The calm, unreadable expression on Belisarius' face never wavered. But he was more than a little surprised. Irene was quite unlike Sittas' usual run of female "friends." By about fifteen years of age and, the general estimated, twice the intelligence.

  "Don't look at him too closely, Irene!" warned Sittas. "You never know what can happen with these mythical demigod types. Probably get you pregnant just from his aura."

  Irene smiled. "Please ignore him. He's pretending to be drunk."

  "He's good at it," remarked Antonina. "As well he should be, as much practice as he gets."

  A look of hurt innocence came upon Sittas' beefy face. It fit very poorly.

  "I am mortified," he whined. "Outraged. Offended beyond measure." He drained his cup again, and reached for the flagon. "You see what your insults have done, vile woman? Driven me to drink, by God! To drink!"

  Irene rose and went over to a long table against the far wall of the salon. She returned with a cup in each hand, and gave them to Belisarius and Antonina.

  "Please have a seat," she said, motioning to another couch nearby. The large room was well-nigh littered with couches, all of them richly upholstered. The colors of the upholstery clashed wildly with the mosaics and tapestries which adorned all the walls. The wall coverings looked to be even more expensive than the couches, for all that they were in exquisitely bad taste.

  After the general and his wife took a seat, Irene filled their cups from another flagon. She placed the flagon on a table and returned to her own couch.

  "Sittas has told me much about you," Irene said.

  "Did I tell you he has much better taste in furnishings?" muttered Sittas. His beady eyes scanned the room admiringly.

  "Muskrats have better taste in furnishings than you do, Sittas," murmured Irene sweetly. She smiled at Belisarius and Antonina. "Isn't this room hideous?" she asked.

  Antonina laughed. "It's like a bear's den."

  "A very rich bear," commented Sittas happily. "Who can well afford to ignore the petty artistic quibbling of the lesser sort. Plebeian envy, that's all it is." He leaned forward. "But enough of that! Let's hear it, Belisarius. I want the full account, mind you, the full account. I'll stand for none of your usual laconicness!"

  "There's no such word, Sittas," said Irene.

  " 'Course there is! I just used it, didn't I? How could I use a word that doesn't exist?" He grinned at Belisarius and began to take another swallow of wine. "Now—out with it! How in the world did you swindle the terrible twins out of their army?"

  "I didn't swindle the twins out of their army. The whole idea's preposterous,
and I'm astonished to hear you parroting it. Coutzes and Bouzes simply had the misfortune of being captured while leading a reconnaissance in force, and I was forced—"

  Sittas choked; spewed wine out of his mouth.