Belisarius II-Storm at Noontide

by Eric Flint

  "We would have brought him with us to meet you," added Bouzes, "but the commander of the Roman garrison in Callinicum wouldn't allow it."

  "The stupid jackass is buried up to his ass in regulations," snapped Coutzes. "Said it was forbidden to allow Persian military personnel beyond the trading emporium."

  Belisarius laughed. Romans and Persians had been trading for as long as they had been fighting each other. In truth, trade was the basic relationship. For all that the two empires had clashed many times on the field of battle, peace was the more common state of affairs. And, during wartime or peacetime, the trade never stopped. Year after year, decade after decade, century after century, caravans had been passing along that very road.

  But—empires being empires—the trade was heavily regulated. (Officially. The border populations, Roman and Persian alike, were the world's most notorious smugglers.) For decades, Callinicum had been established as the official entrepot for Persians seeking to trade with Rome—just as Nisibis was, on the other side of the border, for Romans desiring to enter Persia.

  "Leave it to a garrison commander," growled Maurice. "He does know we're at war with the Malwa, doesn't he? In alliance with Persia?"

  Bouzes nodded. Coutzes snarled:

  "He says that doesn't change regulations. Gave us quite a lecture, he did, on the unrelenting struggle against the mortal sin of smuggling."

  Now, Baresmanas laughed. "My nephew wouldn't know how to smuggle if his life depended on it! He's much too rich."

  Belisarius spurred his horse into motion. "Let's get to Callinicum. I'll have a word or two with this garrison commander."

  "Just one or two?" asked Coutzes. He seemed a bit aggrieved.

  Belisarius smiled. "Five, actually. You are relieved of command."

  "Oh."

  " 'Deadly with a blade, is Belisarius,' " murmured Maurice.

  They entered Callinicum two hours later, in mid-afternoon.

  The general's first order of business was to ensure that the last group of builders and artisans still with him were adequately housed. When he left Con-stantinople, Belisarius had brought no less than eight hundred such men with his army. Small groups of them had been dropped off, at appropriate intervals, to begin the construction of the semaphore stations which would soon become the Roman Empire's new communication network. Callinicum would be the final leg of the Constantinople-Mesopotamia branch of that web.

  That business done, Belisarius went off to speak his five words to the garrison commander.

  Five words, in the event, grew into several hundred. The garrison commander's replacement had to be relieved, himself. After the general took a few dozen words to inform the new commander that Belisarius would be taking half the town's garrison with him into Mesopotamia, the man sputtered at length on the imperative demands of the war against illicit trade.

  Belisarius spoke five more words.

  His replacement, in turn, had to be relieved. After Belisarius used perhaps two hundred words, more or less thinking aloud, to reach the decision that it made more sense to take the entire garrison except for a token force, the third commander in as many hours shrieked on the danger of brigand raids.

  Belisarius spoke five more words.

  In the end, command of the Roman forces in Callinicum fell on the shoulders of a grizzled, gap-toothed hecatontarch.

  "Hundred men'll be dandy," that worthy informed the general. "Just enough to keep reasonable order in the town. Nothing else for them to do. Callinicum's a fortress, for the sake of Christ—the walls are forty feet high and as wide to match. The sorry-ass brigands in these parts'd die of nosebleed if they climbed that high."

  Cheerfully: "As for smuggling, fuck it. You couldn't stop it with the whole Roman army. Soon as the sun goes down, you throw a rock off these walls in any direction you'll bounce it off three smugglers before it hits the ground. At least one of them'll be a relative of mine."

  Very cheerfully: "Any given Tuesday, prob'ly be my wife."

  At sunset, Belisarius led his army out of Callinicum toward the military camp a few miles away where the forces from the Army of Syria were awaiting them. The freshly-conscripted soldiers from the town's garrison—seven hundred very unhappy infantrymen—were marched out between units of the general's bucellarii. The Thracians encouraged the new recruits with tales of glory in the past, booty in the future, and drawn bows in the present. Cataphract bows, with hundred-pound pulls and arrowheads you could shave with.

  Baresmanas, riding at the head of the column, was out of earshot of the Callinicum garrison. But he had no difficulty imagining their muttered conversation.

  Crazy fucking Thracian.

  How did this lunatic ever get to be a general, anyway?

  Chapter 8

  Kurush's pavilion was far smaller than the gigantic construct which the Emperor of Malwa had erected at the siege of Ranapur. But, thought Belisarius, it was possibly even more richly adorned and accoutered. And with much better taste.

  As he reclined on a pile of plump, silk-covered cushions placed at one end of a low table, Kurush himself placed a goblet of wine before him. Belisarius eyed the thing uneasily. It was not the wine which caused that trepidation. The general had no doubt that it was the finest vintage produced by Persia. No, it was the goblet itself. The drinking vessel was easily the most elaborate and expensive such object Belisarius had ever seen. For all the goblet's massive size, the design was thin and delicate, especially the flower-shaped stem—and, worst of all, made entirely of glass. Embedded throughout the bowl was gold leaf, highlighting the intricate facets cut in the form of overlapping, slightly concave disks. The finishing touch was the four medal-lions inset around the side of the bowl, standing out in high relief. About an inch in diameter, each carried a marvelous etching of a winged horse.

  Gold medallions, naturally. Except for the silver wings, and the tiny little garnet eyes.

  Belisarius glanced around the table. Bouzes, Coutzes and Maurice were all staring at their own identical goblets. The brothers with astonishment, Maurice with deep gloom.

  "Afraid to touch the damned thing," he heard Maurice mutter.

  Fortunately, Baresmanas intervened.

  "Have no fear, comrades," he said, smiling. "My nephew has two chests full of these things."

  He gestured gaily. "Besides, even if you should happen to drop one, it would hardly break on this floor."

  The four Romans eyed the carpet. In truth, the pile was so thick that the cushions on which they sat were entirely redundant.

  Kurush, taking his place at the other end of the table from Belisarius, frowned. Not with irritation, but simply from puzzlement. "Is there a problem?" he asked. His Greek, like that of most Persian noblemen, was accented but fluent.

  Baresmanas chuckled. "Not everyone, nephew, is accustomed to drinking wine out of a king's ransom."

  The young Persian stared at the goblet in his hand. "This thing?" He looked up at his uncle. "It is valuable?"

  All four of the Romans joined Baresmanas in the ensuing laughter. Their reaction was not diplomatic, perhaps, but they found it impossible to resist.

  Fortunately, Kurush proved to be the affable type. He seemed to possess little of the prickly hauteur of most Persian noblemen. After a moment, he even joined in the laughter himself.

  "I'm afraid I don't pay any attention to these matters," he confessed. Shrugging: "My retainers take care of that." He made a sweeping gesture. "But—please, please! Drink up! You must all be dying of thirst, after that miserable desert."

  Kurush's words swept hesitation aside. All four Romans drank deeply from their goblets. And found, not to their surprise, that the vintage was marvelous.

  Belisarius took advantage of the distraction to give Kurush a careful study. He had already learned, from Baresmanas, that Kurush had been charged by Emperor Khusrau to be the Persians' principal military liaison with Belisarius and his Roman forces.

  The nobleman was in his mid-twenties, he estimated. The
young officer was tall and slender, with a narrow face and rather delicate features.

  At first glance, he reminded Belisarius of certain hyper-cultured Athenian aesthetes whom the general had occasionally encountered. The sort of soulful young men who could not complete a sentence without two or three allusions to the classics, and whose view of the world was, to put it mildly, impractical.

  The likeness was emphasized by the way in which Kurush wore his clothing. The garments themselves were expensive and well-made. (As were those of Athenian aesthetes—all of whom were aristocrats, not shepherds.) But they seemed to have been tossed on with little care for precision of fit and none at all for color coordination.

  Closer examination, however, undermined the initial impression. Kurush's hands, though slim-fingered, were strong-looking. And Belisarius did not miss the significance of the worn indentation on Kurush's right thumb. Unlike Romans, who favored the three-fingered draw, Persians drew their bows with thumb-rings.

  Then, there was the way he moved. Kurush's stride, his gestures—even his facial expressions—all had a nervous quickness about them. Almost eager, like a spirited thoroughbred before a race. They bore no resemblance whatever to the affected languor of aesthetes.

  Finally, there were the eyes. Like most Medes—and most Athenian aesthetes, for that matter—Kurush's eyes were brown. But there was nothing vague and unfocussed in their gaze. Despite his youth, the Persian was already beginning to develop faint wrinkles around the sockets. Those wrinkles did not come from studying poetry in Athens by candlelight. They came from studying terrain under the scorching desert sun.

  Kurush's first words, after setting down his goblet, were to Maurice. "I understand that you were in command of the Roman forces on the hill, at Mindouos."

  Maurice nodded. Kurush shook his head.

  "You must have laughed at us, trying to drive our horses up that demon-created slope."

  Maurice hesitated, gauging the Persian. Then, with a little shrug:

  "You'd have done better to dismount."

  Kurush smiled. Quite cheerfully. "So I discovered! My horse was shot out from under me right at the start. I cursed my bad luck, at the time. But I think it was all that saved my life. On foot, I could duck behind boulders. Not even your arrows could penetrate rock!"

  Again, he shook his head. "I'd been warned—" He nodded toward Baresmanas. "—by my uncle, in fact, that no one in the world uses more powerful bows than Roman cataphracts. I didn't shrug off his warning—not that voice of experience—but I still hadn't expected to see an arrow drive right through my mount's armor."

  Then, with a frown:

  "You've got a very slow rate of fire, though. Do you really think the trade-off is worth it?"

  Belisarius had to fight down a laugh. The young Persian's frown was not hostile. Not in the least. For all the world, it reminded the general of nothing so much as a young aesthete's frown, contemplating the relative merits of two styles of lyric poetry.

  Maurice shrugged. "I don't think the question can be answered in purely military terms. There's the matter of national temperament, too. You Persians have a flair for mounted archery that I don't think Romans could ever match. So why make the attempt? Better to concentrate on what we do well, rather than become second-rate Persian imitations."

  Kurush nodded. "Well said." The young officer sighed. "It's probably all a moot point, anyway. These infernal new Malwa devices have changed everything."

  "Have you seen them in action?" asked Belisarius.

  Kurush winced. "Oh, yes. Three times, in fact. I've been at all the pitched battles we fought against the invaders on the open field, until we finally decided to withdraw and take a defensive stance at Babylon."

  "Describe the invasion for me, if you would," requested Belisarius. He gestured politely toward Baresmanas. "Your uncle has given me an excellent overall picture, but he was not a direct eyewitness. I would appreciate more detail."

  "Certainly." Kurush drained his goblet and reached for one of the small amphorae on the table. He began speaking while in the process of pouring himself more wine.

  "There were hundreds of ships in the Malwa invasion fleet. Gigantic vessels, many of them. I'm no seaman, but those of my staff with maritime experience tell me that their big sailing ships have a carrying capacity of at least a thousand tons."

  "More like two thousand," interjected Belisarius, "if they're the same ships I saw being built at Bharakuccha."

  Kurush eyed him with respectful surprise. "I did not realize you had experience with naval matters."

  Belisarius chuckled. "I don't. Or very little, at least. But one of my companions in Bharakuccha was Garmat, the chief adviser for the King of Axum. That was his estimate, after seeing the ships. I think that estimate can be trusted. In my experience, all high-ranking Ethiopians are most definitely naval experts."

  "That's my experience as well," commented Baresmanas. He grimaced. "Two thousand tons. I don't think any Persian ship has that big a carrying capacity."

  "Nor any of ours," added Bouzes. "Except for a handful of the grain ships which sail out of Egypt."

  Belasarius nodded toward Kurush. "Please continue."

  "The fleet arrived with no warning—well—" He scowled. "No warning which was heeded. A few merchants gave the alarm, but they were ignored by the imperial authorities." The scowl deepened. "Arrogant bastards."

  Belisarius was amused to see the stiff, diplomatically expressionless faces of Bouzes, Coutzes, and Maurice. It was the commonly held opinion of most Romans that all Persian officials were "arrogant bastards." Belisarius did not share that opinion—Baresmanas and Kurush were not the first Persian nobles he had found likeable, even charming—but there was no denying that the charge had some basis in fact. Roman officials also, of course, could often be accused of "arrogant bastardom." But there was nothing in the world quite like a Persian aristocrat—especially one who also occupied a post in the imperial hierarchy—when it came to sheer, unadulterated, icy haughtiness. Compared to such, Rajput nobility could almost be described as casual and warm-hearted. Even the Malwa dynastic clan, for all their unparalleled brutality and megalomania, did not—quite—exhibit that sense of unthinking superiority over all other men.

  Apparently, Roman tact was insufficient. Either that, or Kurush was more perceptive than Belisarius had realized. The young Persian glanced around the table at the distant, polite expressions of the Romans. Then, with a little smile, added, "But perhaps no more so than others of their ilk."

  He quaffed some wine. Then continued:

  "The fleet entered the confluence of the Tigris-Euphrates Rivers and landed a huge army. The ships carried horses and even a score of elephants, in addition to their terrible new weapons. Within two days, they overwhelmed the garrison at Charax."

  The scowl returned in full force. "The murderous swine massacred the garrison and enslaved the entire population. The womenfolk were treated horridly, especially by those stinking Ye-tai barbarians whom the Malwa seem to dote on. The nobility were singled out for particular persecution. The Malwa were not in the least interested in obtaining ransom. Instead, they slaughtered all the male azadan—even babies—and all noblewomen except those who were young and pretty. Such girls were taken by the Malwa officers as concubines."

  He ran his long fingers through his thick hair. The scowl faded a bit, pushed aside by an expression of scholarly thoughtfulness. "In all the centuries that we Persians and you Romans have fought each other, there have been many atrocities committed." He waved his hand. "By both sides, by both sides. Still—I cannot think of a single instance of such gross and unvarnished cruelty. Not one."

  "There is no such instance," stated Baresmanas firmly. "Nothing on such a scale, at least. And let us also note that, for all the savageries which both our people have been guilty of in our dealings with each other, there have also been many—many—instances of generosity and chivalry."

  He bestowed an appreciative look on Belisarius. "Y
our mercy at Mindouos being one of the most outstanding examples."

  "Well said!" exclaimed his nephew. Kurush drained his wine. When he set the goblet back on the table, his expression combined good cheer and ruefulness.

  "I know," he chuckled. "For a time, there, I was quite certain my throat was going to be slit." He shuddered, slightly. "Three of your damned Isaurians had me down—talk about mean, tough bastards!—grinning like wolves. They sounded like wolves, too, quarreling over which one was going to get the first bite."

  He grinned at Maurice. "Then one of you Thracian lads rode up and reasoned with them. Partly with a drawn bow, and partly with talk of my money."

  Maurice grinned back. "And how much was your ransom?"

  Kurush snorted. "Enough to set those three Isaurians up for life! Would you believe, the damned barbarians demanded—"

  He broke off. "But I'm straying. That was three years ago. The Malwa are here today—and, as my learned uncle so cogently remarks, I think we will see no such instances of mercy and forbearance coming from the Malwa."

  "It is not their method," agreed Belisarius. "The Malwa aristocracy is already rich. They are not even slightly interested in ransom. And the troops, who might be, are completely subjugated to their rule."

  He drained his own cup. "The Malwa seek to conquer the world. Nothing less. And they intend to rule it with a hand of iron. Charax was only the first atrocity of the many they will commit in Persia—and Rome, later, if Persia falls. But it was by no means their first. By no means." The gen-eral's face grew bleak. "I was at Ranapur, when the Malwa broke the rebellion. Two hundred thousand people were still alive in that great city, when the Malwa finally breached the walls. Five days later, after unspeakable atrocities, there were not more than fifty survivors. A few young noblewomen tough enough to survive their ordeal, and then sold into slavery."

  For a moment, the pavilion was filled with a grim silence. Then Maurice muttered:

  "Continue, please."

  Kurush shook off the mood. "After the Malwa finished their conquest of Charax, the bulk of their army proceeded upriver, accompanied by over a hundred of their smaller ships. The remainder of the fleet waited in Charax, while the Malwa began expanding and strengthening the port. We assume that those ships will return to India for further provisions, once the monsoon changes." He glanced toward the entrance of the pavilion, as if to gauge the season. "We're in the beginning of June, now. Within a month, the winds will be right for them."