At the Persian camp, they came upon a very tense scene. The camp itself was a shambles. Most of the tents lay on the ground like lumpy shrouds. Those tents still standing were ragged from sword-slashes. Wagons were upended or half-shattered. Some of the wreckage was the work of the Hun mercenaries, but much of it was due to the Persians themselves. Sensing the defeat, the Persian camp followers had hastily rummaged out their most precious possessions and taken flight.
But not all had left soon enough. Several dead Persians were lying about, riddled with arrows. All men. The Huns would have saved the women and children. The women would be raped. Afterwards, they and the children would be sold into slavery.
In the event, the mercenaries had barely begun enjoying their looting and their atrocities before the Thracians had arrived and put a stop to it. More or less.
Very tense. On one side, dismounted but armed, hundreds of Hun mercenaries. On the other, still mounted, armed- and with drawn bows-were three hundred bucellarii.
The Huns outnumbered the Thracians’ cataphracts by a factor of three to one. So, the outcome of any fight was obvious to all. The mercenaries would be butchered to a man. But not before they inflicted heavy casualties on the Thracians.
The general cared nothing for the Huns. But it would be a stupid waste of his cataphracts.
Mundus pointed out to him the three leaders of the mercenaries. As usual with Huns, their rank derived from clan status, not Roman military protocol.
Belisarius rode over to them and dismounted. Valentinian and Anastasius stayed on their horses. Both men had their own bows drawn, with arrows notched.
The Hun clan leaders were glaring at him furiously. Off to one side, three young Hun warriors were screaming insults at the Thracians. One of them held a young Persian by her hair. The girl was half-naked, weeping, on her knees. Next to her, a still younger boy-her brother, thought Belisarius, from the resemblance-was sitting on the ground. He was obviously dazed and was holding his head in both hands. Blood seeped through his fingers.
Belisarius glanced at the little tableau, then stared back at the three clan chiefs. He met their glares with an icy gaze. Then stepped up very close and said softly, in quite good Hunnish:
“My name is Belisarius. I have just destroyed an entire Persian army. Do you think I can be intimidated by such as you?”
After a moment, two of the clan leaders looked away. The third, the oldest, held the glare.
Belisarius nodded slightly toward the three young Huns holding the girl.
“Your clan?” he asked.
The clan chief snorted. “Clanless. They-”
“Valentinian.”
Belisarius knew no archer as quick and accurate as Valentinian. The Hun holding the girl by her hair took Valentinian’s first arrow. In the chest, straight through the heart. The cataphract’s second arrow, following instantly, dropped another. Anastasius, even with an already-drawn bow, fired only one arrow in the same time. No man but he could have drawn that incredible bow. His arrow went right through his target’s body.
Three seconds. Three dead mercenaries.
Belisarius had not watched. His eyes had never left those of the clan chieftain.
Now, he smiled. Tough old man. The chieftain was still glaring.
Again, softly, still in Hunnish: “You have a simple choice. You can disobey me, in which case no Hun will survive this battle. Or you can obey me, and share in the great booty from Nisibis.”
Finally, something got through. The clan chieftain’s eyes widened.
“Nisibis? Nisibis? ”
Belisarius nodded. His smile widened.
The clan chieftain peered at him suspiciously.
“Nisibis is a great town,” he said. “You do not have siege equipment.”
Belisarius shrugged. “I have a few scorpions and onagers. We can let the Persians on the walls of Nisibis catch sight of them. But that doesn’t matter. I have the most powerful weapon of all, clan leader. I have a great victory, and the fear which that victory will produce.”
The clan leader hesitated still.
“Many Persian soldiers escaped. They will flee to Nisibis and tell-”
“Tell what, clan leader? The truth? And who will believe those soldiers? Those defeated soldiers-that routed rabble-when they tell the notables of Nisibis that they have nothing to fear from the Roman army which just destroyed them?”
The clan leader laughed. For all his barbarity, the man did not lack decisiveness. A moment later he was bellowing commands to his men. Without hesitation, the other two clan leaders joined their voices to his.
Huns with clan status took their leaders seriously. Those without clan status took the slaughtered corpses of three of their fellows seriously. Within two minutes, a small group of women and children were clustered under the shelter of the cataphracts. Some of them looked to have been badly abused, thought Belisarius, but it could have been worse. Much worse.
The Huns even began piling up their loot, but Belisarius told the clan leaders that the mercenaries could keep the booty. He simply wanted the survivors.
“Why do you care, Greek?” asked the old chieftain. The question was not asked belligerently. The man was simply puzzled.
Belisarius sighed. “I’m not Greek. I’m Thracian.”
The chieftain snorted. “Then it makes no sense at all! Greeks are odd, everyone knows it. They think too much. But why-”
“A thousand years ago, chieftain, these people were already great with knowledge. At a time when your people and mine were no better than savages in skins.”
Which is just about where you are still, thought Belisarius. But he didn’t say it.
The clan chieftain frowned.
“I do not understand the point.”
Belisarius sighed, turned away.
“I know,” he muttered. “I know.”
Two weeks later, Nisibis capitulated.
It was not a total capitulation, of course. The Romans would not march into the city. The notables needed that face-saving gesture to fend off the later wrath of the Persian emperor. And Belisarius, for his own reasons, did not want to risk such a triumphant entry. He thought he had his troops well under control, but-there was no temptation so great, especially to the mercenaries who made up a large part of the army, as the prospect of sacking a city without a siege.
No, best to avoid the problem entirely. Persians, like Romans, were civilized. Treasure lost was simply treasure lost. Forgotten soon enough. Atrocities burned memory into the centuries. The centuries of that stupid, pointless, endless warfare between Greek and Persian which had gone on too long already.
So, there was no march and no atrocities. But, of course, there was treasure lost aplenty. Oh, yes. Nisibis disgorged its hoarded wealth. Some of it in the form of outright tribute. The rest as ransom for the nobles. (Whom Nisibis would keep, in reasonably pleasant captivity, until the nobles repaid the ransom.)
The Romans marched away from the city with more booty than any of its soldiers had ever dreamed of. Within three days, as the word of victory spread, the army was surrounded by camp followers. Among these, in addition to the usual coterie, were a veritable host of avid liquidators. The soldiers of Belisarius’ own army immediately converted their booty into portable specie and jewelry. They had learned from experience that their general’s stern logistical methods made it impossible to haul about bulky treasure. Like the great Philip of ancient Macedon, Belisarius used mules for his supply train. The only wheeled vehicles he allowed were the field ambulances and the artillery engines.
Observing, and then questioning, the Army of Lebanon quickly followed their example.
A great general, Belisarius, a great general. A bit peculiar, perhaps. Unbelievably ruthless, in some ways. Tales were told, by campfire, of slaughtered Persian cavalry, and a decapitated chiliarch. The first brought grins of satisfaction, the last brought howls of glee. Strangely squeamish, in others. Tales were told of women and children returned, reasonably unharmed, to the Persians in Nisibis-and spitted Huns. The first brought heads shaking in
