* * *
By midafternoon, Agathius’ problem was well on the way to solution. Agathius had only brought the problem to Belisarius because the difficulty was purely social, rather than technical, and he felt the commanding general needed to take charge. Some of the Persian dehgans were becoming vociferously indignant. Their mules, laden with burdens which were far too heavy for them, were becoming indignant themselves. Mules, unlike horses, cannot be driven beyond a certain point. The Persian mules reached that point as soon as the sun reached the zenith, and had promptly gone on what a future world would have called a general strike. And done so, moreover, with a solidarity which would have won the unadulterated approval of the most doctrinaire anarcho-syndicalist.
Even Persian dehgans knew that beating mules was pointless. So, turning upon less redoubtable opponents, they were demanding that room be made for their necessities in the supply barges which were streaming down the Tigris. The Mesopotamian and Greek sailors who manned those craft—no fools, they—steadfastly ignored the shouted demands of the dehgans on the banks and kept their barges a safe distance from the shore. So—
“They’ve been hollering at me for two hours, now,” grumbled Agathius. “I’m getting tired of it.”
Dehgans! grumbled Aide. Only thing in the world that can make Greek noble cataphracts seem like sentient creatures.
Belisarius turned to one of his couriers. For a moment, he hesitated. In campaigns past, Belisarius had always used veteran professionals for his dispatch riders. But on this campaign, he had felt it necessary to use young Greek nobles. Partly, to mollify the sentiments of the Roman empire’s aristocracy, which was slowly becoming reconciled to the Justinian dynasty. But, mostly, to mollify the Persian aristocracy, which would take umbrage at orders transmitted to them by a commoner.
This particular dispatch rider was named Calopodius. He was no older than seventeen, and came from one of the Roman empire’s most notable families. Belisarius had, tentatively, formed a good opinion of the boy’s wits and tact. Both of which would be needed here.
Calopodius immediately confirmed the assessment. The boy’s face showed no expression at all beyond calm alertness. But his words carried a certain dry humor, under the aristocratic drawl.
“I received excellent marks from both my rhetorician and grammarian, sir.”
Belisarius grinned. “Splendid! In that case, you should have no difficulty whatsoever telling Kurush to get down to the river immediately and put a stop to this nonsense.”
Calopodius nodded solemnly. “I don’t see any difficulty, sir. Be much like the time my mother sent me to instruct my father’s sister to quit pestering the stable boys.” A moment later, he was gone, spurring his horse into a canter.
“I wonder if Alexander the Great had to put up with this kind of crap,” mused Maurice.
“Of course not!” derided Belisarius. “The man was Achilles reborn. Who’s going to give Achilles an argument?”
But the retort failed of its purpose. Lowborn or not, Maurice and Agathius were every bit as familiar with the Greek epics as any senator.
“Agamemnon,” they chorused in unison.
Chapter 7
Antonina viewed the gadget with some disfavor. Ousanas, with considerably more.
“Romans are madmen,” he growled. “Lunatics, pure and simple.” He swiveled his head, bringing Ezana under his gaze.
“You are the admiral, Ezana. A seaman, where I am a simple hunter. Explain to this supposedly nautical-minded Roman”—here a fierce glare at John of Rhodes—”the simple truths which even a simpleminded hunter can understand.” He flipped his hand toward the gadget, peremptorily, the way a man dismisses an annoying servant. “Like trying to use a lioness for a hunting dog. More likely to bite the master than the prey.”
Ezana, like Ousanas, was scowling. But the Ethiopian naval commander’s scowl was simply one of thoughtfulness.
“Stick to hunting and statesmanship, aqabe tsentsen,” he grumbled. “You’re supreme at the first and not an outright embarrassment at the second.” He studied the gadget for another few seconds. “Hunting lioness . . .” he murmured. “Not a bad comparison, actually.”
Ezana’s scowl was suddenly replaced by a cheerful grin. “Not bad! But tell me, Ousanas—what if the lioness were genuinely tame? Or, at least, not quite feral?”