By the time the servants appeared, leading a small mule train carrying many large amphorae, the encampment of the Constantinople troops had turned into a cheerful celebration. The audience surrounding the general had grown much, much larger. Dozens of common soldiers—hundreds, counting those milling on the edges—had crowded around the sub-officers in the inner circle.
When the sun fell, Belisarius ordered the canopy dismantled, so that all of his soldiers could hear him better. That done, he continued his tales.
Tales of Malwa treasure and Malwa military incompetence, of course. But, woven among those tunes, were other melodies as well. He spoke of the huge numbers of the Malwa, which could only be thwarted by disciplined and spirited troops. Of the valor of their Persian allies, and the imperative necessity of not offending them with misconduct. Of his own nature as a general—good-hearted but, when necessary, firm.
But most of all, as the evening progressed, he spoke of Rome. Rome, and its thousand years of glory. Rome, often defeated in battle—rarely in war. Rome, savage when it needed to be—but, in the end, an empire of laws. Whose very emperor—and here his troops suddenly remembered, with not a little awe, that the genial man sharing their cups was the Emperor’s own father—only ruled with the consent of the governed. Especially the consent of those valiant men whose blood and courage had forged Rome and kept it safe through the centuries.
The very men who shared his wine.
He drained his last cup. “I believe I’ve had enough,” he announced. He rose to his feet—slowly, carefully, but without staggering—and eyed his horse. “Fuck it,” he muttered. “Too far to ride.”
He turned toward Agathius. “With your permission, chiliarch, I’d like to make my bed here tonight.”
Agathius’ eyes widened. He rose himself, rather shakily, and stared about. He seemed both startled and a bit embarassed. “We don’t have much in the way of—”
Belisarius casually waved his hand.
“A blanket’ll do. Often enough I’ve used my saddle for a pillow, on campaign.”
Two decarchs hastily scrambled about, digging up the best blanket they could find.
As they saw to that task, Belisarius straightened and said, very loudly:
“If there is any request that you have, make it now. It will be granted, if it is within my power to do so.”
There was a moment’s hesitation. Then, a heca-tontarch cleared his throat and said: “It’s about the men you’ve—your Thracians have been dragging alongside us.”
A little mutter of agreement swept the crowd. There was resentment in that mutter, even some anger, but nothing in the way of hot fury.
Agathius spoke, very firmly: “Those boys were a bad lot, sir. We all knew it. Wasn’t the first time they mistreated folk. Still—”
“Shouldn’t be dragged,” someone complained.
A different voice spoke: “Fuck that! A stinking filthy bunch they were—and you all know it!”
The man who had spoken rose.
“Drag them all you want, sir. Just don’t do it next to us. It’s—it’s not right.”
The mutter which swept the crowd was more in the nature of a growl, now.
Belisarius nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll have them buried first thing in the morning. A Christian burial, if I can find a priest to do the rites.”
A soldier nearby snorted. “Fat lot of good that’ll do ’em, once Satan gives ’em the eye.”
A ripple of laughter swept the encampment.
Belisarius smiled himself, but said: “That’s for the Lord to decide, not us. They’ll have a Christian burial.”
He paused, then spoke again. His powerful voice was low-pitched, but carried very well. Very well.
“There will be no more of this business.”
He made no threats. The hundreds of soldiers who heard him noted the absence of threats, and appreciated it. They also understood and appreciated, now, that their general was not a man who issued threats. But that, came to it, he would have half an army drag the corpses of the other half, if that was what it took to make it his army.
“Yes, sir,” came from many throats.
“My name is Belisarius. I am your general.”
“Yes, sir,” came from all throats.
The next morning, shortly after the army resumed its march, a courier arrived from the Persian forces who had gone ahead. The courier had been sent back by Kurush to inquire—delicately, delicately—as to the current state of the Roman army.