Greeks—worry about what a bunch of sorry Persians think?
Instead, they weren’t looking at Belisarius at all. They were casting quick, veiled glances at their own commander, with their lips pressed tightly together. As if fighting—very hard—to keep from smirking themselves.
Odd. Very odd.
Belisarius left off his study of the Greeks and glanced at the rest of his subordinates. It was obvious that none of the officers in the tent were prepared to speak on this rather unusual subject. He had expected as much. So, after another minute’s silence, he thanked them politely for attending the conference and gave them leave to depart.
Which they did. Agathius led the way, at first, almost charging for the entrance. Then, stopping suddenly, he formed a broad-shouldered stumbling block for the officers who squeezed past him. The man seemed to dance back and forth on his feet, as if torn between two directions. At one point, he began to turn around, as if to re-enter the command tent. Stopped, turned back; turned back again; stopped. Danced back and forth.
Except for Belisarius and Maurice, Agathius was the only one left in the tent. For just a moment, the Constantinople commander’s eyes met those of the general. A strange look he had, in his face. Half-pleading; half—angry?
No, decided Belisarius. It was not anger, so much as a deeply buried resentment.
Of what? he wondered.
Suddenly, Agathius was gone. Belisarius cocked an eye at Maurice.
“Do you know something I don’t?”
Maurice snorted.
“What do you want? I’m Thracian, for the love of God. Bad enough you want to tax my simple mind with outlandish Persian ways. Am I supposed to understand Greeks, too?”
Two nights later, early in the evening, Agathius showed up at Belisarius’ tent.
After being invited within, the man stood rigidly before the general.
“I need to ask you a question, sir,” he said. His voice seemed a bit harsh.
Belisarius nodded. Agathius cleared his throat.
“Well. It’s this way, sir. I know it’s often done—well.”
Again, he cleared his throat. The harshness vanished, replaced by a sort of youthful uncertainty. Embarassment, perhaps.
The words came out in a rush.
“I know it’s often done that troop commanders—of chiliarch rank, I mean—after a successful campaign—or even sometimes a single battle, if it was a big victory—well—they get taken into the aristocracy. Official rank, I mean.”
His mouth clamped shut.
Belisarius scratched his chin.
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “It’s happened. More than once. Myself, for instance. I was born into the clarissimate—as low as it gets in the nobility, outside of equestrians. After Justinian promoted me into his bodyguard, he— Never mind. It’s a long story. Today, of course—since my stepson was acclaimed Emperor—I’m ranked at the very top of the senatorial illustres.” He smiled crookedly. “A gloriosissimi I am now, no less.”
Agathius did not return the smile. Belisarius realized that he was treading on very sensitive soil. “And yourself, Agathius? I’ve never asked.” A little, dismissive gesture. “I don’t care about such things, mind you, in my officers. Only their ability. But tell me—what is your own class origin?”
Agathius stared at the general.
“My father was a baker,” he replied. His voice was very soft; but his tone, hard as a rock.
Belisarius nodded, understanding.
In the eastern Roman Empire, unlike the western, men had never been forced by law to remain in their father’s trades. Still, the trades tended to be hereditary. All tradesmen were organized into guilds, and were considered freemen. Yet, while some of those trades carried genuine prestige—metalworkers, for instance—none of them were acceptable occupations for members of the nobility.
And certainly not bakers, who were considered among the lowest of men, outside of those in outright slavery or servitude.
So. Agathius, like many before him, had sought escape from his father’s wretched status through the principal avenue in the Roman Empire which was, relatively speaking, democratic and open to talent: the army.
Yet—Belisarius was still puzzled. He had encountered men—any number of them—who were obsessed with their official class ranking. But Agathius had never seemed to care, one way or another.
The general thrust speculation aside. Whatever might be the man’s motives or past state of mind, the question seemed to be of importance to him now.