Destiny's shield

Belisarius' good humor vanished. 'That's not booty. That's looting. And they're damn well right about that!'

He brought a full Homeric scowl to bear.

'I won't tolerate looting and indiscipline. I never have, and I never will. Have no doubt about that, any of you. The penalty for looting in my army is fifty lashes. And I'll execute a man who murders and rapes. On the second offense, in the same unit, the officer in command'll be strapped to the whipping post himself. Or hung.'

He drained his cup. Held it out. Immediately drained the refill. Held it out again. The soldiers eyed the cup, then him. To all appearances, the general seemed not in the slightest affected by the wine he had drunk.

'Make no mistake about it,' he said. Softly, but very firmly. 'If you can't abide by those rules-'

He tossed his head dismissively. '-then follow those five bums back to your cozy barracks in Constantinople.'

He drained the cup. Held it out. As it was being refilled, he remarked casually: 'The reason those noble fellows in Constantinople are confused on this point is because those fine aristocratic champions don't know what a campaign looks like in the first place. When's the last time they went to war?'

A chuckle swept through the little crowd.

'A campaign, men, is when you set out to thrash the enemy senseless and do it. Once that job's done-we call it winning the war-booty's no problem at all. But we're not talking about 'gleanings' here.'

Scornfully: ' 'Gleanings' means stealing silver plate from a peasant's hut. His only silver plate, if he has one in the first place. Or his chickens. Booty means the wealth of empires, disgorged to their con-querors.'

He lifted his cup, waved it in the general direction of the east.

'There's no empire in the world richer than the Malwa. And they travel in style, too, let me tell you. When I was at Ranapur, the Malwa Emperor erected a pavilion damned near as big as the Great Palace. And you wouldn't believe what he filled it with! His throne alone-his 'traveling chair,' he called it-was made of solid-'

Belisarius continued in this happy vein for another ten minutes. Half that time he spent regaling his audience with tales of Malwa treasure, spoken in a tone of awe and wonder. The other half, with tales of Malwa fecklessness and cowardice, in tones of scorn and derision.

None of it was, quite, outright lies. None of it was, quite, cold sober truth.

By the time he finished, he had emptied another amphora of wine. His audience had emptied their fair share, also.

He glanced up at the sun. Yawned.

'Ah, hell. It's too late to start a proper march now, anyway.'

He rose to his feet.

'Give me a minute, boys, to give the order. Then we can get down to some serious drinking.'

The soldiers ogled him. The general was not only standing erect, with perfect ease, he wasn't even swaying. Belisarius strode toward Valentinian and Anastasius. His two cataphracts had remained on their horses, sweating rivers in the hot sun. Glaring resentfully at the Constantinople troops.

In a loud voice, he called out to them: 'Pass the word to Maurice! We'll take a break for the rest of the day. Resume the march tomorrow morning.'

He began to turn away, waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal. Then, as if taken by a sudden happy thought, added: 'And tell my servants to bring some wine! Plenty of it-enough for all of us. Good vintage, too-d'ye hear? I'll have no swill for these men!'

By the time the servants appeared, leading a small mule train carrying many large amphorae, the encampment of the Constantinople troops had turned into a cheerful celebration. The audience surrounding the general had grown much, much larger. Dozens of common soldiers-hundreds, counting those milling on the edges- had crowded around the sub-officers in the inner circle.

When the sun fell, Belisarius ordered the canopy dismantled, so that all of his soldiers could hear him better. That done, he continued his tales.

Tales of Malwa treasure and Malwa military incompetence, of course. But, woven among those tunes, were other melodies as well. He spoke of the huge numbers of the Malwa, which could only be thwarted by disciplined and spirited troops. Of the valor of their Persian allies, and the imperative necessity of not offending them with misconduct. Of his own nature as a general-good-hearted but, when necessary, firm.

But most of all, as the evening progressed, he spoke of Rome. Rome, and its thousand years of glory. Rome, often defeated in battle-rarely in war. Rome, savage when it needed to be-but, in the end, an empire of laws. Whose very emperor-and here his troops suddenly remembered, with not a little awe, that the genial man sharing their cups was the Emperor's own father-only ruled with the consent of the governed. Especially the consent of those valiant men whose blood and courage had forged Rome and kept it safe through the centuries.

The very men who shared his wine.

He drained his last cup. 'I believe I've had enough,' he announced. He rose to his feet-slowly, carefully, but without staggering-and eyed his horse. 'Fuck it,' he muttered. 'Too far to ride.'

He turned toward Agathius. 'With your permission, chiliarch, I'd like to make my bed here tonight.'

Agathius' eyes widened. He rose himself, rather shakily, and stared about. He seemed both startled and a bit embarassed. 'We don't have much in the way of-'

Belisarius casually waved his hand.

'A blanket'll do. Often enough I've used my saddle for a pillow, on campaign.'

Two decarchs hastily scrambled about, digging up the best blanket they could find.

As they saw to that task, Belisarius straightened and said, very loudly:

'If there is any request that you have, make it now. It will be granted, if it is within my power to do so.'

There was a moment's hesitation. Then, a heca-tontarch cleared his throat and said: 'It's about the men you've-your Thracians have been dragging alongside us.'

A little mutter of agreement swept the crowd. There was resentment in that mutter, even some anger, but nothing in the way of hot fury.

Agathius spoke, very firmly: 'Those boys were a bad lot, sir. We all knew it. Wasn't the first time they mistreated folk. Still-'

'Shouldn't be dragged,' someone complained.

A different voice spoke: 'Fuck that! A stinking filthy bunch they were-and you all know it!'

The man who had spoken rose.

'Drag them all you want, sir. Just don't do it next to us. It's-it's not right.'

The mutter which swept the crowd was more in the nature of a growl, now.

Belisarius nodded. 'Fair enough. I'll have them buried first thing in the morning. A Christian burial, if I can find a priest to do the rites.'

A soldier nearby snorted. 'Fat lot of good that'll do 'em, once Satan gives 'em the eye.'

A ripple of laughter swept the encampment.

Belisarius smiled himself, but said: 'That's for the Lord to decide, not us. They'll have a Christian burial.'

He paused, then spoke again. His powerful voice was low-pitched, but carried very well. Very well.

'There will be no more of this business.'

He made no threats. The hundreds of soldiers who heard him noted the absence of threats, and appreciated it. They also understood and appreciated, now, that their general was not a man who issued threats. But that, came to it, he would have half an army drag the corpses of the other half, if that was what it took to make it his army.

'Yes, sir,' came from many throats.

'My name is Belisarius. I am your general.'

'Yes, sir,' came from all throats.

The next morning, shortly after the army resumed its march, a courier arrived from the Persian forces who