Crazy fucking Thracian.
How did this lunatic ever get to be a general, anyway?
By the time we get there, a litter of kittens could whip us, we’ll be so worn out.
Crazy fucking Thracian.
How did this lunatic ever get to be a general, anyway?
“You have been pushing them rather hard,” said Baresmanas.
Belisarius snorted. “You think so?” He turned in his own saddle, scowling. “In point of fact, Bares-manas, the pace we’ve been maintaining since we left Constantinople is considerably less than my own troops are accustomed to. For my bucellarii, this has been a pleasant promenade.”
His scowl deepened. “Two months—to cover six hundred miles. Twenty miles a day, no better. For a large infantry army, that would be good. But for a small force of cavalrymen—on decent roads, most of the time—it’s disgraceful.”
Now, Barasmanas did laugh. More of a dry chuckle, perhaps. He pointed to the small group, led by two officers, trotting toward them from the direction of Callinicum.
“I take it you think these Syrian lads will be a good influence.”
Belisarius examined the approaching Roman soldiers. “Not exactly. Those damned garritroopers are too full of themselves to take a bunch of scruffy border troops as an example. But I do believe I can use them to shame the bastards.”
The oncoming officers were now close enough to discern their individual features.
“If I’m not mistaken,” commented Baresmanas, “the two in front are Bouzes and Coutzes. The same brothers whom we captured just a few days before the battle at Mindouos. While they were—ah—”
“Leading a reconnaisance in force,” said Belisarius firmly.
“Ah. Is that what it was?”
The sahrdaran’s eyebrows lifted.
“At the time, I had the impression the headstrong fellows were charging about trying to capture a mysterious pay caravan which, oddly enough, was never found by anyone.”
Belisarius shook his head sadly. “Isn’t it just terrible? The way vicious rumors get started?”
Very firmly:
“Reconnaissance in force.”
Less than a minute later, the oncoming Romans reached Belisarius. The general reined in his horse. Behind him, the long column came to a halt. A moment later, Maurice drew up alongside.
Bouzes and Coutzes sat in their saddles stiff-backed and erect. Their young faces were reasonably expressionless, but it took no great perspicacity to deduce that they were more than a bit apprehensive. Their last encounter with Belisarius had been unfortunate, to say the least.
But Belisarius had known that the brothers would be leading the troops from the Army of Syria, and he had already decided on his course of action. Whatever hotheaded folly the two had been guilty of in the past, both Sittas and Hermogenes had been favorably impressed by the brothers in the three years which had elapsed since the battle of Mindouos.
So he greeted them with a wide smile and an outstretched hand, and made an elaborate show of introducing them to Baresmanas. He was a bit concerned, for a moment, that the brothers might behave rudely toward the sahrdaran. Bouzes and Coutzes, during the time he had worked with them leading up to the battle of Mindouos, had been quite vociferous regarding their dislike for Persians. But the brothers allayed that concern immediately.
As soon as the introductions were made, Coutzes said to Baresmanas:
“Your nephew Kurush has already arrived at Callinicum. Along with seven hundred of your cavalrymen. They’ve set up camp just next to our own.”
“We would have brought him with us to meet you,” added Bouzes, “but the commander of the Roman garrison in Callinicum wouldn’t allow it.”
“The stupid jackass is buried up to his ass in regulations,” snapped Coutzes. “Said it was forbidden to allow Persian military personnel beyond the trading emporium.”
Belisarius laughed. Romans and Persians had been trading for as long as they had been fighting each other. In truth, trade was the basic relationship. For all that the two empires had clashed many times on the field of battle, peace was the more common state of affairs. And, during wartime or peacetime, the trade never stopped. Year after year, decade after decade, century after century, caravans had been passing along that very road.
But—empires being empires—the trade was heavily regulated. (Officially. The border populations, Roman and Persian alike, were the world’s most notorious smugglers.) For decades, Callinicum had been established as the official entrepot for Persians seeking to trade with Rome—just as Nisibis was, on the other side of the border, for Romans desiring to enter Persia.