by Eric Flint
"Good, good! Staunch fellows. Be a massacre, of course, but at least they wouldn't die from back wounds."
At the entrance to the camp, they were greeted by a small contingent of Roman soldiers. A mixed unit, this, made up of men from all the forces under Belisarius' command, serving their assigned rotation in the duty of guarding the prisoners. The very unwanted duty, needless to say, while their comrades were cavorting in Peroz-Shapur. But Belisarius could detect no signs of resentment or bitterness. The men knew that the rotation would be faithfully followed. In a day or so, they too would be enjoying the fleshpots while others took their appointed turn.
Fairly apportioned, in Belisarius' army—the duties as well as the rewards. Of that, his men were by now quite satisfied.
To the general's surprise—and sheer delight—the commander of that detachment proved to be Basil, the man who led his contingent of katyusha rocket chariots. Before leaving on the expedition, Belisarius had toyed with the idea of summoning Basil to go along. But he had dropped the notion, assuming that the man would be well-nigh impossible to find in the saturnalia at Peroz-Shapur.
Yet here he was. One of the two men—three or four, perhaps—that he most wanted to accompany him.
"You'll be going with me, Basil," he announced. "We're taking a little surveying party to that old canal we passed on our way in."
He glanced over his shoulder at the huge mass of Persian cavalrymen waiting outside the camp.
"Well, not all that little. But I need your expertise. You've had more practical experience handling gunpowder than I have."
Basil did not seem sulky at the news, even though it would mean that the hecatontarch would have to forego his own turn at the pleasures of Peroz-Shapur.
Belisarius was not surprised. He had personally selected Basil for his new post, after going over every possibility with Maurice at great length. Both of them had settled on Basil. Partly, for the man's apparent comfort around gunpowder—which was not typical of most of the Thracian cataphracts. Even more, however, for his reliability.
"Yes, sir. When do we leave?"
"Within minutes, I hope. As soon as I can collect a Kushan or two. Where's Vasu—never mind. I see him."
The commander of the Kushans was trotting toward them, accompanied by a handful of his top subordinates. Once he reached the general, Vasudeva gazed up at the man on horseback. There was no expression on his face at all.
"Is there a problem, General?"
Belisarius smiled cordially, shaking his head.
"Not in the least, Vasudeva. I am simply on my way to investigate a nearby ruin. Less than a day's ride away, as it happens. I came here because I would like one or two Kushans to come along."
No expression.
"Me, I assume."
Still, no expression.
Belisarius, on the other hand, grinned from ear to ear.
"Of course not, Vasudeva! That would look terrible, I think—taking the prisoners' commander off on a mysterious trip. From which—judging from all too many sad histories—he might never return. No, no. What I want is the Kushan soldier—or soldiers, if there's more than one—who is most familiar with—"
He groped for the word. There was no equivalent in Kushan, so far as he knew, for the Roman term "engineering."
He settled on an awkward makeshift.
"Field architecture. Watermoving works. Ah—"
Vasudeva nodded. "You want an expert in siegecraft."
"Yes! Well put."
For the first time, Vasudeva's mask slipped a bit. A hint of bitterness came into his face.
"For that, general, you could pick almost any Kushan at random. We are all experts. The Malwa are fond of using us for siegework. Up until the victory, of course. Then we are allowed to bind our wounds, while the Ye-tai and the kshatriyas enjoy the plunder."
The mask returned. "However—" Vasudeva turned his head, looking toward one of the men by his side.
"Vima, you go. You're probably the best."
The Kushan named Vima nodded. He began to move toward one of the saddled but riderless horses which Belisarius had brought with him into the camp. Then, apparently struck by a thought, he paused.
"A question, General Belisarius. You said 'water-moving works.' Is this—whatever we are going to see—is it connected with irrigation?"
Belisarius nodded. Vima glanced at the three extra horses.
"Two more all right?" he asked. Again, Belisarius nodded.
Vima scanned the large crowd of Kushans who, by now, were gathered about.
"Kadphises!" he called out. "You come. And where's Huvishka?"
A man shouldered his way to the front.
"Here," he announced.
Vima gestured. "You also."
Once Belisarius and his party emerged from the prisoners' camp and began heading up the road north from Peroz-Shapur, Vima issued a little sigh.
"Nice to ride a horse again," he commented. Then, eyeing Belisarius:
"I don't suppose this is an omen of things to come?"
Belisarius shook his head, a bit apologetically.
"No, Vima. If we find what I hope to find, I'm afraid you Kushans are in for a long stint of very hard labor in one of the hottest places in the world."
Vima grunted. So did the two Kushans riding beside him.
"Could be worse," mused the one called Huvishka.
"Much worse," agreed Kadphises.
Vima grunted. Curious, Belisarius inquired:
"You are not displeased at the prospect?"
All three Kushans grunted in unison. The sound, oddly, was one of amusement.
"We Kushans tend to approach things from the bottom up, general," remarked Vima. "A long stint—of whatever kind of labor—sounds distinctly better than many alternative prospects."
Kadphises grunted. Huvishka interpreted:
"Being executed, for instance, can be viewed as a very short stint of very easy labor. Bow your head, that's about it—chop!—it's over. Executioner's the only one working up a sweat."
When Belisarius interpreted the exchange, Bares-manas immediately broke into laughter.
Merena did not. He simply grunted himself.
"Good, good. Staunch fellows, as I said."
Chapter 24
Within an hour of their arrival at the Nehar Malka, Belisarius had settled on his plan. The next two hours he spent with Basil and—separately—the Kushans, making sure that the project was technically feasible.
The rest of the day, that evening, and the entire day following, he spent with Baresmanas. Just the two of them, alone in a tent, discussing the real heart of the plan—which was not technical, but moral.
"You are asking a great deal of us, Belisarius."
"We will do all of the work, and provide most of the material resources needed—"
Baresmanas waved those issues aside.
"That's not the problem, and you know it perfectly well." He gave the Roman general a fish-eyed look.
"An Aryan, examining your plan, cannot help but notice that you propose to recreate the very conditions which enabled Emperor Julian to strike so deeply into Mesopotamia, two centuries ago."
The little smile which followed took some of the sting out of the statement. Some.
Belisarius shrugged. "Not exactly, Baresmanas. If my scheme works as I hope, the situation will revert back—"
Again, Baresmanas waved his words aside. "Yes, yes—if it works as you hope. Not to mention the fact that a skeptical and untrusting Aryan cannot help but notice that you Romans will be in control of that part of the plan which would, as you put it, 'revert back' the situation. What if you decide otherwise?"
Belisarius returned the hard stare calmly. "And are you a 'skeptical and untrusting Persian,' Baresmanas?"
The sahrdaran looked away, tugging his beard thoughtfully.
"No," came the reply. "I am not, myself. But others will be, especially once they realize that no Aryan commander will have authority over the fina
l implementation of the complete plan."
Belisarius began to shrug, but stopped the gesture before it started. This matter could not be shrugged off. It had to be faced squarely.
"There is no other way, sahrdaran. In order for it to work, my plan requires complete security—especially the final part. You know as well as I do that Persian forces, by now, will have been penetrated by Malwa agents."
"And yours haven't?" snapped Baresmanas.
"It is not likely. Not the troops who will be playing the key role, at least. Keep in mind that the Malwa spy network has been active in Persia longer than it was in Rome—and that we smashed the center of that network half a year ago."
Baresmanas scowled. "That's another thing I don't like! Your scheme presupposes treachery on the part of Aryans!"
Belisarius said nothing. He simply gave the sahrdaran his own fish-eyed look.
After a moment, Baresmanas sighed. He even chuckled.
"I admit, I think your assessment is accurate. Much as I hate to admit it."
Belisarius chuckled himself. "Don't be so downcast about it. Treachery is probably more of a Roman than an Aryan vice. It's not as if we didn't find our own highest circles riddled with traitors, after all. At least Emperor Khusrau still has his eyes, which is more than Justinian can say."
"Very good eyes," grunted Baresmanas. The sahrdaran straightened in his chair.
"The matter must be put before the Emperor himself, Belisarius. Only he can make this decision. I cannot possibly make it in his stead."
"I do not expect you to," came the immediate response. "I know full well that only Khusrau Anushirvan has that authority. But he will ask you what you think. And the question boils down to this: Can we trust this man Belisarius?"
The two men in the tent stared at each other.
"I will give my oath, of course," added Belisarius.
For the last time that day, Baresmanas waved the matter aside.
"An oath is only as good as the man who gives it. Your oath will not be necessary."
Suddenly, Baresmanas laughed. "It occurs to me that Valentinian will be most gratified! His job just got much easier!"
Belisarius' brows knit with puzzlement.
"But it's obvious! Khusrau will only agree if he decides that the man Belisarius can be trusted. He will certainly not put his trust in any Roman general."
Still frowning. Again, the sahdaran laughed.
"So blind! It's so obvious! You will have to promise the Emperor that you will be alive—when the time comes to give the final order."
Belisarius' eyes widened.
"Oh, yes," murmured Baresmanas. "Your days of leading cavalry charges are over, my friend. For quite some time."
"I hadn't thought of that," admitted the general.
Aide spoke in his mind:
I did. Then, with great satisfaction:
And Valentinian isn't the only one who will be most gratified. So will I.
So will I. Very much.
Upon his return to Peroz-Shapur, Belisarius sent couriers into the city, summoning his top commanders to a conference. It took several hours for all of those men to be tracked down. Many—most—were found in the obvious locales. Dens of iniquity, so to speak. Two or three were nabbed in more reputable spots. And one—the last to be found—in a very odd sort of place. For a man of his type.
"Sorry I'm late," said Agathius, as he came into the command tent. Looking around, he winced a bit. He was the last one to enter.
"No matter, chiliarch," said Belisarius pleasantly. "I realize this meeting was called with no warning. Please—take a chair."
As he waited for the commander of the Constantinople troopers to settle in, Belisarius found himself a bit puzzled by the man's behavior—and by those of his subordinates, for that matter. Agathius seemed distracted, as if his mind were elsewhere. That was quite unlike the man. Agathius was only twenty-eight years old, which was quite young for a soldier risen from the ranks to have become a hecatontarch, much less a chiliarch. Yet, despite the man's youth and his outward appearance as a muscular bruiser, Belisarius had found Agathius to be not only intelligent but possessed of an almost ferocious capacity for concentration.
Odd, that air of distraction, mused Belisarius. And why are his subordinates giving him such peculiar sidelong glances? You'd almost think they were smirking.
He pushed the matter out of his mind. To business.
In the three hours which followed, Belisarius presented his commanders with two matters for their consideration.
The first—which took up two of those hours—was an outline of the stratagem he was developing for using the Nehar Malka in their next campaign against the Malwa. Many aspects of his plans he left unspoken—partly, for security reasons, partly, because they were still half-formed. But he said enough to allow the commanders to join in a discussion of the allotment of Roman troops to the different tasks involved.
Interestingly enough, he noted, Agathius' distraction seemed to vanish during that discussion. Indeed, the Greek chiliarch played a leading role in it.
"It's essential that Abbu remain behind," insisted Agathius, "—with most of his skirmishers—"
The Constantinople man beat down the protests coming from other commanders.
"Quit whining!" he snapped. "The rest of us are just going on a march to Babylon, by way of Ctesiphon. Right in the heart of Persian territory, for the sake of God! We already crushed the only Malwa raiding force anybody knows of—so what do we need scouts for?"
He jabbed a thumb at Basil, then nodded toward the Syrian infantry leaders.
"Whereas these boys are going to be left alone up here. With two thousand Kushans to keep an eye on, and the desert not ten miles away. They'll be sitting ducks, if the Lakhmids come on them unawares."
Belisarius sat back, more than satisfied to let the Greek handle the problem.
Having squelched that little protest, Agathius rolled over the next.
"And as for this crap about the Callinicum garrison"—here he glowered at his own Con-stantinople subordinates, who had been the most vocal in their protests—"I don't want to hear it! They did well enough—damn well, all things considered—in the fight at the villa. Sure, they're not up to the standards of the Syrian lads—not yet, anyway—but that's all the more reason not to leave them behind. The katyusha-men and the Syrians have got enough on their plate already, without having to train inexperienced men in the kind of heavy engineering work they'll be doing."
Another glare. "So they're coming with us, just as the general proposed. And there'll be no grousing about it."
The other Greeks in the tent—who had been doing most of the grousing about "Callinicum crybabies"—lowered their heads. It was all Belisarius could do to keep from grinning. He already knew that Agathius had the easy, relaxed confidence of his subordinates. Now, when needed, the man had shown that he could also break them to his will.
So much met with Belisarius' silent approval. The next, with his admiration.
Agathius' hard eyes left the Greeks, and settled on Celsus, the commander of the Callinicum garrison troops. Celsus was sitting, hunched, on a stool in a corner of the tent. He was a small man, rather elderly for a soldier, and diffident by nature. As usual during command conferences, he had been silent throughout the entire discussion. A silence which had grown purely abject as the qualities of his men had been subjected to the beratement of other, younger, more assertive, more confident—and certainly louder—officers.
Agathius gave the man a little nod, lingering over the gesture just long enough to make his approval clear to everyone. Celsus nodded back, his eyes shining with thanks. For a moment, his skinny shoulders even lost their habitual stoop.
As Agathius resumed his seat, Belisarius sent a quick thought to Aide.
Absolutely marvelous! Did you see that, Aide?—and do you understand why it is so important?
Hesitantly: I am not sure. I think—
Hesitation faded. Yes. It is
how humans—your kind of humans—facet each other. Strength grows from building other strength, not from trampling on weakness.
Exactly.
The officers in the tent were, once again, focussed on Belisarius. The general rose, preparing to speak on another subject. But, before he did so, he took the time for a private moment.
I am so proud of you—grandchild.
You are my old man.
In the next hour, Belisarius broached with his officers the delicate matter which he had discussed with Baresmanas.
"So," he concluded, "I'm not telling anyone what to do. But I repeat: this war is not going to be settled in one battle. Not even in one campaign. We're going to be locked against the Malwa for years, probably. Hopefully—eventually—we'll be fighting the Malwa on their own soil. But for now, and probably for quite some time, we'll be fighting here in Persia. Better that, when it comes down to it, than fighting on Roman territory."
He took a little breath.
"I've said this before, many times, but I'll say it again. We have to stay on good terms with the Persians. If they start feeling that their Roman allies aren't much better than the Malwa, there'll be the risk that they'll try to back out of the way. Get out of Mesopotamia, retreat to the plateau, and let the Romans fight it out alone."
He gave the gathered men a stern gaze.
"As I said, I'm not telling anyone what to do. But I ask you to try and set an example, at least, for your men. I don't care what any Roman soldier does in taverns and whorehouses, as long as there's no roughhousing. But if you or your men want to cast your net a little wider, so to speak—" he waited for the little chuckle to die down "—keep in mind that Persians have their own customs."
He stopped speaking. Studied his officers, as they sat there staring at him.
Silent themselves, as he had expected. Though he noted, carefully—and with considerable amusement—their differing reactions.
The Syrian officers (as well as Celsus, the Calli-nicum commander) had little smiles on their faces. Long familiar with Persian customs—sharing many of those customs—the Syrians and Arabs obviously found the confusion elsewhere in the room quite entertaining.
