The boy was not sobbing. He was simply staring at the general with eyes so open they seemed to protrude entirely from his face. Belisarius gave him a smile. The boy’s only reaction was to—somehow—widen his eyes further.
There was nothing of childlike curiosity in those wide eyes. Just a terror so deep that the lad was like a paralyzed rodent, facing a cobra.
“Oh, Christ,” muttered Maurice.
Belisarius sighed. He dismissed any thought of trying to interrogate the peasants. They would tell him nothing, in any event. Could tell him nothing, even if he spoke their language. The war had smote the peasants as war always does—like a thunderstorm cast down by distant and uncaring deities, sweeping them aside like debris in a river raging in flood. They would understand nothing of it, beyond chaos and confusion. Troop movements, maneuvers, terrain as a military feature rather than just a path of panic-stricken flight—these were beyond their ken and reckoning.
“Let them go,” he ordered. “Make sure you have our own Thracians escort them to the rear. I don’t expect there’d be any trouble with other soldiers, but . . .”
“There’s no reason to risk the temptation,” finished Maurice, scowling a bit. “Not that these have anything worth stealing, but some of the Greeks—the new ones, not Cyril’s men—are starting to complain about the lack of booty.”
He eyed one of the peasant girls. Older, she was—perhaps sixteen or seventeen. “They might take out their frustration with other pleasures. And then—” He grated a harsh little laugh. “You’d give the army another demonstration of Belisarius discipline, and we’d look a bit silly charging into battle dragging executed cataphracts behind us.”
Belisarius nodded. “The fact these people are here at all tells me what I need to know. The Malwa have started their massacre.”
He gathered up the reins of his horse. His brown eyes, usually as warm as old wood, glinted like hard shells in a receding tide. “Which means they’ll be spread out and disorganized. So it’s time for another demonstration.” The next words were almost hissed. “I will put the fear of God in those men. Old Testament fear.”
* * *
He fell on the Malwa less than two hours later. Early afternoon it was, by then. The Arab scouts had begun bringing in further reports, this time based on direct observation of the enemy. As Belisarius had expected, the Malwa soldiers were spread out across miles of terrain.
“Some burning, not much,” summarized Abbu. The old desert chief’s face was tight with anger. “Probably they plan to do the burning later. Now it is just the killing.”
That too, Belisarius had also deduced. As they marched forward, the Roman army had encountered other refugees since the first group. The trickle had become a stream, until the entire countryside seemed to have little rivulets of frantic people pouring through it. The Malwa were butchering everyone in the area they could catch. A scorched earth campaign Tamerlane would have been proud to call his own. Tear out the ultimate roots of the land by destroying the work force itself, not simply the products of its labor.
“Is there a depression in the land we can drive them toward?” he asked.
Abbu pointed east by north. “Yes, General. That way, not far—maybe five miles. A little riverbed, almost dry. Runs northwest by southeast.”
The scout leader’s face tightened still further. The anger was still there, but it was now overlaid with anticipation. He understood immediately Belisarius’ purpose.
“Good killing ground,” he snarled. “The opposite bank will channel them downriver. Not high, but sharp and steep.”
He pointed again, this time more east than north. “There. A small rise slopes down toward our bank of the river, which is shallow.”
Belisarius nodded. Then:
“Sittas, take all your cataphracts and flank them on the west. Take Cyril’s, too. Roll the bastards up. Don’t try to smash them, just herd them toward Abbu’s river. As disorganized as they are, they’ll run, not fight.”
He gave the big Greek general a hard stare. “Run, not fight. As long as you don’t corner them.”
Sittas returned the stare with a grin. “Stop fussing at me. I do know how to do something other than charge, you know.” He began turning his horse. “Besides, I like this plan. We’ll show these swine how to run a real slaughter.”