by David Drake
The monk gazed on the general like a just-fed eagle gazes on a mouse. Current interest, mild.
"You and yours," he said softly, "will bring to the battle weapons and tactics. Antonina and Anthony, and theirs, will bring to the battle knowledge of the enemy. But in the end, Sittas, it will come to this. All the gifts you bring will be as nothing, unless the peasant boy to whom you give them has a soul which can face Satan in the storm."
He rose.
"I will give you that peasant."
On his way out, Michael bestowed a considering look upon Sittas. Like a just-fed eagle considers a mouse. Future prospects, excellent.
"Always a bad idea, baiting a holy man," murmured Maurice.
"It's true," he insisted, in the face of Sittas' glare. He drained his cup. "Ask any peasant."
The next morning, the two generals accompanied John of Rhodes out to the training field, eager to experiment with the grenades. Maurice was waiting there for them, with a dozen peasant volunteers. The Syrians were quite nervous, in the beginning. Even after their prowess at grenade-hurling earned them the praise of the generals, the young men were abashed in the company of such noble folk.
Soon enough, however, Michael of Macedonia made his appearance. He said nothing, neither to the generals nor to the peasants. But it was amusing, to Maurice, to watch the way in which the monk's presence transformed the Syrian boys. Into young eaglets, in the presence of giant mice.
By mid-afternoon, the eaglets were arguing freely with the giant mice.
Not over tactics, of course, or military formations. (Although the Syrians did have some valuable advice on the practical realities of slinging grenades. Most of it concerned the pragmatics of fuses, and their length.) The young men were not foolish. Uneducated and illiterate, yes. Stupid, no. They did not presume to understand the art of war better than such men as Sittas and Hermogenes. (Or, especially—they had their own peasant view of such things—Maurice.)
But they had quite strong opinions on the question of barracks, and the nature of military camps.
Their children would not like barracks, though they would probably enjoy the tent life of camps. Their wives would like neither, but would tolerate the camps. They were simple women. Practical.
Barracks, however, simply wouldn't do. No privacy. Immodest. Their wives were simple women, but decent. They were not camp followers.
They wanted huts. Each family its own hut. (A tent, of course, would do for the route camps.)
The generals explained the absurdity of such an arrangement. Violation of military tradition.
The peasants explained the absurdity of military tradition.
In the end, while a monk watched—smiling, smiling—young peasants disciplined generals.
No huts?
No grenadiers.
In a different way, another clash of wills was taking place in the villa.
"It is much too dangerous, Antonina," insisted the bishop. "I thought so last night, and I feel even more strongly about it today." He pushed his plate of food away. "Look!" he said accusingly. "I've even lost my appetite."
Antonina smiled, studying his rotund form. As modest and plain-living as Bishop Cassian undoubtedly was, no-one had ever mistaken him for an ascetic. Not, at least, when it came to meals.
She shrugged. "It could be, yes. Not for the moment, however. I assure you, Anthony, the last thing the Malwa will do is harm me. I'm their pride and joy. The very apple of their eye."
Cassian stared stubbornly at his uneaten lunch. Antonina sighed.
"Can't you understand, Anthony? After Ajatasutra 'trapped' me—quite a trap, too!—what with me being overheard by two deacons crying out for the death of Justinian!—they had me in a vise. As they see it. They're squeezing for all it's worth. Before I left Constantinople, they got from me every detail of the Hippodrome factions' internal politics."
She broke off for a moment, grimacing.
"I still don't know why they're so fascinated by that subject. Mother of God, it's all I ever heard about from my father, growing up. This Blue did this and that Green did that, and those Blues are so many clowns but keep your eyes out for that set of Greens."
She threw up her hands with exasperation.
"I even had to track down some of my father's old cronies—the ones I could find in Constantinople, at any rate—in order to bring my knowledge of the factions up to date. God in Heaven, what a sorry lot of ruffians!"
"Were they pleased to see you again?" asked Cassian mildly. "After all this time?"
Antonina looked startled. Then she grinned, quite merrily.
"To tell the truth, they fawned all over me. Local girl makes good, comes back to visit the home folks. I hadn't realized how famous Belisarius has become among those circles."
She shrugged. "So, in the end, I was able to give Balban every detail of the doings of the Hippodrome factions. And I still don't know why the Malwa—"
"I don't think it's so odd, Antonina," interrupted Cassian. "There must be twenty or thirty thousand of those bravos in Constantinople. Not an insignificant military force, potentially."
Antonina snickered.
"Hippodrome thugs? Be serious, Anthony. Oh, to be sure, they're a rough enough crowd in the streets. But against cataphracts? Besides, they're about evenly divided between the Blues and the Greens. More likely to whip on each other than do any Malwa bidding."
The bishop rubbed two fingers together, in the ancient gesture for coin.
Antonina cocked her head quizzically.
"That's Irene's opinion, too. But I think she's overestimating the strength of the factions, even if the Malwa can unite them with bribes." She shook her head. "Enough of that. At least now the Malwa are demanding some sensible secrets from me. By the time I get back to Constantinople, a few months from now, I'm to provide them with a detailed breakdown of all the military units in the east. All of them—not just here in Syria, but in Palestine as well. Even Egypt." She grinned. "Or else."
Cassian stared at her, still unsmiling. Antonina's grin faded away.
"It's that 'or else' you're worried about, isn't it?"
Cassian took a deep breath, exhaled. "Actually, no. At least, not much."
He rose from the table and began pacing slowly about the dining room.
"I'm afraid you don't really grasp my fear, Antonina. I agree with you about the Malwa, as it happens. For now, at least, they will do you no harm at all."
Antonina frowned. "Then what—"
It was Anthony's turn to throw up his hands with exasperation.
"Can you possibly be so naive? There are not simply Malwa involved in this plot, woman! There are Romans, also. And they have their own axes to grind—grind against each other's blades, often enough."
He stepped to the table, planted his pudgy hands firmly, and leaned over.
"You have placed yourself in a maelstrom, Antonina. Between Scylla and Charybdis—and a multitude of other monsters!—all of whom are plotting as much against their conspirators as they are against the Roman Empire." He thrust himself back upright. "You have no idea where the blade might come from, my dear. No idea at all. You see only the Malwa. And only the face they turn toward you."
Antonina stared grimly back at him. Unyielding.
"And so? I understand your point, Anthony. But I say again—so?"
Her shrug was enough to break the Bishop's heart. It was not a woman's shrug, but the gesture of a veteran.
"That's war, Cassian. You do the best you can against the enemy, knowing he fully intends to return the favor. One of you wins, one of you loses. Dies, usually."
A thin smile came to her face.
"Belisarius—Maurice, too, I think my husband got it from him—has a saying about it. He calls it the First Law of Battle. Every battle plan gets fucked up—pardon my language, Bishop—as soon as the enemy arrives. That why he's called the enemy."
Cassian stroked his beard. There was weariness in the gesture, but some humor also.
<
br /> "Crude, crude," he murmured. "Altogether coarse. Refined theologians would express the matter differently. Every sound doctrine gets contradicted, as soon as the other dogmatists arrive at the council. That's why they're called the heretics."
Finally, he smiled.
"Very well, Antonina. I cannot stop you, in any event. I will give you all the assistance which I can."
He resumed his seat. Then, after staring at his plate for a moment, pulled it back before him and began eating with his usual gusto.
"Won't be much, when it comes to military matters and Hippodrome factions." He waved his knife cheerfully. "Church conspirators, on the other hand—and there'll be plenty of them, be sure of it!—are a different matter altogether."
He speared two dates.
"Glycerius of Chalcedon and George Barsymes, is it?"
The dates disappeared as if by magic. He skewered a pear.
"Rufinus Namatianus, Bishop of Ravenna," he mumbled thoughtfully, his mouth full of shredding fruit. "Know'm well."
The last piece of pear sped down his throat, like a child down the gullet of an ogre.
"Babes in the woods," he belched.
After the generals returned, at sundown, Antonina listened to their ranting and raving for half an hour. Tact and diplomacy, she thought, required as much.
Then she made her ruling.
"Of course they won't live in barracks. The idea's absurd. These men aren't conscripts, gentlemen. They're volunteers—established farmers, with families. They marry early here, and start raising children by the time they're fifteen. Younger, the girls."
The generals gobbled. John of Rhodes began to stump. Antonina examined them curiously.
"What did you expect? Did you think these men would abandon their families—just to be your grenade-tossers?"
Gobbling ceased. Generals stared at other. A naval officer stumbled in his stumping.
Antonina snorted.
"You didn't think."
Snort. "Sometimes I agree with Theodora. Men."
Sittas leveled his finest glare upon her. The boar in full fury.
"You'll not be making any royal decrees here, young woman!"
"I most certainly will," replied Antonina, quite sweetly. "I'm the paymaster, remember?"
She cocked her head at John of Rhodes. "Are you done with your stumping?"
The naval officer pouted. Antonina reached to the floor, hauled up a sack, clumped it on the table.
"Hire workmen, John. Better yet—pay the peasants themselves. The lads are handy with their hands. They'll have the huts up in no time, and they'll be the happier for having made their own new homes."
From the doorway came Michael's voice:
"They'll be wanting a chapel, too. Nothing fancy, of course."
The generals, cowed by the woman, transferred their outrage to the monk.
The Macedonian stared back. Like a just-fed eagle stares at chittering mice.
Contest of wills, laughable.
Chapter 10
Kausambi
Summer 530 AD
From the south bank of the Jamuna, Belisarius gazed at the temple rising from the very edge of the river on the opposite bank. It was sundown, and the last rays of the setting sun bathed the temple in golden glory. He was too distant to discern the details of the multitude of figurines carved into the tiered steps of the temple, but he did not fail to appreciate the beauty of the structure as a whole.
"What a magnificent temple," he murmured. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Menander's lips tighten in disapproval.
For a moment, he thought to let it go, but then decided it was a fine opportunity to advance the young cataphract's education.
"What's the matter, Menander?" he queried, cocking an eyebrow. "Does my admiration for heathen idolatry offend you?"
The words were spoken in a mild and pleasant tone, but Menander flushed with embarassment.
"It's not my place—" he began, but Belisarius cut him off.
"Of course it is, lad. You're required to obey my orders as your commander. You are not required to agree with my theological opinions. So, spit it out." He pointed to the temple. "What do you think of it? How can you deny its splendor?"
Menander frowned. The expression was one of thought, not disapproval. He did not respond immediately, however. He and Belisarius had dismounted upon reaching the river, in order to drink its water, and their horses were still assuaging their thirst. Idly, he stroked the neck of his horse for a few seconds, before saying:
"I can't deny that it's a beautifully made edifice, general. I just wish it had been made for some different purpose."
Belisarius shrugged. "For what? Christian worship? That would be better, of course, to be sure. Unfortunately, Christian missionaries have only begun to penetrate this far into India's interior." With an smile of irony: "And all of them, alas, are Nestorian heretics. Not much better than outright heathens. According to most orthodox churchmen, at least."
He turned, so as to face Menander squarely.
"In the meantime, India's millions grope their own way toward God. That"—pointing again to the temple—"is the proof of it. Would you rather they ignored God altogether?"
Menander's frown deepened. "No," he said softly, after a moment. "I just—" He hesitated, sighed, shrugged.
"I've seen Dadaji praying in your tent, many times. And I don't doubt his sincerity, or his devotion. I just—" Another shrug, expressing a fatalistic acceptance of reality.
"Wish he were praying to the Christian God?"
Menander nodded.
Belisarius looked back to the temple. Now, he shrugged himself. But his was a cheerful shrug, expressing more of wonder than of resignation.
"So do I, Menander, come down to it. But I can't say I lose any sleep over the matter. Dadaji's is a true and pure soul. I do not think God will reject it, when the time comes."
The general glanced toward the west. The lower rim of the sun was almost touching the horizon.
"We'd best head back," he said. "I'd hoped to get a glimpse of Kausambi before nightfall, but I can see that we're still a few miles away from the outskirts."
He and Menander mounted their horses and rode away from the river. As they headed back toward their camp, Menander said:
"I thought you were orthodox, sir." The youth's brow was furrowed in thought. Then, realizing that his statement might be construed amiss, Menander began to apologize. But his general dismissed the apology with a wave of the hand.
"I am orthodox." Then, a crooked smile. "I suppose. I was raised so, as Thracians are. And it is the creed to which I have always subscribed."
He hesitated. "It is hard to explain. I do not care much for such things, Menander. My wife, whom I love above all others in this world, is not orthodox. For the sake of my reputation, she disguises her creed, but she inclines to Monophysitism, as do most Egyptians. Am I to believe that she is condemned to eternal hellfire?"
He glanced at Menander. The young cataphract winced. If anything, Menander was even more adoring of Antonina than were most of the bucellarii.
Belisarius shook his head. "I think not. Not by the Christ I worship. And it is not simply she, Menander. I am a general, and I have led soldiers into battle who believed in every heresy, even Arians, and watched them die bravely. And held them in my arms as they died, listening to their last prayers. Were those men predestined for damnation? I think not."
His jaws tightened. "My indifference to creed goes deeper than that. Years ago, in my first command—I was only eighteen years old—I matched wits with a Persarmenian commander named Varanes. His forces were small, as were mine, and our combat was prolonged over weeks. A thing of maneuver and feint, as much as battle. He was a magnificent commander, and taxed me to the utmost."
He took a deep breath. "An honorable and gallant foe, as well. As Medeans often are. Once I was forced to abandon three of my men. They were too badly wounded to move, and Varanes had caught me in a trap from which
I had to extricate myself immediately or suffer total defeat. When he came upon them, Varanes saw to it that they were well cared for."
He looked away. For a moment, the usual calm of his face seemed to waver. But not for long, and Belisarius resumed his tale. Menander was listening with rapt attention.
"I discovered the fact after I defeated Varanes. I trapped him myself, finally, and overran his camp. My three men were still there. One of them had died in the meantime, from his wounds, but it was through no fault of the Persians. The other two were safe, thanks to Varanes. Varanes himself was mortally wounded, from a lance-thrust to the groin. It took him hours to die, and I spent those hours with him. I attempted to comfort him as best I could, but the wound was terrible. It must have been pure agony for him, but he bore it well. He even joked with me, and we passed the time discussing, among other things, our relative assessment of our previous weeks in combat. He had had the upper hand, through most of it, but I had learned quickly. He predicted a great future for me."