Outnumbered, under a divided command, his own army shaky from rot, the majority of the Roman forces under the command of brash, untested youth—and, now, ordered to poke the Persian lion.
Belisarius sighed, very faintly, and turned back to the interior of the tent.
“How is the other matter going?” he asked.
“The pilfering?” Belisarius nodded.
“We’re bringing it under control,” said Maurice. “Now that rations have started to flow properly again, the troops don’t have any real reason to steal from the locals. It’s more a matter of habit than anything else.”
“That’s exactly my concern,” said Belisarius. “Looting’s the worst habit an army can develop.”
“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.”