An Oblique Approach

"Deadly with a blade, is Belisarius." He'd heard it said, and knew it for a cold and simple truth. But he had never been as deadly as he was that day. The cause lay not in any added strength or stamina. It was—odd. He seemed to see everything with perfect clarity, even in the hazy dust. He seemed to be able to gauge every motion by an enemy perfectly—and gauge his own strikes with equal precision. Time after time, he had slipped a blow by the barest margin—yet knowing, all the while, that the margin was adequate. Time after time, he had landed a blow of his own through the narrowest gaps, the slimmest openings—yet knowing, at the instant, that the gaps were enough. Time after time, he had begun to slip from his horse, only to find his balance again with perfect ease.

Odd. The truth was that he was leaving his own trail of gore and blood. It was like a path through a forest beaten by an elephant.

Even his cataphracts noticed. And complained, in the case of one.

"We're supposed to be protecting you, General," hissed Valentinian. "Not the other way around."

"Quit bitching," growled Anastasius. Chunk. Another Mede down. "I'm a big target. I need all the protection I can get." Chunk.

Valentinian began to snarl something, but fell silent, listening intently.

"I think—"

"Yes," said Belisarius. He had heard it too. The first cry for quarter, coming from a Persian throat. The cry had been cut off.

The general ceased his mayhem. Turned to Anastasius.

"Get Maurice—and the others. Now. I don't want to end the battle with atrocities. We're trying to win this war, not start a new one."

"No need," grunted Anastasius. He extended his right hand, pointing with his blood-covered mace. Belisarius turned and saw his entire Thracian retinue charging toward them on horseback.

Within seconds, Maurice drew up alongside them.

"I don't want a massacre, Maurice!" shouted Belisarius. "I'll handle the situation here, but the Huns—"

Maurice interrupted.

"They're already making for the Persian camp. I'll try to stop them, but I'll need reinforcement as soon as you can get there."

Without another word, the hecatontarch spurred his horse into a gallop. Seconds later, the entire body of Thracian cataphracts were thundering to the east, in the direction of the Persian camp.

Cries for quarter were being heard now from all over the battlefield. Many of them cut off in mid-screech. All fight was gone from the Medes. The light cavalry were already fleeing the field. The Persian infantry had long since begun to run. The heavy cavalry, trapped in the center, were trying to surrender. Without much success. The Roman infantrymen were in full fury. They were wreaking their vengeance on those who had so often in the past brought terror into their own hearts.

Belisarius rode directly into the mass. When he wanted to use it, the general had a very loud and well-trained voice. Anastasius joined him with his own thundering basso. Yet, strangely enough, it was Valentinian's nasal tenor that pierced through the din like a sword.

A simple cry, designed to rein in the Roman murder:

"Ransom! Ransom! Ransom!"

The cry was immediately taken up by the Persians themselves. Within seconds, the slaughter stopped. Half-maddened the Roman infantry might have been. Poor, however, they most certainly were. And it suddenly dawned on them that they held in the palm of their mercy the lives of hundreds—thousands, maybe—of Persians. Noble Persians. Rich noble Persians.

Belisarius quickly found Hermogenes. The infantry chiliarch took responsibility for organizing the surrender. Then Belisarius went in search of Eutychian.

But Eutychian was not to be found. Nothing but his body, lying on the ground, an arrow through his throat.

Belisarius, staring down at the corpse, felt a great sadness wash over him. He had barely known the man. But he had looked forward to the pleasure.

He shook off the mood. Later. Not now.

He found the highest-ranked surviving cavalry commander of the Army of Lebanon. Mundus, his name. He had been one of Pharas' little coterie, and his face turned a bit pale when Belisarius rode up. When he spotted Valentinian and Anastasius he turned very pale.

"Round up your cavalry, Mundus," commanded Belisarius. "At least three ala. I need them to reinforce my cataphracts at the Persian camp. The Huns'll be on a rampage and I intend to put a stop to it."

Mundus winced. "It'll be hard," he muttered. "The men'll want their share of—"

"Forget the ransom!" thundered the general. "If they complain, tell them I've got plans for bigger booty. I'll explain later. But right now—move, damn you!"

Valentinian was already sidling his horse toward Mundus, but there was no need. The terrified officer instantly began screaming orders at his subordinates. They, in turn, began rounding up their soldiers.