Belisarius - Destiny's Shield Part 13

"I realize that you're unaccustomed to the conditions, here in the desert-and that it's been a long time since you've had to undertake a forced march like this. But enough's enough. You're not weaklings, for the sake of Christ. You've had two months to get into shape! The truth is, I don't think the march is that hard on you, anymore. You've just gotten into the habit of resentfulness."

He stopped to sip at his wine, gazing at Agath-ius. The new chiliarch took a deep breath. For a moment, his eyes wandered, staring out at the harsh-lit desert.

One of the sub-officers behind him started to say something-a protest, by the tone-but Agathius waved him down. "Shut up, Paul," he growled. "Tell the truth, I'm sick of it myself."

His eyes returned to Belisarius. He nodded. "All right, general. I'll see to it. What else?"

"I want you to accept some detachments from the Army of Syria. Light cavalry." A crooked smile. "Call them advisers. Part of the problem is that you've no experience in the desert, and you've been too arrogant to listen to anyone."

He pointed to the canvas stretched over his head. "You didn't figure this out, for instance, until a week ago. Till then you set up regular tents, every night, and sweltered without a breeze."

Agathius grimaced. Belisarius plowed on.

"There's been a hundred little things like that. Your c.o.c.ksure capital city att.i.tude has done nothing but make your life harder, and caused resentment in the other units. I want it to stop. I'll have the Syrian units send you some light auxiliaries. They'll be Arabs, the most of them-know the desert better than anyone. If you treat them properly, they'll be a big help to you."

Agathius rubbed the back of his neck. "Agreed. What else?"

Belisarius shrugged. "What I expect from all my other units. Henceforth, Agathius, you will attend the command conferences. Bring your tribunes. A few hecatontarchs, if you want. But don't bring many-I like my conferences to be small enough that we can have a real discussion and get some work done. I'm not given to speeches."

Agathius eyed him skeptically.

"And what else?"

"Nothing." Belisarius drained the cup, held it out. Again, it was refilled.

"Your turn," he said mildly.

Agathius twitched his shoulders irritably.

"Ah-!" he exclaimed. He was silent, for a moment, frowning. Then: "It's like this, general. The real problem isn't the march, and it isn't the desert. As you said, we've gotten used to it by now. It's-" He gestured vaguely. "It's the way we got hauled out of the barracks, without a day's notice, and sent off on this d.a.m.ned expedition. Off to Mesopotamia, for the sake of Christ, while-"

He lapsed into a bitter silence. One of the decarchs behind him piped up.

"While all the f.u.c.king n.o.ble units got to stay behind, cozy in the capital. Living like lords."

Belisarius lifted his head, laughing. "Well, of course!" he exclaimed. "The last thing I wanted on this expedition was a bunch of aristocrats."

He shook his head ruefully. "G.o.d, think of it! Every cataphract in those units can't move without twelve servants and his own personal baggage train. I'd be lucky to make five miles a day."

He bestowed a very approving smile on the soldiers squatting around him.

"I told Sittas I wanted his best fighting unit. Had quite a set-to with him, I did. Naturally, he tried to fob off his most useless parade ground troops on me, but I wouldn't have it. 'Fighters,' I said. Fighters, Sittas. I've got no use for anything else."

The Greeks' chests swelled a bit. Their heads lifted.

Belisarius drained his cup. Held it out for another refill.

"Stop worrying about those lordly troops, lounging in their barracks in Constantinople. Within a year, you'll have enough booty to sneer at them. Not to mention a glorious name and the grat.i.tude of Rome."

The soldiers' gaze became eager. "Booty, sir?" asked one. "Do you think so? We'd heard-"

He fell silent. Another spoke: "We'd heard you frown on booty, sir."

Belisarius' eyes widened. "From whom did you hear that? Not the Syrian soldiers! Each one of those lads came away from Mindouos with more treasure than they knew what to do with. And you certainly didn't hear it from my Thracian cataphracts!"

The Greeks exchanged glances with each other. Suddenly, Cyril laughed.

"We heard it from the other garrison units. In Constantinople. They said Belisarius was a delicate sort, who wouldn't let his men enjoy the gleanings of a campaign."

Belisarius' good humor vanished. "That's not booty. That's looting. And they're d.a.m.n well right about that!"

He brought a full Homeric scowl to bear.

"I won't tolerate looting and indiscipline. I never have, and I never will. Have no doubt about that, any of you. The penalty for looting in my army is fifty lashes. And I'll execute a man who murders and rapes. On the second offense, in the same unit, the officer in command'll be strapped to the whipping post himself. Or hung."

He drained his cup. Held it out. Immediately drained the refill. Held it out again. The soldiers eyed the cup, then him. To all appearances, the general seemed not in the slightest affected by the wine he had drunk.

"Make no mistake about it," he said. Softly, but very firmly. "If you can't abide by those rules-"

He tossed his head dismissively. "-then follow those five b.u.ms back to your cozy barracks in Constantinople."

He drained the cup. Held it out. As it was being refilled, he remarked casually: "The reason those n.o.ble fellows in Constantinople are confused on this point is because those fine aristocratic champions don't know what a campaign looks like in the first place. When's the last time they went to war?"

A chuckle swept through the little crowd.

"A campaign, men, is when you set out to thrash the enemy senseless and do it. Once that job's done-we call it winning the war-booty's no problem at all. But we're not talking about 'gleanings' here."

Scornfully: " 'Gleanings' means stealing silver plate from a peasant's hut. His only silver plate, if he has one in the first place. Or his chickens. Booty means the wealth of empires, disgorged to their con-querors."

He lifted his cup, waved it in the general direction of the east.

"There's no empire in the world richer than the Malwa. And they travel in style, too, let me tell you. When I was at Ranapur, the Malwa Emperor erected a pavilion d.a.m.ned near as big as the Great Palace. And you wouldn't believe what he filled it with! His throne alone-his 'traveling chair,' he called it-was made of solid-"

Belisarius continued in this happy vein for another ten minutes. Half that time he spent regaling his audience with tales of Malwa treasure, spoken in a tone of awe and wonder. The other half, with tales of Malwa f.e.c.klessness and cowardice, in tones of scorn and derision.

None of it was, quite, outright lies. None of it was, quite, cold sober truth.

By the time he finished, he had emptied another amphora of wine. His audience had emptied their fair share, also.

He glanced up at the sun. Yawned.

"Ah, h.e.l.l. It's too late to start a proper march now, anyway."

He rose to his feet.

"Give me a minute, boys, to give the order. Then we can get down to some serious drinking."

The soldiers ogled him. The general was not only standing erect, with perfect ease, he wasn't even swaying. Belisarius strode toward Valentinian and Anastasius. His two cataphracts had remained on their horses, sweating rivers in the hot sun. Glaring resentfully at the Constantinople troops.

In a loud voice, he called out to them: "Pa.s.s the word to Maurice! We'll take a break for the rest of the day. Resume the march tomorrow morning."

He began to turn away, waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal. Then, as if taken by a sudden happy thought, added: "And tell my servants to bring some wine! Plenty of it-enough for all of us. Good vintage, too-d'ye hear? I'll have no swill for these men!"

By the time the servants appeared, leading a small mule train carrying many large amphorae, the encampment of the Constantinople troops had turned into a cheerful celebration. The audience surrounding the general had grown much, much larger. Dozens of common soldiers-hundreds, counting those milling on the edges-had crowded around the sub-officers in the inner circle.

When the sun fell, Belisarius ordered the canopy dismantled, so that all of his soldiers could hear him better. That done, he continued his tales.

Tales of Malwa treasure and Malwa military incompetence, of course. But, woven among those tunes, were other melodies as well. He spoke of the huge numbers of the Malwa, which could only be thwarted by disciplined and spirited troops. Of the valor of their Persian allies, and the imperative necessity of not offending them with misconduct. Of his own nature as a general-good-hearted but, when necessary, firm.

But most of all, as the evening progressed, he spoke of Rome. Rome, and its thousand years of glory. Rome, often defeated in battle-rarely in war. Rome, savage when it needed to be-but, in the end, an empire of laws. Whose very emperor-and here his troops suddenly remembered, with not a little awe, that the genial man sharing their cups was the Emperor's own father-only ruled with the consent of the governed. Especially the consent of those valiant men whose blood and courage had forged Rome and kept it safe through the centuries.

The very men who shared his wine.

He drained his last cup. "I believe I've had enough," he announced. He rose to his feet-slowly, carefully, but without staggering-and eyed his horse. "f.u.c.k it," he muttered. "Too far to ride."

He turned toward Agathius. "With your permission, chiliarch, I'd like to make my bed here tonight."

Agathius' eyes widened. He rose himself, rather shakily, and stared about. He seemed both startled and a bit embara.s.sed. "We don't have much in the way of-"

Belisarius casually waved his hand.

"A blanket'll do. Often enough I've used my saddle for a pillow, on campaign."

Two decarchs hastily scrambled about, digging up the best blanket they could find.

As they saw to that task, Belisarius straightened and said, very loudly: "If there is any request that you have, make it now. It will be granted, if it is within my power to do so."

There was a moment's hesitation. Then, a heca-tontarch cleared his throat and said: "It's about the men you've-your Thracians have been dragging alongside us."

A little mutter of agreement swept the crowd. There was resentment in that mutter, even some anger, but nothing in the way of hot fury.

Agathius spoke, very firmly: "Those boys were a bad lot, sir. We all knew it. Wasn't the first time they mistreated folk. Still-"

"Shouldn't be dragged," someone complained.

A different voice spoke: "f.u.c.k that! A stinking filthy bunch they were-and you all know it!"

The man who had spoken rose.

"Drag them all you want, sir. Just don't do it next to us. It's-it's not right."

The mutter which swept the crowd was more in the nature of a growl, now.

Belisarius nodded. "Fair enough. I'll have them buried first thing in the morning. A Christian burial, if I can find a priest to do the rites."

A soldier nearby snorted. "Fat lot of good that'll do 'em, once Satan gives 'em the eye."

A ripple of laughter swept the encampment.

Belisarius smiled himself, but said: "That's for the Lord to decide, not us. They'll have a Christian burial."

He paused, then spoke again. His powerful voice was low-pitched, but carried very well. Very well.

"There will be no more of this business."

He made no threats. The hundreds of soldiers who heard him noted the absence of threats, and appreciated it. They also understood and appreciated, now, that their general was not a man who issued threats. But that, came to it, he would have half an army drag the corpses of the other half, if that was what it took to make it his army.

"Yes, sir," came from many throats.

"My name is Belisarius. I am your general."

"Yes, sir," came from all throats.

The next morning, shortly after the army resumed its march, a courier arrived from the Persian forces who had gone ahead. The courier had been sent back by Kurush to inquire-delicately, delicately-as to the current state of the Roman army.

Belisarius was not there to meet the courier. He was spending the day marching in the company of his Constantinople troops. But Maurice apprised the Persian of the recent developments.

After the courier returned to Kurush's tent, that evening, and related the tale, the young Persian commander managed to restrain himself until the courier was gone.

Then, with only his uncle for an audience, he exploded.

"I can't believe it!" he hissed. "The man is utterly mad! He deals with a mutiny by dismissing the officers?-and then promotes the mutineers? And then spends the whole night carousing with them as if-"

"Remind me again, nephew," interrupted Bares-manas, coldly. "I seem to have forgotten. Which one of us was it-who won the battle at Mindouos?"

Kurush's mouth snapped shut.

That same evening, in the Roman encampment, the new chiliarch of the Constantinople troops arrived for his first command meeting. He brought with him the newly appointed tribunes-Cyril was one of them-and two hecatontarchs. Throughout the ensuing conference, the seven Greek soldiers sat uneasily to one side. They did not partic.i.p.ate, that night, in the discussion. But they listened closely, and were struck by four things.

One. The discussion was lively, free-wheeling, and relaxed. Belisarius clearly did not object to his subordinates expressing their opinions openly-quite unlike most Roman generals in their experience.

Two. That said, it was always the general who made the final decisions. Clear decisions, clearly stated, leading to clear lines of action. Quite unlike the murky orders which were often issued by commanders, which left their subordinates in the unenviable position of being blamed in the event of miscommunication.

Three. No one was in the least hostile toward them. Not even the general's Thracian cataphracts.

Indeed, the commander of his bucellarii, Maurice, singled them out following the meeting, and invited them to join him in a cup of wine. And both commanders of the Syrian troops, the brothers Bouzes and Coutzes, were quick to add their company.

Many cups later in the evening, Agathius shook his head ruefully.

"I can't figure it out," he muttered, "but somehow I think I've been swindled."