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 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.