Chapter 5
Mindouos
Summer, 528 AD
“ Out.” Belisarius’ eyes were like dark stones, worn smooth in a stream. Cold, pitiless pieces of an ancient mountain.
“ Out,” he repeated. The fat officer standing rigidly before him began to protest again, then, seeing the finality in the general’s icy gaze, waddled hastily out of the command tent.
“See to it that he’s on the road within the hour,” said Belisarius to Maurice. “And watch who he talks to on his way out. His friends will commiserate with him, and those friends will likely have the same habits.”
“With pleasure, sir.” The hecatontarch motioned to one of the three Thracian cataphracts who were standing quietly in the rear of the tent. The cataphract, a stocky man in his mid-thirties, grinned evilly and began to leave.
“On your way out, Gregory,” said Belisarius, “send in that young Syrian you recommended.” Gregory nodded, and exited the tent.
Belisarius resumed his seat. For a moment, he listened to the sounds of a busy military camp filtering into the tent, much as a musician might listen to a familiar tune. He thought he detected a cheerful boisterousness in the half-heard vulgarities being exchanged by unseen soldiers, and hoped he was right. In the first days after his arrival, the sounds of the camp had been sodden with resentment.
A different sound drew his attention. He glanced over at the desk in the corner of the tent where Procopius, his new secretary, was scribbling away industriously. The desk, like the chair upon which the secretary sat, was of the plainest construction. But it was no plainer than Belisarius’ own desk, or chair.
Procopius had been astonished-not to mention disgruntled-when he discovered his new employer’s austere habits. Within a week after their arrival, the secretary had attempted to ingratiate himself by presenting Belisarius with a beautifully-embroidered, silk-covered cushion. The general had politely thanked Procopius for the gift, but had immediately turned it over to Maurice, explaining that it was his long-standing custom to share all gifts with his bucellarii. The following day, Procopius watched goggle-eyed as the Thracian cataphracts used the cushion as the target in their mounted archery exercises. (Very briefly-the cruel, razor-sharp blades of the war arrows, driven by those powerful bows, had shredded the cushion within minutes.)
The secretary had been pale with fury and outrage, but had possessed enough wit to maintain silence in the face of Thracian grins. And, admitted Belisarius, since then “You’ve done well, Procopius,” said Belisarius suddenly, “helping to ferret out these petty crooks.”
The secretary looked up, startled. He began to open his mouth, then closed it. He acknowledged the praise with a simple nod and returned to his work.
Satisfied, Belisarius looked away. In the weeks since they had been together in the army camp near Daras, Procopius had learned, painfully, that his new employer gave flattery short shrift. On the other hand, he prized hard work and skillfulness. And, whatever his other characteristics, there was no question that Procopius was an excellent secretary. Nor was he indolent. He had been a great help in shredding the corruption which riddled Belisarius’ new army.
A soldier entered the tent.
“You called for me, sir?”
Belisarius examined him. The man appeared to be barely twenty. He was quite short, but muscular. A Syrian, with, Belisarius judged, considerable Arab stock in his ancestry.
The soldier was wearing a simple, standard uniform: a mantle, a shirt, boots, and a belt. The belt held up a scabbarded spatha, the sword which the modern Roman army used in place of the ancient gladius. The spatha was similar to a gladius-a straight-bladed, double-edged sword suitable for either cutting or thrusting, but it was six inches longer.
The cloak, helmet, mail tunic and shield which were also part of the man’s uniform were undoubtedly resting in his tent. In the Syrian daytime, cloaks made the heat unbearable. And the soldier’s armor and shield were unneeded in the daily routine of the camp.
“Your name is Mark, I believe? Mark of Edessa.”
“Yes, sir.” Mark’s face bore slight traces of apprehension mixed with puzzlement.
Belisarius allayed his concerns instantly.
“I am promoting you to hecatontarch of the third ala,” he announced. His tone was stern and martial.
The man’s eyes widened slightly. He stood a bit straighter.
“Peter of Rhaedestus, as I’m sure you know, is the regiment’s tribune. You will report to him.”
Then, in a softer tone:
“You are young to be assigned command over a hundred men, and somewhat inexperienced. But both Peter and Constantine, the cavalry’s chiliarch, speak well of you. And so do the men of my own personal retinue.” He motioned slightly toward the back of the tent, where Maurice and the two other cataphracts stood.
Mark glanced toward the Thracians. His face remained still, but the youth’s gratitude was apparent.
“Two things, before you go,” said Belisarius. All traces of softness vanished from his voice.
“Constantine and Peter-as well as the other tribunes of the cavalry-know my views on corrupt officers, and are in agreement with them. But I will take the time now to express them to you directly. As you are aware, I will not tolerate an officer who steals from his own men. Thus far, since I inherited this army from another, I have satisfied myself with simply dismissing such officers. In the future, however, with officers who take command knowing my views, the punishment will be considerably more severe. Extreme, in fact.”
Belisarius paused, gauging the young Syrian, and decided that further elaboration on the matter was unnecessary. Mark’s face sheened with perspiration, but the sweat was simply the product of the stifling heat within the tent. Belisarius took a cloth and wiped his own face.
“A final point. You are a cavalryman, and have been, I understand, since you first joined. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then understand something else. I will not tolerate the cavalry lording it over the infantry. Do you understand?”
Mark’s face twitched, just a tiny bit.
“Speak frankly, Mark of Edessa. If you are unclear as to my meaning, say so. I will explain, and I promise there will be no censure.”
The young Syrian glanced at his general, made a quick assessment, and spoke.
“I’m not quite sure I do, sir.”
“It’s simple, Mark. As you will discover soon enough, my tactical methods use the infantry to far greater effect than Roman armies normally do. But for those tactics to work, the infantry must have the same pride and self-esteem as the cavalry. I can’t build and maintain that morale if I have cavalrymen deriding the foot soldiers and refusing to take on their fair share of the hard work, which normally falls almost entirely on the infantry. I will not tolerate cavalrymen lounging around in the shade while foot soldiers sweat rivers, building encampments and fortifications. And mocking the foot soldiers, often enough. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Firmly, clearly.
“Good. You will be allowed to select the decarchs for your hundred. All ten of them.”
Mark stood very straight. “Thank you, sir.”
Belisarius repressed a smile. Sternly:
“Use your own judgment, but I urge you to consult with Peter. And you might also discuss the matter with Maurice, and Gregory. I think you’ll find them quite helpful.”
“I will do so, sir.”
“A word of caution. Advice, rather. Avoid simply selecting from your own circle of friends. Even if they prove capable, it will produce resentment among others. A capable clique is still a clique, and you will undermine your own authority.”
“Yes, sir.”
