The soldiers’ gaze became eager. “Booty, sir?” asked one. “Do you think so? We’d heard—”
He fell silent. Another spoke: “We’d heard you frown on booty, sir.”
Belisarius’ eyes widened. “From whom did you hear that? Not the Syrian soldiers! Each one of those lads came away from Mindouos with more treasure than they knew what to do with. And you certainly didn’t hear it from my Thracian cataphracts!”
The Greeks exchanged glances with each other. Suddenly, Cyril laughed.
“We heard it from the other garrison units. In Constantinople. They said Belisarius was a delicate sort, who wouldn’t let his men enjoy the gleanings of a campaign.”
Belisarius’ good humor vanished. “That’s not booty. That’s looting. And they’re damn well right about that!”
He brought a full Homeric scowl to bear.
“I won’t tolerate looting and indiscipline. I never have, and I never will. Have no doubt about that, any of you. The penalty for looting in my army is fifty lashes. And I’ll execute a man who murders and rapes. On the second offense, in the same unit, the officer in command’ll be strapped to the whipping post himself. Or hung.”
He drained his cup. Held it out. Immediately drained the refill. Held it out again. The soldiers eyed the cup, then him. To all appearances, the general seemed not in the slightest affected by the wine he had drunk.
“Make no mistake about it,” he said. Softly, but very firmly. “If you can’t abide by those rules—”
He tossed his head dismissively. “—then follow those five bums back to your cozy barracks in Constantinople.”
He drained the cup. Held it out. As it was being refilled, he remarked casually: “The reason those noble fellows in Constantinople are confused on this point is because those fine aristocratic champions don’t know what a campaign looks like in the first place. When’s the last time they went to war?”
A chuckle swept through the little crowd.
“A campaign, men, is when you set out to thrash the enemy senseless and do it. Once that job’s done—we call it winning the war—booty’s no problem at all. But we’re not talking about ‘gleanings’ here.”
Scornfully: ” ‘Gleanings’ means stealing silver plate from a peasant’s hut. His only silver plate, if he has one in the first place. Or his chickens. Booty means the wealth of empires, disgorged to their con-querors.”
He lifted his cup, waved it in the general direction of the east.
“There’s no empire in the world richer than the Malwa. And they travel in style, too, let me tell you. When I was at Ranapur, the Malwa Emperor erected a pavilion damned near as big as the Great Palace. And you wouldn’t believe what he filled it with! His throne alone—his ‘traveling chair,’ he called it—was made of solid—”
Belisarius continued in this happy vein for another ten minutes. Half that time he spent regaling his audience with tales of Malwa treasure, spoken in a tone of awe and wonder. The other half, with tales of Malwa fecklessness and cowardice, in tones of scorn and derision.
None of it was, quite, outright lies. None of it was, quite, cold sober truth.
By the time he finished, he had emptied another amphora of wine. His audience had emptied their fair share, also.
He glanced up at the sun. Yawned.
“Ah, hell. It’s too late to start a proper march now, anyway.”
He rose to his feet.
“Give me a minute, boys, to give the order. Then we can get down to some serious drinking.”
The soldiers ogled him. The general was not only standing erect, with perfect ease, he wasn’t even swaying. Belisarius strode toward Valentinian and Anastasius. His two cataphracts had remained on their horses, sweating rivers in the hot sun. Glaring resentfully at the Constantinople troops.
In a loud voice, he called out to them: “Pass the word to Maurice! We’ll take a break for the rest of the day. Resume the march tomorrow morning.”
He began to turn away, waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal. Then, as if taken by a sudden happy thought, added: “And tell my servants to bring some wine! Plenty of it—enough for all of us. Good vintage, too—d’ye hear? I’ll have no swill for these men!”