bemusement, the last, howls of glee. (Even, after a day or so, to most Huns, whose sense of humor was not remotely squeamish.)
A peculiar general. But-a great general, no doubt about it. Best to adopt his ways.
Adding to the army’s good cheer was the extraordinary largesse of the general’s cataphracts. Fine fellows, those Thracians, the very best. Buy anyone a drink, anytime, at any place the army stopped. Which it did frequently. The great general was kind to victorious troops, and the host of camp followers set up impromptu tabernae at every nightfall. They seemed to be awash in wealth, the way they spread their money around.
Which, indeed, they were. As commanding general, Belisarius had come in for a huge percentage of the loot-half of which he had immediately distributed to his bucellarii, as was his own personal tradition. The tradition pleased his cataphracts immensely. It pleased Belisarius even more. Partly for the pleasure which generosity gave his warm heart. But more for the pleasure which calculation gave his cold, crooked brain. True, his cataphracts were devoted to him anyway, from their own customs and birthright. But it never hurt to cement that allegiance as tightly as possible.
No, he thought, remembering the head of a stubborn chiliarch; and the arrow-transfixed chests of Hun thugs, it never hurts.
Three individuals only, of that great army returning in triumph, did not share in the general joy and good will.
Two of them were brothers from Thrace. Who, though they had come through their recent experience essentially unharmed in body, were much aggrieved in their minds.
As Belisarius had suspected, Bouzes and Coutzes were not actually stupid. They had had plenty of time, in their captivity at Nisibis, to ponder events of the past. And to draw certain conclusions about a never-found pay caravan.
On the first night of the march back to Mindouos, the brothers had entered Belisarius’ tent. Quite forcefully. They had shouldered Maurice aside, which would indicate that their recent conversion from stupidity was still shaky and skin deep. Then, they had confronted the general with his duplicity and treachery.
Within the next few minutes, Bouzes and Coutzes learned a lesson. Others had learned that lesson before them. Some, like a Hun clan chieftain, had even managed to survive the experience.
So did they, barely.
Belisarius gave them three simple choices.
One: They could acquiesce to his triumph, pretend that nothing untoward had happened, and salvage what was left of their reputations. With Belisarius’ help, a suitable cover story would be manufactured. They would even come into their share of the booty.
Two: They could leave now and trumpet their outrage to the world. Within a year, if Justinian was feeling charitable due to his victory over the Persians, they would be feeding the hogs back at their estate in Thrace. Pouring slops into the trough. If the Emperor was not feeling charitable-charity was not his most outstanding trait- they would be feeding the hogs at one of Justinian’s many estates. From inside the trough, since they themselves would be the slop.
Or, finally, if their outrage was simply too great to bear, they could choose yet a third alternative:
Valentinian.
The brothers, in the end, bade farewell to stupidity. Not easily, true, and not without bitter tears and warm embraces to their departing friend. But, in the end, they managed to send stupidity on his way.
By the very end of the evening, in fact, they were in quite a mellow mood. Large quantities of wine helped bring on that mellowness, as did the thought of large sums of booty. But, for the most part, it was brought by one small, fierce consolation.
At least-this time-honest Thracian lads had been swindled by another Thracian. Not by some damned Greek or Armenian.
After they left, Belisarius blew out the lantern and lay down on his cot.
He was exhausted, but sleep would not come. There was something he needed to know. He let his mind wander through its own labyrinth, until he found the place he had come to think of as the crack in the barrier.
He sensed the jewel’s presence.
It was you, wasn’t it? Helping me in the battle?
It was then that Belisarius discovered the third-individual? — who did not share in the general self- satisfaction of the army. The jewel’s thoughts were incoherent, at first. Strangely, there seemed to be some underlying hostility to them. Not reproach, or accusation, as there had been before. More like Yes. Exasperation.
That’s odd. Why would-
A thought suddenly came into focus. yes. helped. difficult.
Then, with a definite sense of exasperation: very difficult.
Then, much like a younger brother might say to a dimwitted elder: stupid.
Stupid? What is stupid? you stupid.
Belisarius sat up, astonished.
Me? Why am I stupid?
Extreme exasperation: not you you. all you. all stupid.
Now, with great force: cretins.
Belisarius was frowning fiercely. He couldn’t begin to think what might have so upset the jewel.
He sensed a new concept, a new thought, trying to force its way through the barrier. But the thought fell away, defeated.
Suddenly a quick vision flashed through his mind:
A scene from the day’s battle. A mass of cavalrymen, hacking away at each other, falling from their mounts. Knees clenched tightly on the barrel chests of horses. Hands clutching pommels. Men falling from their horses every time they were struck or misjudged their own blows. cretins.
Another vision. Nothing but a quick flashing image:
A horseman galloping across the steppe. A barbarian of some kind. Belisarius did not recognize his tribe. He rode his horse with complete grace and confidence. The image flashed to his legs. His feet.
The thought finally burst through. stirrups.
Belisarius’ mouth fell open.
“I’ll be Goddamned,” he whispered. “Why didn’t anybody ever think of that?” stupid.
David Drake Eric Flint
An oblique approach
Chapter 9
Constantinople
Autumn, 528 AD
“The man of the hour!” cried Sittas. “O hail the triumphant conq’rer!” He drained his cup in one quaff. “I’d rise to greet you, Belisarius, but I’m afraid I’d swoon in the presence of so august a personage.” He hiccuped. “I’m given to hero worship, you know. Terrible habit, just terrible.” He seized the flagon resting on the small table next to his couch and waved it about. “I’d pour you a drink, too, but I’m afraid I’d spill the wine. Trembling in the company of so legendary a figure, you understand, like a giddy schoolgirl.”
Sittas refilled the cup. His meaty hand was steady as a rock.
“Speaking of which,” he continued, “-giddy schoolgirls, that is-let me introduce you to my friend.” Sittas waved his other hand in the general direction of a woman sitting on the couch next to him. “Irene Macrembolitissa, I present you the famed General Belisarius. And his lovely wife, Antonina.”
Belisarius advanced across the room and bowed politely-to the woman, not Sittas.
Irene was quite striking in appearance. Not pretty, precisely, but attractive in a bold sort of way. She had a light complexion, chestnut hair, brown eyes, and a large aquiline nose. She appeared to be in her late twenties, but
