Belisarius eyed him for a moment. “How many household troops will there be at Peroz-Shapur?”
“Two thousand, possibly three.”
Belisarius looked over his shoulder, as if to gauge Baresmanas’ forces. The seven hundred Persian cavalrymen who escorted the sahrdaran were barely visible further back in the long column.
“Less than four thousand men,” he murmured. “That’s not going to be much of an encouragement.”
Again, Baresmanas shrugged.
Belisarius broke into a grin. “Such a diplomat! Do you mean to tell me that Emperor Khusrau made no suggestion that you might request a bit of help from his Roman allies?”
Baresmanas glanced at him. “Well . . . The courier did mention, as a matter of fact, that the Emperor had idly mused that if the Roman commander were to be suddenly taken by a desire to see the ancient ruins of the glorious former capital of the Greek Seleucids—that he would have no objections.” Baresmanas nodded. “None whatsoever.”
Belisarius scratched his chin. “Seleucia. Yes, yes. I feel a sudden hankering to see the place. Been a life-long dream, in fact.”
They rode on for a bit, in companionable silence, until Belisarius remarked: “Seleucia wasn’t actually founded by Greeks, by the way. Macedonians.”
Baresmanas waved his hand. “Please, Belisarius! You can hardly expect a pureblood Aryan to understand these petty distinctions. As far as we are concerned, you mongrels from the west come in only two varieties. Bad Greeks and worse Greeks.”
Chapter 11
Two days later, the long-simmering discontent of the Constantinople troops came to a boil. After the midday break, when the order was given to resume the march, the garrison soldiers remained squatting by their campfires, refusing to mount up.
Their action had obviously been coordinated in advance. Several of his Thracian bucellarii, including Maurice, reported to Belisarius that the garrison troopers’ sub-officers had been seen circulating through the route camp during the break. The top officers of the Constantinople soldiers, the chiliarch and the tribunes, were apparently not involved directly. But they were just as apparently making no effort to restore discipline to their troops.
“It’s an organized mutiny,” concluded Maurice angrily. “This is not just some spontaneous outburst.”
Belisarius made a calming gesture with his hand. For a moment, he stared at the Euphrates, as if seeking inspiration from its placidly moving waters. As usual, whenever possible, the army had taken its mid-day break at a place where the road ran next to the river.
He wiped his face with a cloth. The heat was oppressive, even in the shade provided by the canopy which his men had erected for him at the break. The shelter was not a tent—simply a canvas stretched across six poles. Enough to provide some relief from the sun, while not blocking the slight breeze.
“Let’s not use that term,” the general stated firmly. He met Maurice’s glare with a calm gaze. ” ‘Mutiny’ isn’t just a curse word, Maurice. It’s also a legal definition. If I call this a mutiny, I am required by imperial edict to deal with it in specific ways. Ways which, at the moment, I am not convinced are necessary. Or wise.”
Belisarius scanned the faces of the other men crowded into the shelter of the lean-to. All of the top commanders of the army were there, except for the officers in charge of the Constantinople troops. Their absence made their own shaky allegiance quite clear.
Baresmanas and Kurush were also standing there. Belisarius decided to deal with that problem first.
“I would appreciate it, Kurush, if you would resume the march with your own troops. Move as slowly as you can, without obviously dawdling, so that we Romans can catch up to you as soon as this problem is settled. But, for the moment, I think it would be best if—”
Kurush nodded. “There’s no need to explain, Belisarius. You don’t need Aryan soldiers mixed into this brew. We’d just become another source of tension.”
He turned away, moving with his usual nervous energy, and began giving quick orders to his subordinates. Baresmanas followed, after giving Belisarius a supportive smile.
With none but Romans now present, the atmosphere eased a bit. Or, it might be better to say, Roman inhibitions relaxed.