Belisarius II-Storm at Noontide

by Eric Flint

  "And your soldiers?"

  "I can't promise you that all of them will act responsibly, Baresmanas. I do not share the commonly-held opinion that soldiers have the morals of street cats, mind you. But I'm hardly about to hold them up as models of rectitude, either. Many of my troops won't care in the slightest what bastards they leave behind them—even leaving aside the ones who like to boast about it. But I will spread the word. If my commanders support me—which they will—"

  He paused for an instant, savoring the words.

  Which they will. Oh, yes, I have my army now.

  "—then the soldiers will begin to develop their own customs. Armies tend to be conservative. If taking a Persian wife while on campaign in Mesopotamia—a wife of convenience, perhaps, but a wife nonetheless—becomes ingrained in their habits, they'll frown on their less reputable comrades. Bad thing, being frowned on by your mates."

  He gave Baresmanas his own skeptical eye.

  "You understand, of course, that many of those soldiers will already have a wife back home. And that any Persian wife will not be recognized under Roman law?"

  Baresmanas laughed. "Please, Belisarius!" He waved his hand in a grand gesture of dismissal. "What do we pure-blood Aryans care about the superstitious rituals of foreign barbarians, practiced in their far-off and distant lands?"

  A thought came from Aide.

  "Thou hast committed fornication!"

  "But that was in another country, and besides, the wench is not patixsayih."

  It's from a future poet. A bit hesitantly: It's appropriate, though, isn't it?

  Belisarius was astonished. He had never seen Aide exhibit such a subtle grasp of the intricacies of human relationships.

  The "jewel" exuded quiet pride. Belisarius began to send a congratulatory thought, when his attention was drawn away by Baresmanas' next words:

  "What are you reading?"

  Belisarius glanced down at the book in his lap. For a moment he was confused, caught between his interrupted dialogue with Aide and Baresmanas' idle query. But his attention, almost immediately, focussed on the question. To Baresmanas, the matter had been simply one of polite curiosity. To Belisarius, it was not.

  "As a matter of fact, I was meaning to speak to you about it." He held up the volume. "It's by a Roman historian named Ammianus Marcellinus. This volume contains books XX through XXV of his Rerum Gestarum."

  "I am not familiar with the man. One of the ancients? A contemporary of Livy or Polybius?"

  Belisarius shook his head. "Much more recent than that. Ammianus was a soldier, actually. He accompanied Emperor Julian on his expedition into Persia, two centuries ago." He tapped the book on his lap. "This volume contains his memoirs of the episode."

  "Ah." The sahrdaran's face exhibited an odd combination of emotions—shame, satisfaction.

  "The thing began badly for us, true," he murmured. "Most of the towns we just marched through—Anatha, for instance—were destroyed by Julian. So was Peroz-Shapur, now that I think about it. Burnt to a shell. In the end, however—"

  Satisfaction reigned supreme. Belisarius chuckled.

  "In the end, that damned fool Julian burned his boats in one of those histrionic gestures you'll never see me doing."

  He snorted. A professional deriding the flamboyant excesses of an—admittedly talented—amateur.

  "The man won practically every battle he fought, and every siege he undertook. And then—God save us from theatrical commanders!—stranded his army without a supply line. Marched them to surrender from starvation, after losing his own life."

  He shook his head. "Talk about snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. Yes, it ended well for you Persians. You got Nisibis and five other provinces in ransom, for allowing the Romans to march out of Mesopotamia."

  The satisfaction on Baresmanas' face ebbed.

  "Not so well as all that, my friend. The towns were still destroyed, and the countryside ravaged." He rubbed his scarred shoulder, pensively. "In the end, it was just another of the endless wars which Aryans and Greeks seem obsessed with fighting. How many times has Nisibis changed hands, over the centuries? You have sacked Ctesiphon, and we, Antioch. Is either Empire the better for it?"

  Belisarius shook his head. "No, Baresmanas. I, for one, would like to see an end to the thing." A crooked smile. "Mind you, I suppose I could be accused of unworthy motives. Ending a millennium-long conflict with a victory at Mindouos, I mean."

  Still rubbing his shoulder, Baresmanas smiled.

  "I will allow you that personal triumph, Belisarius. Quite cheerfully. I hope never to meet Romans on a field of battle again."

  Belisarius laughed. "I, too! You Persians are just too damned tough."

  He eyed the sahrdaran slyly. "That was Justinian's main argument for accepting your proposals, you know. He said that making a hundred years' peace would cement the Roman army's allegiance to the dynasty. Anything to avoid another clash with those damned Persian dehgans!"

  Baresmanas, for all his scholarly nature, was too much of a dehgan himself not to be pleased. But he did not linger over the gratification. He pointed at the book.

  "Why are you reading it, then?"

  Belisarius scratched his chin.

  "I brought it with me—borrowed it from a bibliophile friend named Irene—just on speculation. I thought it might contain some useful material. As it happens, I think it does. Quite useful, in fact."

  He gave Baresmanas an amused look.

  "Have you had enough rest and relaxation in Peroz-Shapur? Does the thought of two days' travel in the countryside appeal to you? It'll be scorching hot, of course. On the other hand, there will be certain subtle pleasures. You know, things like quiet, solitude, serenity—"

  "Enough!" laughed Baresmanas. "Anything to get away from this insane revelry! The bleakest desert in the world sounds like paradise to me, at the moment."

  "It won't be all that bad, actually. I just want to retrace our route. Go back up the river to the old canal we passed by on our way here."

  Baresmanas frowned. "The Nehar Malka? The Royal Canal?"

  Belisarius nodded. The sahrdaran's puzzlement deepened.

  "Whatever for? That canal's as dry as a bone. It hasn't been used since—" He stopped. Belisarius completed the thought:

  "Since you Persians blocked it off, two centuries ago. After the Roman Emperor Julian used it to float his ships from the Euphrates to the Tigris, in order to besiege Ctesiphon."

  Baresmanas blew out his cheeks. "Yes, yes. That little episode—not so little, actually. Julian failed to take Ctesiphon, but it was a close thing. Anyway, after that we decided the irrigation and trading value of the canal was not worth the risk of providing Romans with a perfect logistics route to attack our capital."

  He cocked his head quizzically. "But still—I ask again? Why are you interested in a canal which is empty of water?"

  "That's precisely the reason I am interested in it, Baresmanas."

  He held up his hand, forestalling further questions.

  "Please! At the moment, I am simply engaged in idle speculation brought on by reading an old book. Before I say anything else, I need to look at the thing. I was not able to examine it closely on our way into Peroz-Shapur."

  Baresmanas rose. "As you will. When do you wish to depart?"

  "Tomorrow morning, as early as possible." A little frown appeared on his brow. "I hate to drag any of my troops away from their celebration, but we'll need an escort. Some of my bucellarii will just have to—"

  "No, Belisarius! Leave the lads to their pleasures. My household troops have been awaiting me here for almost a month. We can take our escort from among their ranks. I insist!"

  * * *

  To Belisarius' surprise, the expedition which set out the next morning turned out to be quite a major affair. A full two thousand of Baresmanas' household troops showed up outside his tent, at the crack of dawn. Even if he hadn't already been awake, the sound of those horses would have tumbled him from h
is pallet. Half-expecting a surprise cavalry raid, the general emerged from his tent with sword in hand.

  After dismounting, Baresmanas grinned at the Roman general's wide-eyed stare.

  "It seems I am not the only one who seeks a bit of peace and quiet," he remarked. "Almost all of my household troops clamored to join the expedition, once the word got out. But I didn't think we needed six thousand men."

  "Six thousand?" asked Belisarius.

  The sahrdaran's cheerful grin widened.

  "Amazing, isn't it? I was expecting three thousand, at the most. It seems the news of our great victory at the battle of Anatha has caused dehgans to spring up from the very soil, desperately seeking to share in the glory. Truth is, I think it was the faint hope that we might encounter another party of Malwa raiders that inspired this great outpouring of enthusiasm for our little expedition."

  One of the general's servants approached, leading his horse. As he took the reins, Belisarius remarked:

  "They are not all troops from your household, then?"

  The sahrdaran gave his shoulders a little inscouciant shake.

  "Who is to say? The majority are from my province of Garamig. The rest? Who knows? Most of them, I suspect, are from Ormazd's own province of Arbayistan."

  Belisarius nodded, and mounted his horse. As they began to ride off, he mulled over Baresmanas' last words.

  For all their similarities, there were some important differences in the way the Roman and Persian Empires were organized. One of those differences—a key difference—was in their military structure. The Roman army was a professional army supplemented by mercenary auxiliaries, usually (though not always) drawn from barbarian tribes. The Persian army, on the other hand, was a much more complicated phenomenon.

  Feudalism is always complicated, came Aide's interjection. Most convoluted system you—we humans have ever come up with. And we're a convoluted folk. Especially you protoplasmic types.

  "So it is," murmured Belisarius. He did not inquire as to the meaning of "protoplasmic." He suspected he didn't want to know.

  Each nobleman of sahrdaran and vurzurgan rank maintained a private army, made up of soldiers from their province or district. Some of those—the "household troops"—were financially supported by their lord. The rest were dehgans, whose obligation to provide military service was a more nebulous affair.

  The dehgans were village and small town knights, essentially. The lowest rank in the aristocracy, but still part of what Aryans called the azadan. Though they were officially under the command of the higher nobility, the dehgans were economically independent and not, as a class, given to subservience. When it came to rallying the support of "his" dehgans, a high lord's prestige counted for more than formal obligation.

  For their part, each dehgan maintained a small body of retainers who would accompany him on campaign. Not more than a handful, usually. Well-respected men of their village or town—prosperous farmers and blacksmiths, in the main—who had not only the strength, fitness and skill to serve as armored archers but could afford the horse and gear as well.

  The Persian Emperor himself, beyond his own household troops, directly commanded nothing but his personal bodyguard—a regiment of men who still bore the ancient title of the Immortals. For the rest, the Shahanshah depended on the support of the great nobility. Who, in turn, depended on the support of the dehgans.

  In theory, it was all very neatly pyramidal. In practice—

  Aide summed it up nicely: Victory has a multitude of fathers. Defeat is an orphan. Or, in this case: victory has a multitude of would-be sons.

  Belisarius smiled.

  And defeat is childless.

  He twisted in his saddle, passing the smile onto Baresmanas.

  "You think Ormazd's joints are aching, then?"

  The sahrdaran chuckled.

  "I suspect that Ormazd, right now, is feeling very much like a victim of arthritis. Each morning, when he wakes up, he finds his army has shrunk a bit more. While faithless dehgans disappear, seeking fame and fortune in more likely quarters."

  Belisarius studied the huge "escort" which surrounded them. The Persians were marching in good order, although, to a Roman general's eye, the formation seemed a bit odd. After a moment, he realized that the peculiar "lumpiness" was due to the formation's social order. Rather than marching in Roman ranks and files, the Persians tended to cluster in small groups. Retainers accompanying their dehgans, he realized. Where the basic unit of the Roman army was a squad, that of the Persian force was a village band. Men who had grown up together, and known each other all their lives.

  After a minute or so, Belisarius found himself deep in a rumination over the most effective way to combine Roman and Persian forces, given each people's habits and characteristics. He shook off the thoughts, for now. He had something more immediate to attend to.

  "We need to make a stop at the prisoners' camp," he announced.

  Baresmanas raised a questioning eyebrow, but made no protest. He simply called out a name.

  Immediately, one of the Persians riding nearby trotted his horse over to the sahrdaran and the Roman general. As soon as he arrived, Baresmanas made a little sweeping gesture with his hand.

  "I would like to introduce the commander of my household troops, General Belisarius. Merena is his name, from a fine azadan family affiliated to the Suren."

  Belisarius nodded politely. The Persian commander returned the nod, very stiffly. Examining him, Belisarius was not sure if the stiffness was inherent in the man himself, or was due to the specific circumstances.

  A bit of both, he decided. As a rule, in his experience, Persians tended toward a certain athletic slenderness. Merena, on the other hand, was a large man, almost as heavyset as Belisarius' friend Sittas. But where Sittas handled his weight and girth with a certain sprawling ease, Merena seemed to prefer a far more immobile method. For all the man's obvious horsemanship, he sat his saddle almost like a statue.

  Baresmanas passed on the command to visit the prisoners' camp on the way north. Merena nodded—again, very stiffly—and trotted away to give the orders.

  "Not the most informal sort of fellow," remarked Belisarius.

  Baresmanas' lips twisted.

  "Normally, he is not so rigid and proper. But I think he is unsure of how to manage the current situation. This is not, actually, the first time you and he were introduced. In a manner of speaking."

  Belisarius pursed his lips.

  "He, too, was at Mindouos." It was a statement more than a question.

  "Oh, yes. Right by my side, during Firuz' mad charge. He tried to come to my aid, after a lance spilled me from my horse. But he was disabled himself, by a plumbata right through the thigh."

  Belasarius winced. The plumbata was the weapon which modern Roman infantrymen used in place of the pilum, the javelin favored in the earlier days of the Empire. The plumbata was a much shorter weapon—more like a dart than a throwing spear. But what it lost in range it gained in penetrating power, due to the heavy lead weight fitted to the shaft below the spearpoint. At close range, hurled with the underarm motion of an expert, it could penetrate even the armor of cataphracts or dehgans. The wounds it produced were notoriously brutal.

  "Pinned him right to the saddle," continued Baresmanas. "Then, when his horse was hamstrung and gutted, the beast rolled over on top of him. Almost took off his leg. Would have, I'm sure, if he were a smaller man. He still walks with a terrible limp."

  The general's wince turned into a grimace. Seeing the expression, Baresmanas shrugged.

  "He does not bear you any ill-will, Belisarius. Ill-will over that battle, of course, he has in plenty—but all of it is directed toward Firuz. Still, he does not exactly count you among his bosom companions."

  "I imagine not!" The general hesitated, for a moment. Then, deciding that politeness was overridden by necessity:

  "I must know, however—please do not take offense—if he will be able to serve properly. Being forced in such close�
�"

  "Have no fear on that score," interrupted Bares-manas. "Whatever his attitude may be toward you, there is not the slightest doubt of his feelings for me, and my family."

  Belisarius' face must have exhibited a certain skepticism, for the sahrdaran immediately added:

  "It is not simply a matter of duty and tradition. Merena's family is noted—even famed—for its military accomplishments. But they are not rich. He would still be in captivity had I not paid his ransom out of my own funds."

  Belisarius nodded. He and Baresmanas rode together in silence, for a minute. Then the sahrdaran remarked, almost idly:

  "I have noted that you yourself are quite generous to your bucellarii. I was told that you dispense a full half of your battle-gained treasure to them, in fact. Most munificent, indeed."

  Belisarius smiled crookedly. "That's quite true. My retainers are sworn to my service anyway, of course. But I'm a practical man. Men are not tools, mind you. Still, a blacksmith takes good care of the implements of his trade. Keeps them clean, sharp—and well-oiled."

  Silence fell upon them again, as they neared the pri-soners' camp. A very companionable silence, between two men who understood each other quite well.

  It was Belisarius' first visit to the camp, since the army had reached Peroz-Shapur. He was pleased to see that his bucellarii had carried out his instructions to the letter.

  Merena was riding alongside Baresmanas as they entered. His eyebrows lifted.

  "This is a prisoners' camp?" he asked.

  To all outward appearances, the place looked like any other Roman field encampment. The tents—the multitude of tents; no crowding men like hogs in a pen here—were arranged in neat rows and files. Latrines had been dug to the proper depth and at the proper distance from the tents themselves. The campfires were large and well-supplied, both with fuel and with cooking implements.

  By the time they arrived, all two thousand Kushans were standing in the open ground between the tents. They had heard the horses coming, naturally. And while the sound of those hooves hadn't been those of an attacking force, still—

  Why two thousand cavalrymen?

  Seeing the alert and ready stance of those unarmed men, Merena grunted his approval.