Belisarius II-Storm at Noontide

by Eric Flint

  We are having what we call a "mutiny," Aide. Or a "rebellion."

  From long experience, Belisarius had learned how to project his own visions into the consciousness of Aide. He had found that such visions often served as a better means of communication than words.

  He did so now, summoning up images of various mutinies and rebellions of the past, culminating with the revolt of Spartacus and its gruesome finale.

  He could sense the facets flashing around the visions, trying to absorb their essence.

  While they did so, and Aide ruminated, Belisarius and his bodyguards reached the center of the camp. At least four hundred soldiers from the Constantinople garrison were clustered there, most of them in small groups centered around the older soldiers.

  Belisarius was not surprised. The men, he gauged, were leaning heavily on the judgements and opinions of their squad leaders and immediate superiors. This was an army led by pentarchs, decarchs, and hecatontarchs, now, not officers.

  Good. I can deal with those veterans. They'll be sullen and angry, but they'll also be thinking about their pensions. Unlike the officers, they don't have rich estates to retire to.

  Silence fell over the mob. Belisarius slowly rode his horse into the very center of the crowd. After drawing up his mount, he scanned the soldiers staring up at him with a long, calm gaze.

  A thought came from Aide.

  This is stupid. Your plan is ridiculous.

  The facets had reached their conclusion, firmly and surely, from their assessment of the general's vision. Especially the last vision, the suppression of the Spartacus rebellion.

  Preposterous. Absurd. Irrational. You cannot possibly crucify all these men. There is not that much wood in the area.

  Belisarius struggled mightily with sudden laughter. He managed, barely, to transform the hilarity into good cheer.

  So it was, to their astonishment, that the mutinous soldiers of the Constantinople garrison witnessed their commanding general, whom they assumed had come to thunder threats and condemnation, bestow upon them a smile of sheer goodwill.

  They barely noticed the savage snarls on the faces of his two companions. Only two or three even took umbrage at Valentinian's loud expectoration.

  An officer scurried forward, after pushing his way through the first line of the crowd standing around the general. Four other officers followed.

  Belisarius recognized them immediately. The officer in front was Sunicas, the chiliarch who commanded the Constantinople troops. The men following him were the tribunes who served as his chief subordinates. He knew only one of them by name—Boraides.

  When the five men drew up alongside his horse, Belisarius simply looked down upon them, cocking an eyebrow, but saying nothing.

  "We have a problem here, general," stated Sunicas. "As you can see, the men—"

  "We certainly do!" boomed Belisarius. His voice was startlingly loud, enough so that an instant silence fell over the entire mob of soldiers. The general was so soft-spoken, as a rule, that men tended to forget that his powerful baritone had been trained to pierce the din of battles.

  Belisarius, again, scanned the immediate circle of soldiers. This time, however, there was nothing benign in that gaze. His scrutiny was intent and purposeful.

  He pointed to one of the soldiers in the inner ring. A hecantontarch, young for his rank. The man was bigger than average, and very burly. He was also quite a handsome man, in a large-nosed and strong-featured way. But beneath the outward appearance of a muscular bruiser, Belisarius did not miss the intelligence in the man's brown eyes. Nor the steadiness of his gaze. "What is your name?" he asked.

  "Agathius." The hecatontarch's expression was grim and tightly-held, and his answer had been given in a curt growl which bordered on disrespect. But the general was much more impressed by the man's instant willingness to identify himself.

  Belisarius waved his hand in a casual little gesture which encompassed the entire encampment. "You are in command of these men." The statement was firm, but matter-of-fact. Much like a man might announce that the sun rises in the east.

  Agathius frowned.

  "You are in command of these men," repeated Belisarius. "Now. Today."

  Agathius' frown deepened. For a moment, he began to look toward the men at his side. But then—to Belisarius' delight—he squared his broad shoulders and lifted his head. The frown vanished, replaced by a look of stony determination. "You may say so, yes."

  "What do you say?" came the general's immediate response.

  Agathius hesitated, for the briefest instant. Then, shrugging: "Yes."

  Belisarius waited, staring at him. After a moment, grudgingly, Agathius added: "General. Sir."

  Belisarius waited, staring at him. Agathius stared back. A little look of surprise flitted across his face, then. The young hecatontarch blew out his cheeks and stood very erect. "I am in command here, sir. Today. Now."

  Belisarius nodded. "Tomorrow, also," he said. Very pleasantly, as if announcing good weather. "And, I hope, for many days to come."

  From the corner of his eye, Belisarius caught a glimpse of Anastasius' bug-eyed glare of disapproval. He heard Valentinian mutter something. The words were too soft to understand, but the sullen tone was not.

  The general shifted his gaze to the chiliarch and the tribunes standing by his stirrup. The calm, mild expression on his face vanished—replaced by pitiless condemnation.

  "You are relieved of command, Sunicas. Your tribunes also. I want you on the road to Constantinople within the hour. You may take your personal gear with you. And your servants, of course. Nothing else."

  Sunicas goggled. The tribune Boraides exclaimed: "You can't do that! On what grounds?"

  Belisarius heard Valentinian immediately growl: "Quite right!" Then: loud muttering, in which the words "outrageous" and "unjust" figured prominently. Anastasius, for his part, simply glowered at the newly-promoted mutineer Agathius. But, oh, such a wondrous glower it was! Worthy of a Titan!

  The hecatontarch's returning glare was a more modest affair. Merely Herculean. The sub-officers of the Constantinople troops in the circle began closing ranks with Agathius. In seconds, three other hecatontarchs and perhaps a dozen decarchs were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, matching hard stares with the Thracian cataphracts.

  Belisarius immediately sided with the Greek soldiers.

  Twisting sharply in his saddle, he bestowed his own very respectable glower on Valentinian and Anastasius.

  "I'll stand for no insubordination!" he snapped. "Do you understand?" He almost added "from knaves and varlets," but decided that would be a bit overmuch.

  Valentinian and Anastasius lowered their heads submissively. But not too submissively, Belisarius was pleased to see. Their stance exuded that of the chastened but still stubborn underlings, resentful of their commander's grotesque violation of military norms and protocol.

  Belisarius whipped his harsh gaze back to Boraides.

  "On what grounds?" he demanded. "On what grounds?"

  The general's own glower now ascended into the mythic heights. Worthy of Theseus, perhaps, confronting the minotaur. "On the grounds of gross incompetence!" he roared.

  Again, he swept his hand in a circle. The gesture, this time, was neither little nor casual. He stood erect in his stirrups, moving his arm as if to command the tides. "The first duty of any commander is to command," he bellowed. "You have obviously failed in that duty. These men are not under your command. You have admitted as much yourself." He sat back in the saddle. "Therefore I have replaced you with a man who is capable of command." He pointed to Agathius. "Him. He is the new chiliarch of this unit."

  Now looking at Agathius, Belisarius gestured toward Sunicas and the tribunes. "See to it, Agathius. I want these—these fellows—on the road. Within the hour."

  Agathius stared at the general. Belisarius met his gaze with calm assurance. After a few seconds, the new chiliarch cocked his head toward one of the men standing next to him, without taking h
is eyes from Belisarius, and murmured:

  "Take care of it, Cyril. You heard the general. Within the hour."

  Cyril, a scarred veteran perhaps ten years older than Agathius, gave his newly-promoted superior a sly little grin. "As you wish, sir!" he boomed.

  Cyril strode toward Sunicas and the tribunes. His grin widened, widened. Became rather evil, in fact. "You've got your orders. Move."

  The former commanding officers ogled him. Cyril made a little gesture. Four decarchs closed ranks with him, fingering their swords.

  Anastasius' eyes bugged out. His expression verged on apoplexy.

  Valentinian muttered. The words "outrageous" and "unjust" were, again, distinct. Belisarius thought he also heard the phrase "oh, heavens, what shall we do?" But, maybe not.

  He glared at Anastasius and Valentinian. The cataphracts avoided his gaze, but, still, held their stubborn pose. Several more sub-officers from the garrison troops sidled forward. Two of them went to assist Cyril and his decarchs—who were now, almost physically, driving the former commanders off—but most of them edged toward Belisarius. Prepared, it was clear, to defend the general against his own bodyguards. If necessary.

  "Well, that's that," announced Belisarius.

  He began climbing down from his horse. A pentarch hastened forward to assist him.

  Once on the ground, Belisarius strode over to Agathius and said: "It's a miserably hot day. Would you have some wine, by any chance?"

  This time, Agathius did not hesitate for more than a second. "Yes, sir. We do. May we offer you some?"

  "I would be delighted. And let us take the opportunity to become acquainted. I should like to be introduced to your subordinates, also. You'll need to appoint new tribunes, of course." He shrugged. "I leave it to your judgement to select them. You know your men better than I do."

  Agathius eyed him wonderingly, but said nothing. He led the way to a canvas shelter nearby. Most of the sub-officers in the circle followed, in a little mob. Only a handful remained behind, faithfully at their new post, keeping a vigilant eye on the general's sullen and untrustworthy bodyguards.

  Within seconds, amphorae began appearing and wine was poured. Within two minutes, Belisarius was squatting in the shelter of the canopy, with no fewer than three dozen of the Constantinople troopers' chief sub-officers forming an audience. The men were very tightly packed, trying to crowd their way into the shade.

  For all the world, the impromptu gathering had the flavor of a mid-afternoon chat.

  "All right," said Belisarius pleasantly, after finishing his cup. "I'll tell you what I want. Then you'll tell me what you want. Then we'll see if we can reach a settlement."

  He scanned the small crowd briefly, before settling his gaze on Agathius.

  "I want an end to the slackness of your marching order. The men can grouse and grumble all they want, but I want them to do it in formation. Some reasonable approximation of it, at least." He held out his cup. A decarch refilled it.

  "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 cocksure capital city attitude 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 damned 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 fucking noble 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. "God, 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 gratitude 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 damn 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 draine
d 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 bums 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 noble 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 damned 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 fecklessness and cowardice, in tones of scorn and derision.

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