"It's perfect," pronounced Belisarius.
"It's the silliest trap I ever saw," pronounced Maurice. "Not even a schoolboy would fall for it. Not even a Hun schoolboy."
"There are no Hun schoolboys."
"Exactly my point," grumbled Maurice.
Belisarius smiled—broadly, not crookedly.
"There's nothing wrong with my plan and you know it. You're just angry at your part in it."
"And that's another thing! It's ridiculous to use your best heavy cavalry to—"
"Enough, Maurice." The general's voice was mild, but Maurice understood the tone. The hecatontarch fell silent. For a few minutes, he and Belisarius stood together atop the small hill on the left flank of the Roman forces. They said nothing, simply watched the gathering array of the Persian forces coming from the east. The enemy's army was still some considerable distance away, but Belisarius could see the first detachments of light cavalry beginning to scout the Roman position.
Before the Medes could get more than a mile from the Roman lines, however, three ala of Hun light cavalry from the Army of Lebanon advanced to meet them. There was a spirited exchange of arrows before the Persian scouts retreated. Casualties were few, on either side, but Belisarius was quite satisfied with the results of the encounter. It was essential to his plan that the Persians not have the opportunity to scout his position carefully.
"That'll keep the bastards off," grunted Maurice.
"Best be about it," said Belisarius. "It's almost noon. The wind'll be picking up soon."
Maurice scanned the sky.
"Let's hope so. If it doesn't—"
"Enough."
Belisarius strode down the back side of the hill toward his horse. Behind him, he heard Maurice begin to issue orders, but he could not make out their specific content. Instructions to the disgruntled Thracian cataphracts, no doubt.
Very disgruntled, indeed. The Thracian cataphracts looked upon foot travel—much less fighting on foot—with the enthusiasm of a drunk examining a glass of water. The elite, they were—and now, assigned to serve as bodyguards for a bunch of miserable, misbegotten, never-to-be-sufficiently-damned, common foot archers. Downright plebes. Barbarians, no less.
Which, in truth, they were. The four hundred archers atop the hill were a mercenary unit, made up entirely of Isaurian hillmen from southern Anatolia. An uncivilized lot, the Isaurians, but very tough. And completely accustomed to fighting on foot in rocky terrain, either with bows or with hand weapons.
Belisarius smiled. He knew his cataphracts. Once the Thracians saw the Isaurian archers at work, they would not be able to resist the challenge. Personally, Belisarius thought his cataphracts were better archers than any in the Army of Lebanon. They would certainly try to prove it. By the time the Persians tried to drive them off the hill, the Thracians would be in full fury.
Belisarius paused for a moment in his downward descent, and reexamined the hill.
Perfect. Steep sides, rocky. The worst possible terrain for a cavalry charge. And Persian nobles view fighting on foot like bishops view eternal damnation. God help the arrogant bastards, trying to drive armored horses up these slopes against dismounted Thracian cataphracts and Isaurian hillmen.
He resumed his descent down the western slope of the hill. Near the bottom, he came to the hollow where the Thracian horses were being held. A small number of the youngest and most inexperienced cataphracts had been assigned to hold the horses during the battle. They were even more disgruntled than their veteran fellows.
One of them, a lad named Menander, brought Belisarius his horse.
"General, are you sure I couldn't—"
"Enough." Then, Belisarius relented. "You know, Menander, it's likely the Persians will send a force around the hill to attack our rear. I imagine the fighting here will be hot and furious."
"Really?"
"Oh, yes. A desperate affair. Desperate."
Belisarius hoped he was lying. If the Persians managed to get far enough around the hill to find the hollow where the Thracian horses were being held, it would mean that they had driven off the heavy cavalry guarding his left wing and his whole battle plan was in ruins. His army too, most likely.
But Menander cheered up. The boy helped Belisarius onto his horse. Normally, Belisarius was quite capable of vaulting onto his horse. But not today, encumbered as he was with full armor. No cataphract in full armor could climb a horse without a stool or a helping hand.
Once he was firmly in the saddle, Belisarius heaved a little sigh of relief. For the hundredth time, he patted himself on the back for his good sense in having all of his Thracian cavalry equipped with Scythian saddles instead of the flimsy Roman ones. Roman "saddles" were not much more than a thin pad. Scythian saddles were solid leather, and—much more to the point—had a cantle and a pommel. With a Scythian saddle, an armored cavalryman had at least half a chance of staying on his horse through a battle.
Belisarius heard noises behind him. Turning, he saw two of his cataphracts coming down the hill at a fast trot. As fast a "trot," at least, as could be managed by men wearing: full suits of scale-mail armor—including chest cuirasses—covering their upper bodies, right arms, and their abdomens down to mid-thigh; open-faced iron helmets with side-flanges, of the German spangenhelm style favored by most of the Thracians; small round shields buckled to their upper left arms, leaving the left hand free to wield a bow; heavy quilted Persian-style cavalry trousers; and, of course, a full panoply of weapons. The weapons included a long lance, a powerful compound bow, a quiver of arrows, long Persian-style cavalry swords, daggers, and the special personal weapons of the individuals: in the case of one, a mace; in the case of the other, a spatha.
Belisarius recognized the approaching cataphracts, recognized their purpose, and began to frown fiercely. But when the two cataphracts neared, his words of hot reproach were cut off before he could utter them.
"Don't bother, General," said Valentinian.
"No use at all," agreed Anastasius.
"Direct orders from Maurice."
"Very direct."
"You're just the general."
"Maurice is the Maurice."
Belisarius grimaced. There was no point in trying to send Valentinian and Anastasius away. They wouldn't obey his order, and he could hardly enforce it on them personally, since—
He eyed the two men.
Since I don't think there are two tougher soldiers in the whole Roman army, that's why.
So he tried reason.
"I don't need bodyguards."
"Hell you don't," came Valentinian's sharp, nasal reply.
"Was ever a man needed a bodyguard, it's you," added Anastasius. As ever, the giant's voice sounded like rumbling thunder. Professional church bassos had been known to turn green with envy, hearing that voice.
Menander was already bringing up the two cataphracts' horses. Anastasius' mount was the largest charger anyone had ever seen. Anastasius was devoted to the beast, as much out of genuine affection as simple self-preservation. No smaller horse could have borne his weight, in full armor, in the fury of a battlefield. Especially encumbered as the horse was with its own armor: scale mail covering the top of its head and its neck down to the withers, with additional sheets of mail protecting its chest and its front shoulders.
Anastasius more or less tossed Valentinian onto his horse. Then he mounted his own, with Menander's help. By the time he was aboard, the young cataphract looked completely exhausted by the effort of hoisting him.
Belisarius rode off, heading toward the center of the Roman lines. Behind him, he heard his two companions expressing their thoughts on the day.
"Look at it this way, Valentinian: it beats fighting on foot."
"It certainly does not."
"You hate to walk, even, much less—"
"So what? Not so bad, butchering a bunch of Medes trying to scramble their horses up that godawful hill. Instead—"
"Maybe he'll—"
"You know damn well he won't. When has he ever?"
Heavy sigh, like a small rockslide.
Again, Valentinian: "Huh? When has he ever? Name one time! Just one!"
Heavy sigh.
Mutter, mutter, mutter.
"What was that last, Valentinian?" asked Belisarius mildly. "I didn't quite make it out."
Silence.
Anastasius: "Sounded like `fuck bold commanders, anyway.' "
Hiss.
Anastasius: "But maybe not. Maybe the bad-tempered skinny cutthroat said: `Fuck old commoners, anyway.' Stupid thing to say, under the circumstances, of course. Especially since he's a commoner himself. But maybe that's what he said. He's bad-tempered about everything, you know."
Hiss.
Belisarius never turned his head. Just smiled. Crookedly, at first, then broadly.
Well, maybe Maurice is right. God help the Mede who tries to get in my way, that's for sure.
Once he reached the fortified camp at the center of the Roman lines, Belisarius dismounted and entered through the small western gate. Valentinian and Anastasius chose to remain outside. It was too much trouble to dismount and remount, and there was no way to ride a horse into that camp.
The camp was nothing special, in itself. It had been hastily erected in one day, and consisted of nothing much more than a ditch backed up by an earthen wall. Normally, such a wall would have been corduroyed, but there were precious few logs to be found in that region. To some degree, the soldiers had been able to reinforce the wall with field stones. Where possible, they had placed the customary cervi—branches projecting sideways from the wall—but there were few suitable branches to be found in that barren Syrian terrain. Some of the more far-sighted and enterprising units had brought sharpened stakes with them to serve the purpose, but the wall remained a rather feeble obstacle. A pitiful wall, actually, by the traditional standards of Roman field fortifications.
But Belisarius was not unhappy with the wall. Not, not in the slightest. Quite the contrary. He wanted the Persian scouts to report to Firuz that the Roman fortification at the center of their lines was a ramshackle travesty.
The real oddity about the camp was not the camp itself but its population density—and the peculiar position of its inhabitants. Some Roman infantrymen were standing on guard behind the wall, as one might expect. The great majority, however, were lying down behind the wall and in the shallow trenches which had been dug inside the camp. The camp held at least four times as many soldiers as it would appear to hold, looking at it from the Persian side.
Belisarius heard the cornicens blaring out a ragged tune. Very ragged, just as he had instructed. As if the men blowing those horns were half-deranged with fear. The soldiers standing visible guard began acting out their parts.
As Belisarius watched, the infantry chiliarch of the Army of Lebanon trotted up. Hermogenes was grinning from ear to ear.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Belisarius smiled. "Well, they're certainly throwing themselves into their roles. Although I'm not sure it's really necessary for so many of them to be tearing at their hair. Or howling quite so loud. Or shaking their knees and gibbering."
Hermogenes' grin never faded.
"Better too much than too little." He turned and admired the thespian display. By now, the soldiers at the wall were racing around madly, in apparent confusion and disorder.
"Don't overdo it, Hermogenes," said Belisarius. "The men might get a little too far into it and forget it's just an act."
The chiliarch shook his head firmly.
"Not a chance. They're actually quite enthusiastic about the coming battle."
Belisarius eyed him skeptically.
"It's true, General. Well—maybe `enthusiastic' is putting it a little too strongly. Confident, let's say."
Belisarius scratched his chin. "You think? I'd have thought the men would be skeptical of such a tricky little scheme."
Hermogenes stared at the general. Then said, very seriously, "If any other general had come up with it, they probably would. But—it's Belisarius' plan. That's what makes the difference."
Again, the skeptical eye.
"You underestimate your reputation, general. Badly."
Belisarius began to say that the scheme wasn't actually his. He had taken it from Julius Caesar, who had used hidden troops in a fortified camp in one of his many battles against the Gauls. But before he could utter more than two words, he fell silent. One of the sentries at the wall was shouting. A genuine alert, now, not a false act.
Belisarius raced to the wall and peered over. Hermogenes joined him an instant later.
The Persians were advancing.
Belisarius studied the Mede formation intently. It was impressive, even—potentially—terrifying. As Persian armies always were.
An old thought caused a little quirk to come to the general's lips.
I'm always amazed at the way modern Greek scholars and courtiers don't live in the real world. Their image of Persian armies is fixed a thousand years ago, in the ancient times. When a small number of disciplined and armored Greek and Macedonian hoplites could always scatter the lightly-armed Persian mobs of Xerxes and Darius. The glorious phalanx of the Hellenes against the motley hordes of despotic Asia.
Let them see this, and gape, and tremble.
Many modern Greeks, of course, knew the truth. But they were of a different class than the Greeks who wrote the books and the laws, and collected the taxes, and lorded it over their great estates.
Persia had changed, over the centuries. More, even, than Rome. A class of tough, land-vested nobility had arisen. They were the real power in Persia, now, when all was said and done. True, they paid homage to the Sassanid emperors, and served them, as they had the Parthians who preceded them. But it was a conditional homage and a proud service. The conditions and the pride stemmed from one simple fact. The Persian aristocracy had invented modern heavy cavalry, and they were still better at it than any people on the face of the earth. The Roman cataphracts were, in all essential respects, simply attempts to copy the Persian noble cavalry.
The Persians were now close enough for the details of their formation to be made out.
Unlike Roman armies, which used infantry as the stolid center of their formations—as an anchor for the battle, even if they weren't much use in the battle itself—the Persians scorned infantry almost entirely. True, there were ten thousand foot soldiers in the advancing Mede army. But Persian infantry were a ragged, scraggly lot: modern Persian foot soldiers were probably even worse than the rabble which had been broken by the hoplites at Marathon and Issus centuries earlier. Miserable peasant levies, completely unarmored except for hide shields; armed only with javelins and light spears; consigned to the flanks; assigned the simple duties of butchering wounded enemies and serving as a buffer against charging foes. Armed cattle, basically.
Belisarius dismissed them with a glance. The general's attention was riveted on the cavalry advancing at the center of the Persian army. His experienced eye immediately sorted order out of the mass.
The heart of the Persian cavalry were the heavily armored noble lancers, riding huge war horses bred on the Persian plateau. Each nobleman, in turn, brought to battle a small retinue of more lightly armored horse archers. The horse archers would start the battle, and would fight closely alongside the heavy lancers. When the lancers made charges, the mounted archers would act as a screen to keep off enemy cavalry and suppress enemy archers, while the lancers shattered their foe.
It was a ferocious, well-disciplined military machine. No Roman army had won a major battle in the open field against Persia in over a century.
But Belisarius was filled with confidence.
Today, I'm going to do it.
He began to turn away from the wall. Before leaving, however, he stopped a moment and gazed at Hermogenes. The infantry chiliarch grinned.
"Relax, General. You just take care of the cavalry. The infantry will do its job."
Once back on his horse, Belisarius cantered over to the right wing of his army. The right was in the hands of the Army of Lebanon's cavalry commanders. Belisarius intended to take his position there at the beginning of the battle. Although the Army of Lebanon had accepted his leadership, he knew that they would quickly slip the leash if he was not there to keep a tight grip on it. The one thing that could ruin his plans was a rash, unplanned cavalry charge. Which, in his experience, cavalry was always prone to do.
That's another thing I like about infantry. When a man has to charge on his own two legs, he tends to think it over first. Less tiring.
Seeing him approach, the cavalry chiliarchs rode to meet him.
"Soon, now," announced Eutyches.
Belisarius nodded.
"As soon as—" A blaring cornicen cut him off. Belisarius turned in his saddle just in time to see the first missiles hurled from the four scorpions and two onagers which he had positioned behind the fortified camp. Phocas had gauged the range and given the command for the artillery fire.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a scowl on the face of Pharas.
Belisarius understood the meaning of that expression. Like most modern Roman commanders, Pharas had no use for artillery in a field battle.
But Belisarius forebore comment. He had learned, from experience, that it was a futile argument.
They just don't understand. Sure, the damned things are a pain to haul around. Sure, they don't really inflict that many casualties. But they do two invaluable things. First, they break up the cohesion of the enemy's ranks. An alert soldier, even a heavily armored horseman, can usually dodge a great big scorpion dart or a huge stone thrown by an onager—as long as he isn't hemmed in by closely packed ranks. So, the enemy starts spreading out. Second—and most important—it's utterly infuriating to a warrior to be bombarded when he's too far away to retaliate. So he charges closer. Which is just what I want. Strategic offense; tactical defense. There's the whole secret in a nutshell.
The two chiliarchs were already galloping toward the front line. Belisarius followed. He needed to be able to watch the progress of the battle, and had already decided he would do it from the right. The hill would have been a perfect vantage point, of course, but he would have been much too isolated from the right wing of his army. Which represented both his heaviest force and his least reliable.
By the time he reached the front line, the Persians had already begun their charge. He saw at once that the enemy had begun the charge much too soon. Even the huge Persian horses couldn't charge any great distance before becoming exhausted.
And so, once again, the artillery did the trick.
Still, the Persians weren't Goths. Once Goths began a cavalry charge, they always tried to carry it through. The Medes, sophisticated and civilized for all their noble pride, were much too canny not to suspect a trap.
So, once they got within bow range, the Persian heavy cavalry reined in and let their horses breathe. The lighter mounted archers continued forward, firing their bows.
Pharas didn't wait for Belisarius' command. He ordered the Roman horse archers forward. The Huns galloped out onto the battleground, firing their own bows. Within moments, a swirling archery duel was underway.
Between Persian and Hun mounted archers, the contest was unequal. The Persians, as always, fired their bows as rapidly as did the Huns—much more rapidly than Roman cataphracts or regular infantry. But the Persians were better armored, and that extra armor counted for much against the relatively weak bows being used by both sides.
Soon enough, the Huns began falling back. The Persian horse archers did not attempt to charge in pursuit. They were no fools, and knew full well that Huns surpassed everyone in the art of turning a retreat into a sudden counterattack. So they simply satisfied themselves with a disciplined, orderly advance. Firing volley after volley as they came.
Pharas began to grumble, but Belisarius cut him off. Quickly. As he had expected, the chiliarch had already forgotten the battle plan.
"Splendid," announced Belisarius. "The Huns have already succeeded in fixing the entire left wing of the enemy."
"They're advancing on us!" exclaimed Pharas.
How did this idiot ever get made a chiliarch? I wouldn't trust him to bake bread. The first thing he'd do is throw away the recipe.
But his words were mild.
"Which is precisely what I want, Pharas. As long as the Persian left is advancing on our right, they aren't free to be doing something else. Such as chewing up our left, which is where the battle's going to be decided."
Belisarius ignored the fuming chiliarch and watched the battle develop on the other side of the field. The Isaurians and Thracian cataphracts on the hill were now starting to fire their bows at the Persian cavalry spreading into the center of the battleground. Within five minutes, it was obvious to Belisarius that his earlier estimate had been accurate.
It was the great advantage of cataphract archery, and one of the reasons Belisarius had stationed his Thracians atop the hill. With individual exceptions, such as Valentinian, they didn't have the rapid rate of fire that Persian or Hun horse archers did. But no archers in the world fired bows more accurately, and none with that awesome power. With the advantage of the hill's altitude, the cataphract arrows were plunging into the ranks of the Persian cavalry, wreaking havoc. Even the armor of Persian nobility couldn't withstand those arrows. And his cataphracts—especially the veterans—weren't aiming at the Persians anyway. Their targets were the horses themselves. The heavy frontal armor of the Persian chargers might have turned the arrows. But these missiles were plunging down into the great beasts' unarmored flanks. Dying and wounded horses began disrupting the serried ranks of the enemy's heavy cavalry.
Suddenly, Belisarius felt a breeze at his back. He almost sighed with relief. He had expected it, but still—
The wind, blowing from west to east, would increase the range of his own archery and artillery, and hamper the Persian arrows. Much more important, however, was the effect which the wind would have on visibility. The battlefield was already choked with dust thrown up by the horses. As soon as the breeze picked up, that dust would be moving from the Roman side to the Persian. The enemy would be half-blinded, even at close range.
"They're going to charge," predicted Eutychian, the other cavalry chiliarch. "Against us, on this wing."
"Thank God!" snorted Pharas. The chiliarch immediately rode off, shouting at his subordinate commanders.
Belisarius examined the battlefield and decided Eutychian was right.
Damn it! I was hoping—
He stared at Eutychian, estimating the man. His decision, as always, came quickly—aided, as much as anything, by the level gaze with which the chiliarch returned his stare.
"Can I trust you not to be an idiot like that one?" he demanded, pointing with his thumb at the retreating figure of Pharas.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning this—can I trust you to meet this charge with a simple stand? All I want is for the Persians to be held on this wing. That's all. Do you understand? They outnumber us, especially in heavy cavalry. If you try to win the battle here, with a glorious idiotic all-out charge, the Medes will cut you to pieces and I'll have a collapsed right wing. The battle will be won on the left. All I need is for you to hold the right steady. Can you do it? Will you do it?"
Eutychian glanced over at Pharas.
"Yes, Belisarius. But he's senior to me and—"
"You let me worry about Pharas. Will you hold this wing? Nothing more?"
Eutychian nodded. Belisarius rode over to the small knot of commanders clustered around Pharas. As he went, he gave Valentinian and Anastasius a meaningful look. Anastasius' face grew stony. Valentinian grinned. On his sharp-featured, narrow face, the grin was utterly feral.
As Belisarius drew near, he was able to make out Pharas' words of command to his subordinates. Just as he had feared, the chiliarch was organizing an all-out direct charge against the coming Medes.
Belisarius shouldered his horse into the group of commanders. In his peripheral vision, he could see Valentinian sidling his horse next to Pharas, and Anastasius moving around to the other side of the small command group.
Thank you, Maurice.
"That's enough, Pharas," he said. His tone was sharp and cold. "Our main charge is going to come later, on the other—"
"The hell with that!" roared Pharas. "I'm fighting now!"
"Our battle plan—"
"Fuck your fancy damned plan! It's pure bullshit! A fucking coward plan! I fight—"
"Valentinian."
In his entire life, Belisarius had never met a man who could wield a sword more quickly and expertly than Valentinian. Nor as mercilessly. The cataphract's long, lean, whipcord body twisted like a spring. His spatha removed Pharas' head as neatly as a butcher beheading a chicken.
As always, Valentinian's strike was economical. No great heroic hewing, just enough to do the job. Pharas' head didn't sail through the air. It just rolled off his neck and bounced on the ground next to his horse. A moment later, his headless body fell off on the other side. His horse, suddenly covered with blood, shied away.
The commanders gaped with shock. One of them began to draw his sword. Anastasius smashed his spine. No economy here—the giant's mace drove the commander right over his horse's head. His mount, well-trained, never budged.
Belisarius whipped out his own spatha. The four surviving commanders in the group were now completely hemmed in by Belisarius and his two cataphracts. They were still gaping, and their faces were pale.
"I'll tolerate no treason or insubordination," stated Belisarius. His voice was not loud. Simply as cold as a glacier. Icy death.
"Do you understand?"
Gapes. Pale faces.
"Do you understand?" Valentinian twitched the spatha in his grip, very slightly. Anastasius hefted his mace, not so slightly.
"Do you understand?"
Mouths snapped shut. Faces remained pale, but heads began to nod. After two seconds, vigorously.
Belisarius eased back in his saddle and slid his spatha back into its waist-scabbard. (Valentinian, of course, did no such thing. Nor did Anastasius seem in any hurry to relinquish his mace.)
Belisarius turned and looked at Eutychian. The chiliarch was not more than thirty yards away. He and his own subordinates had witnessed the entire scene. So, Belisarius estimated, had dozens of the Army of Lebanon's cavalrymen. The faces of Eutychian and his commanders were also pale. But, Belisarius noted, they did not seem particularly outraged. Rather the contrary, in fact.
He studied the cavalrymen. No pale faces there. A few frowns, perhaps, but there were at least as many smiles to offset them. Even a few outright grins. Pharas, he suspected, had not been a popular commander.
Belisarius returned his hard stare to Eutychian. The chiliarch suddenly smiled—just slightly—and nodded his own head.
Belisarius turned back to the four commanders at his side.
"You will obey me instantly and without question. Do you understand?"
Vigorous nods. Anastasius replaced his mace in its holder. Valentinian did no such thing with his spatha.
A sudden blaring of cornicens. Belisarius turned back again. He could no longer see the Persian army, for his vision was obscured by the mass of cavalrymen at the front line. But it was obvious the Medes had begun their charge. Eutychian and his commanders were riding down the line, shouting orders.
Now in a hurry, Belisarius issued quick, simple instructions to the four commanders at his side:
"Eutychian will hold the right, using half of the Army of Lebanon's heavy cavalry and all of the mounted archers. You four will assemble the other half of the Army of Lebanon's lancers and keep them in reserve. I want them ready to charge"—his voice turned to pure steel—"when I say, where I say, and how I say. Is that understood?"
Very vigorous nods.
Belisarius gestured to Anastasius and Valentinian.
"Until the battle is over, these men will act as my immediate executive officers. You will obey their orders as if they came from me. Is that understood?"
Very vigorous nods.
Belisarius began to introduce his two cataphracts by name, but decided otherwise. For his immediate purposes, they had already been properly introduced.
Death and Destruction, he thought, would do just fine.
After the four commanders left to begin sorting out and assembling their forces, Belisarius rode back to the front line. As he approached, the Hun light cavalry began pouring back from the battlefield. They were no match in a head-to-head battle with the oncoming Persian lancers, and they knew it.
That's one of the few good things about mercenaries, thought Belisarius. At least they aren't given to idiotic suicide charges.
For all their mercenary character, the Huns were good soldiers. Experienced veterans, too. Their retreat was not a rout, and as soon as they reached the relative safety of the Roman lines they began to regroup. They knew the Roman heavy cavalry would be sallying soon, and it would be their job to provide flanking cover against the Persian horse archers.
Belisarius was now right behind the front line of the Roman heavy horse. Between two cavalrymen, he watched the advancing Medes.
The Persian heavy cavalry had not yet started their galloping charge. They still had two hundred yards to cross before reaching the Roman lines. The Medes were veterans themselves, who knew the danger of exhausting their mounts in a battle—especially one fought in the heat of Syrian summer. Still, their thunderous advance was massively impressive. Two thousand heavy lancers, four lines deep, maintaining themselves in good order, flanked by three thousand horse archers maintaining their own excellent discipline.
Very impressive, but—
The Roman archers in the fortifications—Ghassanid mercenaries, these—were now aiming all their fire at the Mede cavalry attacking the right. They were ignoring, for the moment, the swarm of Persian horse archers in the center who were raining their own arrows on the encampment. Hermogenes, Belisarius noted, was keeping a cool head. Protected by the wall in front of them, his infantry would suffer few casualties from the Persian archers. Meanwhile, their arrows could hamper the advance of the Persian lancers.
Hermogenes had trained his men well, too. The Arab archers ignored the temptation to fire at the lancers themselves. The heavy Persian armor would deflect arrows from their light bows, especially at that range. Instead, the men were aiming at the unprotected legs of the horses. True, the range was long, but Belisarius saw more than a few Persian horses stumble and fall, spilling their riders.
From the hill, a flight of arrows sailed toward the Persian cavalry advancing on the Roman right. But the arrows fell short and the volley ceased almost immediately. Belisarius knew that Maurice had reined in the overenthusiastic cataphracts. The range—firing diagonally across the entire battlefield—was too extreme, even for their powerful bows firing with the wind. Instead, Maurice ordered his cataphracts and the Isaurians to concentrate their fire on the swarm of light horse archers in the center.
Belisarius was delighted. His army was functioning the way a good army should. The archers on the left were protecting the infantry in the center, while they harassed the Persians advancing on the right.
A volley of scorpion darts and onager stones sailed into the Persian heavy cavalry, tearing holes in the ranks. The cavalry began to spread, losing their compact formation.
Good, Phocas, good. But, with this wind, it should be possible—
Yes!
The next artillery volley fell right in the middle of the Persian command group at the rear of the battlefield. The Persian officers hadn't expected artillery fire, and their attention had been completely riveted on the battleground. The missiles arrived as a complete surprise. The carnage was horrendous. Those men or horses struck by huge onager stones were so much pulp, regardless of their heavy armor. Nor did that same armor protect the Persians from the spear-sized arrows cast by the scorpions. One of those officers, struck almost simultaneously by two scorpion bolts, was literally torn to pieces.
As always in battle, Belisarius' brown eyes were like stones. But his cold gaze ignored the artillery's victims. His attention was completely focused on the survivors.
Please, let Firuz still be alive. Oh, please, let that arrogant hot-tempered jackass still be alive.
Yes!
Firuz had obviously been driven into a rage. Belisarius could recognize the Persian commander's colorful cloak and plumage, personally leading the main body of his army in a charge at the center of the Roman lines. Three thousand heavy lancers, flanked by four thousand mounted archers, already at a full gallop.
It was a charge worthy of the idiot Pharas—the late, unlamented Pharas. The Mede lancers in the center had half a mile to cover before they reached the Roman fortifications. A half-mile in scorching heat, against wind-blown dust. It was absurd—and would have been, even if there weren't already three thousand Persian horse archers milling around in the center of the battlefield. The charging Persian lancers would be trampling over their own troops.
Midway through the charge, however, some sanity appeared to return to the Persians—to the horse archers already in the center, at least. Seeing the oncoming lancers, the mounted archers scurried out of their way. Their officers led them in a charge against the small Roman force on the hill.
Belisarius watched intently. He was confident that his cataphracts and the Isaurians could repel the attack, even outnumbered five to one. The Persians would be trying to climb steep slopes under plunging fire. And if matters got too tight, the two thousand cavalry from his own little army were stationed on the left wing, not far from the hill. But he didn't want to use those horsemen there, if he didn't absolutely need to. He wanted them fresh when—
Belisarius' view was suddenly obscured. Cornicens were blowing. The cavalrymen in front of him began firing their bows at the Persian lancers who were now less than a hundred yards away. A moment later, the cornicens blew again. The Roman cavalry charged to meet the oncoming lancers. They fired one last volley at the beginning of the charge and then slid the bows into their sheaths. It would be lance and sword work, now.
Belisarius glanced quickly toward the center. But it was impossible to see anything, anymore. The entire battlefield was now covered with dust, which the wind was blowing against the Persians. He could still see the hill, however, rising above the dust clouds. Within three or four seconds, simply from watching the unhurried and confident way in which his Thracian cataphracts and the Isaurians were firing their bows, Belisarius was certain that they would hold. Long enough, anyway.
It was time.
He looked back to the battle raging right before him. The Army of Lebanon's Huns were sweeping around the extreme right, trying to flank the Persian horse archers. But the Persians archers were veterans also, and were extending their own line to match the Huns. That part of the battle almost instantly became a chaotic swirl of horsemen exchanging bow-fire, often at point-blank range.
Dust everywhere, now. Beautiful, wonderful, obscuring dust. Blowing from the west over the Persians, blinding them to all Roman maneuvers.
The only part of the battle Belisarius could still see—other than the hilltop—was the collision between the Army of Lebanon's lancers and the lancers of the Persian left. Eutychian and his two thousand armored horsemen were smashing head to head with an equal number of Persian heavy cavalry. The noise of the battlefield—already immense—seemed to fill the entire universe. The clash of metal, the screams of men and horses filled the air.
It was a battle the Persians would win, eventually. Except for the very best cataphract units, no Roman heavy cavalry could defeat an equal number of Persian lancers. But, as he watched the vigor and courage of Eutychian's charge, Belisarius was more than satisfied. Eutychian would lose his part of the battle, but by the time he did, the Romans would have triumphed in the field as a whole.
More than that, Belisarius did not ask.
Hold the right, Eutychian. Just hold it.
He began to canter away.
And try to survive. I can use an officer like you. So can Rome.
As he rode, he passed orders through Valentinian and Anastasius. The four remaining commanders of the Army of Lebanon were quick to obey. Very quick. The two thousand lancers of that Army which Belisarius had kept in reserve—the same ones Pharas would have thrown away in a suicide charge—were now cantering across the battlefield in good order. South to north, behind the Roman lines, from the right wing to the left wing. They were completely invisible to the Persians, due to the wind-blown dust.
As they drew behind the fortified camp, Belisarius ordered a halt. He thought there was still time, and he wanted to make sure that the battle had become locked in the center.
While the Army of Lebanon's lancers allowed their horses to rest, therefore, Belisarius trotted up to the camp and passed into it through the west gate. He could begin to see now, even with the dust.
Just as he had planned (and hoped—not that he'd ever admit it to that morose old grouch Maurice) the main body of Persian lancers in the center had smashed into his trap. True, they had done so in a charge ordered by an idiot, but—that's the beauty of the first law of battles, after all. It cuts both ways.
Sitting on his horse not thirty yards from the fortified wall, Belisarius found it hard not to grin. He hadn't seen it, but he knew what had happened.
Imagine three thousand Persian lancers, thundering up to a wretched little earthen wall, guarded by not more than a thousand terrified, pathetic, wretched infantrymen. They sweep the enemy aside, right? Like an avalanche!
Well, not exactly. There are problems.
First, each cavalry mount has been hauling a man (a large man, more often than not) carrying fifty pounds of armor and twenty pounds of weapons—not to mention another hundred pounds of the horse's own armor. At a full gallop for half a mile, in the blistering heat of a Syrian summer.
So, the horses are winded, disgruntled, and thinking dark thoughts.
Two—all hearsay to the contrary—horses are not stupid. Quite a bit brighter than men, actually, when it comes to that kind of intelligence known popularly as "horse sense." So, when a horse sees looming before it:
a) a ditch
b) a wall
c) lots of men on the wall holding long objects with sharp points
The horse stops. Fuck the charge. If some stupid man wants to hurl himself against all that dangerous crap, let him. (Which, often enough, they do—sailing headlong over their horse's stubborn head.)
It was the great romantic fallacy of the cavalry charge, and Belisarius had been astonished—all his life—at how fervently men still held to it, despite all practical experience and evidence to the contrary. Yes, horses will charge—against infantry in the open, and against other cavalry. Against anything, as long as the horse can see that it stands a chance of getting through the obstacles ahead, reasonably intact.
But no horse this side of an equine insane asylum will charge a wall too high to leap over. Especially a wall covered with nasty sharp objects.
And there's no point trying to convince the horse that the infantry manning the wall are feeble and demoralized.
Is that so? Tell you what, asshole. Climb off my back and show me. Use your own legs. Mine hurt.
The horses would have drawn up short before the ditch and the wall even if the fortification had been, in truth, guarded by only a thousand demoralized infantrymen. In the event, however, just as the horses drew near, Hermogenes had given the order and the cornicens had blown a new tune. Oh, a gleeful tune.
Surprise!
The other three thousand infantry hiding behind the wall and in the ditches had scrambled to their feet and taken their positions. The wall was now packed with spears, in the hands of soldiers full of confidence and vigor.
The front line of horses had screeched to a halt. Many of their riders had been thrown off. Some had been killed by the fall itself. Most of the survivors were badly shaken and bruised.
The second line of horse had piled into the first, the third into the second, the fourth into the third. More men were thrown off their mounts. To the injuries caused by falling were added the gruesome wounds suffered by men trampled by horses. Within seconds, the entire charging mass of Persian lancers had turned into an immobile, struggling, completely disordered mob. And now, worst of all, the Roman infantry began hurling volleys of plumbata into the milling Persians. At that close range, against a packed mass of confused and disoriented cavalry, the lead-weighted darts were fearsome weapons. The more so since the soldiers casting the weapons were expert in their use.
The cornicens blew again. Thousands of Roman infantry began scrambling over the wall. Many of them were carrying spathae, but most were wielding the even shorter semi-spatha. Each of those men would plunge into the writhing mob of Persian cavalry and use the time-honored tactic of infantry against armored cavalry.
It was an ignoble tactic, perhaps, and it never worked against cavalry on the move. But against cavalry forced to a halt, it was as certain as the sunrise.
Hamstring and gut the horses. Then butcher the lordly nobles once they're on the ground like us lowlife. See how much good their fine heavy armor does 'em then. And their bows and their lances and their fancy longswords. This here's knife work, my lord.
Belisarius rode out of the camp. The battle was his, if he could only drive home the final thrust.
For all his eagerness to win, Belisarius was careful to keep his pace at an easy canter. There was time, there was time. Not much, but enough. He didn't want the horses blown.
Without even waiting for his orders, Valentinian and Anastasius reined in the overenthusiasts who began driving their horses faster. There was time. There was time. Not much, but enough.
As they passed the western slope of the hill, the two thousand cavalry of Belisarius' own army fell in with him. He now had a striking force of four thousand men, unblooded and confident, riding fresh horses.
Belisarius saw a small figure standing on the slope, watching the army pass. Menander, he thought, still at his unwanted post. Even from the distance, he thought he could detect the bitter reproach in the boy's posture.
Sorry, lad. But you'll get your share of bloodshed in the future. And for that I really am sorry.
Now his force was curving around the northern slope of the hill. They had passed entirely across the line and were on the verge of falling on the enemy's unprotected right flank.
They came around the hill with Belisarius in the lead. The center of the battlefield was still obscured by dust, but the Romans could now see the Persian horse archers who were trying to storm the hill. The slaughter here had been immense, and it was immediately obvious that the Persians were discouraged.
Discouragement soon became outright terror. The four thousand Roman lancers hammered their way through the mounted archers without even pausing. Moments later they were plunging into the dust cloud, aiming at the mass of Persian lancers stymied at the center.
Belisarius turned halfway in his saddle and signaled the buglers behind him. The cornicens began blowing the order for a full charge. Their sound was a thin, piercing wail over the thundering bedlam of the battlefield.
Yet, for all the noise, the general was able to hear Valentinian and Anastasius, riding just behind him.
Valentinian: "I told you so."
Anastasius: Inarticulate snort.
Valentinian: Mutter, mutter, mutter.
Belisarius: "What was that last? I didn't quite catch it."
Valentinian: Silence.
Anastasius: "I think he said `fuck brave officers.' "
Valentinian: Hiss.
Anastasius: "But maybe not. It's noisy. Maybe the cold-blooded little killer said, `Fuck brazen coffers.' Idiot thing to say on a battlefield, of course. But he's—"
All else was lost. The first Persian lancer loomed in the dust, his back turned away. Belisarius raised his lance high and drove it right through the Mede's heart. The enemy fell off his horse, taking the lance with him.
Another Mede, turned half away, to his right. Belisarius drew his long cavalry sword out of its baldric and hewed the man's arm off with the same motion. Another Mede, again from the back. The sword butchered into his neck, below the rim of the helmet. Another Mede—facing him, now. The sword hammered his shield down, hammered it aside, hammered his helmet sideways. The man was driven off his mount and fell, unconscious, to the ground. In that mad press of stamping horses, he would be dead within a minute, crushed to a bloody pulp.
The entire Roman cavalry piled into the Persians, caving in the right rear of their already disorganized formation. The initial slaughter was horrendous. The charge caught the Persians completely by surprise. Many of them, in the first few seconds, fell before blows which they never even saw.
To an extent, of course, Belisarius now found himself caught by the same dilemma that had faced the Medes. The thousands of Persian cavalrymen jammed against the Roman camp in the center of the battlefield were not quite a wall. But almost. Combat became a matter of men on skittering horses hammering at each other. Lances were useless, now. It was all sword, mace, and ax work. And utterly murderous.
Yet, for all the ensuing mayhem, the outcome was certain. The Medes were trapped between an equal number of Roman heavy cavalry and thousands of Roman infantrymen. Their greatest strength—that unequaled Persian skill at hard-hitting, fast-moving cavalry warfare—was completely neutralized. As cavalrymen, the average Roman was not their equal. But this was no longer a cavalry battle. It was a pure infantry battle, in which the majority of soldiers just happened to be sitting on horses.
As always under those circumstances, more and more of the men—on both sides—soon found themselves on the ground. Without momentum, it was almost impossible to swing heavy swords and axes for any length of time without falling off a horse. The only thing keeping a soldier on his horse were the pressure of his knees and—if possible, which it usually wasn't in a battle—a hand on the pommel of his saddle. Any well-delivered blow on his armor or shield would knock a man off. And any badly delivered blow of his own was likely to drag him off by the inertia of his missed swing.
Five minutes into the fray, almost half of the cavalrymen on both sides were dismounted.
"This is going to be as bad as Lake Ticinus," grunted Anastasius. He pounded a Persian to the ground with a mace blow. Nothing fancy; Anastasius needn't bother—the giant's mace slammed the man's own shield into his helmet hard enough to crack his skull.
Belisarius grimaced. The ancient battle of Lake Ticinus was a staple of Roman army lore. Fought during the Second Punic War, it had started as a pure cavalry battle and ended as a pure infantry fight. Every single man on both sides, according to legend, had fallen off his horse before the fray was finished.
Belisarius was actually surprised that he was still mounted himself. Partly, of course, that was due to his bodyguards. In his entire career, Anastasius had only fallen off his horse once during a battle. And that didn't really count—his horse had fallen first, slipping in a patch of snow on some unnamed little battlefield in Dacia. The man was so huge and powerful—with a horse to match—that he could swap blows with anyone without budging from his saddle.
Valentinian, on the other hand, had taken to the ground as soon as the battle had become a deadlocked slugging match. Valentinian was possibly even deadlier than Anastasius, but his lethality was the product of skill, dexterity, and speed. Those traits were almost nullified in this kind of fray, as long as he was trapped on a stationary horse.
Valentinian was a veteran, however. For all his grousing about foot-soldiering, the man had instantly slid from his horse and kept fighting afoot. The result had been a gory trail of hamstrung and gutted horses, their former riders lying nearby in their own blood.
With those two protecting him—and his own great skill as a fighter—Belisarius hadn't even been hurt.
Yet—it was odd. There was something else. Belisarius hadn't noticed, at first, until a slight pause in the action enabled him to think. But the fact was that he was fighting much too well.
"Deadly with a blade, is Belisarius." He'd heard it said, and knew it for a cold and simple truth. But he had never been as deadly as he was that day. The cause lay not in any added strength or stamina. It was—odd. He seemed to see everything with perfect clarity, even in the hazy dust. He seemed to be able to gauge every motion by an enemy perfectly—and gauge his own strikes with equal precision. Time after time, he had slipped a blow by the barest margin—yet knowing, all the while, that the margin was adequate. Time after time, he had landed a blow of his own through the narrowest gaps, the slimmest openings—yet knowing, at the instant, that the gaps were enough. Time after time, he had begun to slip from his horse, only to find his balance again with perfect ease.
Odd. The truth was that he was leaving his own trail of gore and blood. It was like a path through a forest beaten by an elephant.
Even his cataphracts noticed. And complained, in the case of one.
"We're supposed to be protecting you, General," hissed Valentinian. "Not the other way around."
"Quit bitching," growled Anastasius. Chunk. Another Mede down. "I'm a big target. I need all the protection I can get." Chunk.
Valentinian began to snarl something, but fell silent, listening intently.
"I think—"
"Yes," said Belisarius. He had heard it too. The first cry for quarter, coming from a Persian throat. The cry had been cut off.
The general ceased his mayhem. Turned to Anastasius.
"Get Maurice—and the others. Now. I don't want to end the battle with atrocities. We're trying to win this war, not start a new one."
"No need," grunted Anastasius. He extended his right hand, pointing with his blood-covered mace. Belisarius turned and saw his entire Thracian retinue charging toward them on horseback.
Within seconds, Maurice drew up alongside them.
"I don't want a massacre, Maurice!" shouted Belisarius. "I'll handle the situation here, but the Huns—"
Maurice interrupted.
"They're already making for the Persian camp. I'll try to stop them, but I'll need reinforcement as soon as you can get there."
Without another word, the hecatontarch spurred his horse into a gallop. Seconds later, the entire body of Thracian cataphracts were thundering to the east, in the direction of the Persian camp.
Cries for quarter were being heard now from all over the battlefield. Many of them cut off in mid-screech. All fight was gone from the Medes. The light cavalry were already fleeing the field. The Persian infantry had long since begun to run. The heavy cavalry, trapped in the center, were trying to surrender. Without much success. The Roman infantrymen were in full fury. They were wreaking their vengeance on those who had so often in the past brought terror into their own hearts.
Belisarius rode directly into the mass. When he wanted to use it, the general had a very loud and well-trained voice. Anastasius joined him with his own thundering basso. Yet, strangely enough, it was Valentinian's nasal tenor that pierced through the din like a sword.
A simple cry, designed to rein in the Roman murder:
"Ransom! Ransom! Ransom!"
The cry was immediately taken up by the Persians themselves. Within seconds, the slaughter stopped. Half-maddened the Roman infantry might have been. Poor, however, they most certainly were. And it suddenly dawned on them that they held in the palm of their mercy the lives of hundreds—thousands, maybe—of Persians. Noble Persians. Rich noble Persians.
Belisarius quickly found Hermogenes. The infantry chiliarch took responsibility for organizing the surrender. Then Belisarius went in search of Eutychian.
But Eutychian was not to be found. Nothing but his body, lying on the ground, an arrow through his throat.
Belisarius, staring down at the corpse, felt a great sadness wash over him. He had barely known the man. But he had looked forward to the pleasure.
He shook off the mood. Later. Not now.
He found the highest-ranked surviving cavalry commander of the Army of Lebanon. Mundus, his name. He had been one of Pharas' little coterie, and his face turned a bit pale when Belisarius rode up. When he spotted Valentinian and Anastasius he turned very pale.
"Round up your cavalry, Mundus," commanded Belisarius. "At least three ala. I need them to reinforce my cataphracts at the Persian camp. The Huns'll be on a rampage and I intend to put a stop to it."
Mundus winced. "It'll be hard," he muttered. "The men'll want their share of—"
"Forget the ransom!" thundered the general. "If they complain, tell them I've got plans for bigger booty. I'll explain later. But right now—move, damn you!"
Valentinian was already sidling his horse toward Mundus, but there was no need. The terrified officer instantly began screaming orders at his subordinates. They, in turn, began rounding up their soldiers.
The cavalrymen were upset, Belisarius knew, because the Roman infantry stood to gain the lion's share of the booty. By tradition, ransom was owed to the man who personally held a captive. It was a destructive tradition, in Belisarius' opinion, and one which he hoped to change eventually. But not today. For the first time in centuries, the Roman infantry had blazed its old glory, and Belisarius would not dampen their victory, or their profit from it.
At the Persian camp, they came upon a very tense scene. The camp itself was a shambles. Most of the tents lay on the ground like lumpy shrouds. Those tents still standing were ragged from sword-slashes. Wagons were upended or half-shattered. Some of the wreckage was the work of the Hun mercenaries, but much of it was due to the Persians themselves. Sensing the defeat, the Persian camp followers had hastily rummaged out their most precious possessions and taken flight.
But not all had left soon enough. Several dead Persians were lying about, riddled with arrows. All men. The Huns would have saved the women and children. The women would be raped. Afterwards, they and the children would be sold into slavery.
In the event, the mercenaries had barely begun enjoying their looting and their atrocities before the Thracians had arrived and put a stop to it. More or less.
Very tense. On one side, dismounted but armed, hundreds of Hun mercenaries. On the other, still mounted, armed—and with drawn bows—were three hundred bucellarii.
The Huns outnumbered the Thracians' cataphracts by a factor of three to one. So, the outcome of any fight was obvious to all. The mercenaries would be butchered to a man. But not before they inflicted heavy casualties on the Thracians.
The general cared nothing for the Huns. But it would be a stupid waste of his cataphracts.
Mundus pointed out to him the three leaders of the mercenaries. As usual with Huns, their rank derived from clan status, not Roman military protocol.
Belisarius rode over to them and dismounted. Valentinian and Anastasius stayed on their horses. Both men had their own bows drawn, with arrows notched.
The Hun clan leaders were glaring at him furiously. Off to one side, three young Hun warriors were screaming insults at the Thracians. One of them held a young Persian by her hair. The girl was half-naked, weeping, on her knees. Next to her, a still younger boy—her brother, thought Belisarius, from the resemblance—was sitting on the ground. He was obviously dazed and was holding his head in both hands. Blood seeped through his fingers.
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.