“It seems we may face a civil war, after all, on top of the Malwa invasion,” he said grimly.
The Persian nobleman stared out over the arid landscape of northern Mesopotamia. Other than the occasional oasis, the only relief from the bleak desolation was the Euphrates, half a mile east of the road the army was taking.
Belisarius cocked an eyebrow toward the sahrdaran, but said nothing. After a moment, Baresmanas sighed.
“I had hoped it would not come to this. But Ormazd was always a fool. Khusrau’s half-brother has a great deal of support among some of the sahrdaran families, especially the Varazes and the Andigans. A large part of the Karen are favorable to him, also. And he is quite popular among the imperial vur-zurgan. All of that has apparently gone to his head.
“Stupid!” he snorted. “The great mass of the dehgans have made clear that their loyalty is to Khusrau. Without them—” Baresmanas shrugged.
Belisarius nodded thoughtfully, reviewing his knowledge of the power structure in Persia.
Persian society was rigidly divided into classes, and class position usually translated directly into political power. The seven sahrdaran families provided the satraps of major provinces and, often enough, the royalty of subordinate kingdoms. Below the great sahrdaran houses came the class of “grandees,” whom the Persians called vurzurgan. The vuzurgan ruled small provinces, and filled the higher ranks of the imperial officialdom.
Finally, at the base of the Persian aristocracy, came the azadan—”men of noble birth.” Most of these consisted of small landed gentry, that class which the Persians called the dehgans. It was the dehgans who provided the feared armored lancers which were the heart of the mighty Persian army.
So—Khusrau’s rival Ormazd, for all that he had gained the support of many high-ranked noblemen, had failed to win the allegiance of the men who provided Persia’s rulers with their mailed fist.
Belisarius smiled his crooked smile. “Even Aryan principles,” he murmured, “have to take crude reality into account.”
Baresmanas matched the sly smile with one of his own, saying: “It’s your fault, actually.”
Belisarius’ eyes widened. “My fault? How in the world—”
“Ormazd’s most powerful and influential supporter is Firuz. Who is a Karen, as you may know.”
Belisarius shook his head. “No, I did not know. We are speaking of the same Firuz who—”
“Yes, indeed. The same Firuz—the same illustrious champion—who led the Aryan army at Mindouos. Led it to its most ignominious defeat in well over a century—at your hands, my friend.”
Belisarius frowned. “I knew he had survived the battle. I even visited, while we held him captive, to pay my respects. He was quite rude, so my visit was very brief. But I did not know he was Karen, and I had no idea he held such sway in dynastic affairs.”
Baresmanas chuckled scornfully. “Oh, yes. He is quite the favorite of imperial grandees, and the Mazda priesthood thinks well of him also. That favoritism, in fact, is what led to him being given the command of the army at Nisibis. Despite his obvious”—all humor vanished—”military incompetence.”
Belisarius was distracted for a moment. A serpent slithering off the road had unsettled his mount. After calming the horse, he turned back to Baresmanas and said: “That would explain, I imagine, the hostility of the dehgans to his candidate Ormazd.”
The sahrdaran tightened his lips. “They have not forgotten that insane charge he led at Mindouos, which trapped us against your field fortifications.” He shuddered. “What a hideous slaughter!”
For a moment, the sahrdaran’s face was drawn, almost haggard. Belisarius looked away, controlling his own grimace. It had been pure butchery in the center at Mindouos. Just as he had planned—trapping the Persian lancers against his infantry while he hammered them from the flank with his own heavy cavalry.
He sighed. Over the past months, he had become quite fond of Baresmanas. Yet he knew he would do it all again, if the necessity arose.
Something of his sentiments must have been clear to the Persian. Baresmanas leaned over and said, almost in a whisper:
“Such is war, my friend. In this, if nothing else, we are much alike—neither of us gives any credence to myths of glory and martial grandeur.”