“Call it what you want,” snarled Coutzes. “I think you ought to give those fucking garrison commanders the same treatment you gave those eight fucking—”
“I think we ought to hear what the general thinks,” interjected Bouzes. He laid a restraining hand on his brother’s arm. “He is noted for his cunning, you know. Or have you forgotten?”
Coutzes made a sour face, but fell silent. Bouzes grinned at Belisarius. “Perhaps we might announce the suddenly-discovered presence of a Malwa pay caravan?” he suggested cheerfully. “Send the garritroopers off on a ‘reconnaissance-in-force’?”
All the officers standing around erupted in laughter, except Belisarius. But even he, in the humor of the moment, could not help returning Bouzes’ grin.
In the few days since Bouzes and Coutzes had joined his forces, Belisarius had come to share Sittas and Hermogenes’ assessment of the two brothers. Neither one, it was true—especially Coutzes—had entirely shed their youthful tendencies toward hot-headedness. But those tendencies, in the three years since Mindouos, had clearly been tempered by experience.
Belisarius’ grin faded, but a smile remained. Yes, he had already decided that he approved of the Thracian brothers. Not all men have the temperament to learn from experience. Belisarius himself did, and he prized that ability in others.
Humor, he thought, was the key—especially the ability to laugh at oneself. When he heard Bouzes and Coutzes, in Callinicum, invite Maurice to join them in a “reconnaissance-in-force” to the nearest tavern, he knew the brothers would work out just fine.
He shook off the humor. His problem remained, and it was not comical in the least. “I want to settle this without bloodshed,” he announced. “And I don’t think it’s needed, anyway. Maurice, I’m not quibbling with you over legal definitions. I simply think that you’re misreading the situation.”
Maurice tugged his beard. “Maybe,” he said, grudgingly. “But—”
Again, Belisarius held up a hand. Maurice shrugged, slightly, and fell silent.
The general now turned toward Timasius, the commander of the five hundred Illyrian cavalrymen given to him by Germanicus.
“Your men are the key to the situation,” he announced. “Key, at least, to the way I handle it. Where do they stand?”
Timasius frowned. “Stand? Exactly how do you mean that, general?”
Timasius’ thick accent—like most Illyrians from Dacia, his native language was Latin rather than Greek—always made him seem a bit dull-witted. At first, Belisarius had dismissed the impression, until further acquaintance with the man had led him to the conclusion that Timasius was, in fact, a bit on the dim side. He seemed a competent enough officer, true, when dealing with routine matters. But—
Belisarius decided he had no time to be anything other than blunt and direct.
“What I mean, Timasius, is that you Illyrians have also been complaining loudly since we began the march two months ago.” He waved down the officer’s gathering sputter of protest. “I am not accusing you of anything! I am simply stating a fact.”
Timasius lapsed into mulish, resentful silence. Belisarius tightened his jaws, prepared to drive the matter through. But it proved unnecessary. Timasius’ chief subordinate, a hecatontarch by the name of Liberius, spoke up.
“It’s not the same, general. It’s true, our men have been grousing a lot—but that’s just due to the unaccustomed exertions of this forced march.”
The man scowled. On his heavy-set, low-browed face, the expression made him seem like an absolute dullard. But his ensuing words contradicted the impression.
“You’ve got to distinguish between that and what’s eating the Constantinople men. They’re a lot of pampered garrison troops. True, they’re not nobility, except the officers—not that unit—but they’ve picked up the attitude. They’re used to lording it over everybody, friend and foe alike.” The scowl deepened. The man’s brow disappeared almost completely. “Especially over their own, the snotty bastards. That girl in Callinicum wasn’t the first tavern maid they’ve been free with, you can be sure of that. Probably been quite a few in Constantinople itself given that same treatment—and had it hushed up afterward, by the capital’s authorities.”
A little growl from several of the other officers under the canopy indicated their concurrence.
“Illyrian soldiers aren’t exactly famous for their gentle manners, either,” commented Belisarius mildly.