“Two akatoi,” he murmured, “and nine corbita. To be on the safe side, let’s call it three hundred cataphracts and three thousand infantry. Against Sittas’ five hundred cataphracts and the two thousand infantrymen Hermogenes brought.”
Ashot spat into the sea. “Lambs to the slaughter,” he concluded.
Belisarius smiled at the Armenian’s ferocious expression. Then, curious to see Ashot’s reaction, he remarked:
“Heavy odds, against the infantry.”
The Armenian sneered.
“Are you kidding? Against Hermogenes’ infantry?” The cataphract shook his head firmly. “You’ve been gone for almost a year and a half, general. You haven’t seen what Hermogenes has done with his troops. And the ones he brought to Constantinople were his best units. The finest Roman infantry since the days of the Principate. They’ll chew their way right through that Bithynian garbage.”
Belisarius nodded. He was not surprised. Still, he was gratified.
“The enemy’ll be disheartened, too,” added Ashot. “Confused—half-leaderless, probably—scared shitless.”
Again, he spat into the ocean. “Lambs to the slaughter. Lambs to the slaughter.”
Belisarius saw that John had apparently reached the same conclusion as Ashot. The artillery ship was veering off in pursuit of the corbita retreating to Chalcedon.
“Will he catch any of them?” he asked.
“Not a chance,” replied the Armenian instantly. “They’re sailing almost before the wind, on that heading. The advantage now is with the heavier corbita and their square-rigged sails, especially since the rowers on John’s galley are bound to be tired. But once they reach Chalcedon, those ships are trapped. John can stand off in the mouth of the harbor and bombard them with impunity. He’ll turn the whole fleet into so much kindling.”
Another spit into the sea. “The Army of Bithynia’s out of it, general. Except for the few who are heading for southern Constantinople.”
For a moment, Belisarius examined the cataphract standing next to him. The Armenian was now watching the enemy ships sailing toward Portus Caesarii, oblivious to his general’s gaze.
Abruptly, Belisarius made his decision.
“In a few months, Ashot, I’ll be promoting several of the men to hecatontarch. You’re one of them.”
The Armenian’s eyes widened. He stared at the general.
“You’ve only got one hecatontarch—Maurice. And I don’t—” Ashot groped for words. Like all of Belisarius’ cataphracts, he had a towering respect for Maurice.
Belisarius smiled.
“Oh, Maurice’ll be promoted also. A chiliarch he’ll be, now.”
Ashot was still wide-eyed. Belisarius shook his head.
“We’re in a new world, Ashot. I never felt I needed more than a few hundred bucellarii, before. But among the many things I learned while I was in India is that the Malwa don’t have genuine elite troops. Not ones they can rely on, at least. That’s a Roman advantage I intend to maximize.”
He scratched his chin, estimating.
“Five thousand bucellarii. Seven thousand, if possible. Not at once, of course—I want them to be elite troops, not warm bodies. But that’s my goal.” His smile grew crooked. “You’ll probably wind up a chiliarch yourself, soon enough. I’ll need several for all those troops, with Maurice in overall command.”
Ashot, again, groped for words.
“I don’t think—that’s a lot of Thracians, general. Five thousand? Seven thousand?” Hesitantly: “And I’m Armenian. I get along well with the Thracians you’ve got now, that’s true. They’ve known me for a long time. But I don’t know that new Thracian boys are going to be all that happy with an Armenian—”
“If they can’t handle it,” replied Belisarius harshly, “I’ll pitch them out on their ear.” His smile returned. “Besides—who said they’d all be Thracians?” He chuckled, seeing Ashot’s frown.
“I don’t have time, any longer, for anyone’s delicate sensibilities. I want five thousand bucellarii—the best cataphracts anywhere in the world—as fast as I can get them. A big chunk—possibly the majority—will be Thracian. But they’ll be lots of Illyrians and as many Isaurians as we can find who are willing to become cataphracts. Isaurians are tough as nails. Beyond that—” He shrugged. “Anyone who can fight well, and can learn to become a cataphract. Greeks, Armenians, Egyptians, barbarians—even Jews. I don’t care.”
Ashot had overcome his initial surprise, and was now tugging on his beard thoughtfully. “Expensive, general. Five thousand bucellarii—even if you’re not as generous as usual—you’re looking at—”