“Can’t stop it, sir,” said Maurice. Sometimes, he thought, his beloved general was impractical. Not often, true. He was startled to hear Belisarius’ hand slamming the desk.
“Maurice! I don’t want to hear the old voice of experience!”
The general was quite angry, Maurice noted, with some surprise. Unusual, that. The old veteran straightened his posture. He did not, however, flinch. Angry generals had long since failed to cause him to quiver in fear. Any generals, much less Belisarius.
And, sure enough, after a moment he saw the crooked smile make its appearance.
“Maurice, I am not a fool. I realize that soldiers look upon booty as one of their time-honored perks. And that’s fine- as long as we’re talking about booty.” Belisarius tightened his own jaw. “It’s one thing for an army to share in the spoils of a campaign, fairly apportioned in an organized manner, after the campaign’s over and the victory is certain. It’s another thing entirely for soldiers to get in the habit of plundering and stealing and generally taking anything they want whenever the mood strikes them. Let that happen, and pretty soon you don’t have an army anymore. Just a mob of thieves, rapists, and murderers.”
He eyed Maurice. “Speaking of which?”
“Hung ’em yesterday, sir. All four. The girl’s surviving brother was able to identify them, once he got over his terror at being here. I sent him on to Aleppo, then, to join his sister.”
“Have you heard from the monks?”
Maurice grimaced. “Yes. They’ve agreed to take care of the girl, as best they can. But they don’t expect she’ll recover, and-” Another grimace.
“And they had harsh words to say about Christian soldiers.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As well they might. Did the troops watch the execution?”
“Not the execution itself, no. At least, not the army as a whole. A lot of them did, of course. But I gave orders to let the bodies sway in the breeze, until the heat and the vultures make skeletons out of them. They’ll all get the message, sir.”
Belisarius wiped his face wearily. “For a time.” He stared ruefully at the grimy cloth in his hand. The rag was too soaked to do more than smear the sweat. He reached out and hung it on a peg to dry.
“But there’ll be another incident,” he continued, after resuming his seat. “This army’s had too much rot infect it. Soon enough, there’ll be another incident. When it happens, Maurice, I’ll have the officer in command of the men strung up alongside them. I won’t accept any excuses. Pass the word.”
Maurice took a deep breath, then let it out. He wasn’t afraid of Belisarius, but he knew when the general wasn’t to be budged.
“Yes, sir.”
The general’s gaze was hard.
“I’m serious about this, Maurice. Make certain the men understand my attitude. Make absolutely certain the officers do.”
The general relented, slightly. “It’s not simply a matter of the conduct one expects from Christian soldiers, Maurice. If the men can’t understand that, then make sure they understand the practical side of it. You and I have both seen too many battles lost-or, at best, halfway won-because the troops got diverted at the critical moment. Allowing the enemy to escape, or rally for a counterattack, because they’re busy scurrying around for some silver plate and chickens to steal, or a woman to rape. Or just the pleasure of watching a town burn. A town, more often than not, that’s the only place to find billeting. Or would have been, if it weren’t a pile of ashes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Belisarius eyed Maurice a moment longer, then smiled. “Trust me in this, old friend. I know you think I’ve got my head in the clouds, but I’ll prove you wrong.”
Maurice smiled back. “I’ve never thought you had your head in the clouds, General. Though, at times, the air you breathe is a bit rarefied.”
The hecatontarch eyed his two subordinates and gestured slightly with his head. Immediately, Ashot and Basil left the tent.
“May I suggest you get some sleep, sir.” Maurice did not even look toward Procopius. The veteran had made clear, in none too subtle ways, that he regarded the secretary much as he regarded an asp. Procopius set down his pen, arose, and exited the tent himself. Quite hastily.
After the others had left, Maurice made his own exit. But, at the entrance of the tent, he hesitated and turned back.
“I don’t want you to misunderstand me, General. I’m skeptical that it’ll work, that’s all. Other than that, I’ve no problem with your policy. None. Measured out the ropes myself, I did, and cut the lengths. And enjoyed every moment of it.”
Later, after the noises of the camp had died down, Belisarius reached into his tunic and withdrew the jewel. It was resting in the small pouch which Antonina had dug up. He opened the pouch and spilled the jewel onto his palm.
“Come on,” he whispered. “You’ve had enough sleep. I need your help.”
The facets spun and flickered. Energy was returning, now. And, during the long stasis, aim had been able to-digest, so to speak-its bizarre experiences. The thoughts were clearer now, still as alien but no longer impossible to fathom. aim did not have much energy yet, but-enough, it decided.
And so it was that the general Belisarius, lying on his cot, almost asleep, suddenly bolted upright.
Again, his face, emerging from the ground. Coalescing from the remnants of spiderwebs and bird wings, and laurel leaves. Suddenly soaring into the heavens, utterly transformed. The wings were now the pinions of a dragon. The laurel leaves, bursting flame and thunder. And the spiderwebs-were the spinnings of his mind, weaving their traps, spreading their strands through an infinite distance. future.
Chapter 6
“So much for diplomacy,” snarled Bouzes, reining his horse around savagely. He glared over his shoulder at the retreating figures of the Persian commanders.
“Filthy Mede dogs,” agreed his brother Coutzes. Setting his own horse in motion, he added, “God, how I despise them.”
Belisarius, riding alongside, held his tongue. He saw no point in contradicting the brothers. His relations with them were tense enough as it was.
In truth, Belisarius rather liked Persians. The Medes had their faults, of course. The most outstanding of which-and the one which had occasioned the brothers’ outburst-was the overweening arrogance of Persian officials. An arrogance which had once again been displayed in the recently concluded parley.
The parley had taken place in the no-man’s-land which marked, insofar as anything did, the border between Roman and Persian territory. A brief discussion, on a patch of barren landscape, between six men on horseback. Belisarius and the brothers Bouzes and Coutzes had spoken for the Roman side. The Medes had been represented by Firuz, the Persian commander, and his two principal subordinates, Pityaxes and Baresmanas.
Firuz had demanded the parley. And then, at the parley, demanded that the Romans dismantle the fortress which Belisarius’ army had almost completed. Or he would dismantle it for them.
Such, at least, had been the essence of the demand. But Firuz had insisted on conveying the demand in the most offensive manner possible. He had boasted of his own martial prowess and sneered at that of the Romans. (Not forgetting to toss in numerous remarks concerning Roman cowardice and unmanliness.) He had dwelt lovingly on the full-bellied vultures which would soon be the caskets of Roman troops-assuming, of course, that the carrion-eaters were hungry enough to feed on such foul meat.
And so on, and so forth. Belisarius repressed a smile. He thought the polishing touch had been Firuz’ demand that Belisarius build a bath in the fortress. He would need the bath, the Persian commander explained, to wash Roman blood and gore off his body. Among which body parts, Firuz explained, the brains of Belisarius himself would figure prominently. The brains of Bouzes and Coutzes would not, of course, as they had none.
Belisarius glanced at Bouzes and Coutzes. The brothers were red-faced with rage. Not for the first time-no,
