He wanted to think. And examine a possibility.
Baresmanas visited him in his tent, in midafternoon of the third day.
"Why are you not staying in the city?" he asked, after being invited within. The sahrdaran glanced around at the austere living quarters which Belisarius always maintained on campaign. Other than an amphora of wine, and the cooling breeze which blew in through the opened flaps, the general's tent showed no signs of a man enjoying a well-deserved rest.
Belisarius looked up from the pallet where he was sitting, half-reclined against a cushion propped next to the chest which contained his personal goods. Smiling, he closed the book in his hand and gestured toward the chair at his little writing desk. The chair and the desk were the only items of furniture in the tent.
"Have a seat, Baresmanas. You looked exhausted."
The Persian nobleman, half-collapsing on the chair, heaved a sigh.
"I am exhausted. The city is a madhouse! People are carousing at every hour of the day and night!"
"Shamelessly and with wild abandon, I should imagine." The general grinned. "You can't get any sleep. You can't hear yourself think. To your astonishment, you find yourself remembering your tent with fond memories."
Baresmanas chuckled. "You anticipated this, I see."
"I have no experience with Persian troops enjoying a celebration. Perhaps they're a subdued lot—"
"Ha!"
"No?" Belisarius grinned. "But I do know what Roman soldiers are like. They'd drive the demons of the Pit to mad distraction, just from the noise alone."
The general cocked his head. "There have been no serious problems, I trust?"
Baresmanas shook his head.
"No, no. A slew of complaints from indignant matrons, of course, outraged at the conduct of their wanton daughters. But even they seem more concerned with the unfortunate consequences nine months from now than with the impropriety of the moment. We Aryans frown on bastardy, you know."
Belisarius smiled. "Every folk I know frowns on bastardy—and then, somehow, manages to cope with it."
He scratched his chin. "A donation from the army, do you think? Discreet sort of thing, left in the proper hands after we depart. City notables, perhaps?"
Baresmanas considered the question.
"Better the priesthood, I think." Then, shrugging:
"The problem may not be a major one, in any event. The matrons are more confused than angry. It seems any number of marriage proposals have been advanced—within a day of the army's arrival, in some cases!—and they don't know how to deal with them. As you may be aware, our customs in that respect are more involved than yours."
As it happened, Belisarius was quite familiar with Persian marital traditions. Unlike the simple mono-gamy of Roman Christians, Persians recognized several different forms of marriage. The fundamental type—what they called patixsayih—corresponded quite closely to the Christian marriage, except that polygamy was permissible. But other marriages were also given legal status in Persia, including one which was "for a definite period only."
Belisarius smiled. He was quite certain that his Syrian troops, with their long acquaintance with Medes, had passed on this happy knowledge to the other soldiers.
His smile, after a moment, faded to a more thoughtful expression.
"It occurs to me, Baresmanas—"
The sarhdaran interrupted. His own face bore a pensive little smile.
"Roman troops will be campaigning in Mesopotamia for quite some time. Years, possibly. Peroz-Shapur, because of its location, will be a central base—the central base, in all likelihood—for that military presence. Soldiers are men, not beasts. They will suffer from loneliness, many of them—a want in the heart, as much as a lust in the body."
Belisarius was struck again, as he had been many times before, by the uncanny similarity between the workings of his mind and that of the man sitting across from him in the tent. He was reminded of the odd friendship which had developed between him and Rana Sanga, while he had been in India. There, also, differences in birth and breeding had been no barrier—even though Sanga was his sworn enemy.
For a moment, he wondered how the Rajput King was faring in his campaign in Bactria.
All too well, I suspect, came the rueful thought. Yet I cannot help wishing the man good fortune—in his life, at least, if not his purpose.
He brought his thoughts back to the matter at hand.
"I think we can make a suitable arrangement, Baresmanas. Talk to your priesthood, would you? If they are willing to be cooperative, I will encourage my soldiers to approach their romantic liaisons with a more—ah, what shall I call it . . . ?"
The sahrdaran grinned.
"Long-term approach," he suggested. "Or, for those who are incorrigibly low-minded, guaranteed recreation."
Baresmanas stroked his beard. The gesture positively exuded satisfaction. A well-groomed man by temperament, he had taken advantage of the stay in Peroz-Shapur to have the beard properly trimmed and shaped. But some of his pleasure, obviously, stemmed from the prospective solution of a problem. A minor problem, now—but small tensions, uncorrected, have a way of festering.
"Yes, yes," he mused. "I foresee no problems from the Mazda priests. Even less from the matrons! It is in every Persian's interest to avoid the shame of illegitimacy, after all. The absence of a legal father is a small thing to explain—especially if there is a subsidy for the child."
He eyed the general, a bit skeptically.
Understanding the look, Belisarius shrugged.
"The subsidy is not a problem. The army is rich. Well over half of that booty is in my personal possession. Much of it is my personal share. The rest is in my trust as a fund for the disabled, along with widows and orphans. Between the two, there's plenty to go around."
"And your soldiers?"
"I can't promise you that all of them will act responsibly, Baresmanas. I do not share the commonly-held opinion that soldiers have the morals of street cats, mind you. But I'm hardly about to hold them up as models of rectitude, either. Many of my troops won't care in the slightest what bastards they leave behind them—even leaving aside the ones who like to boast about it. But I will spread the word. If my commanders support me—which they will—"
He paused for an instant, savoring the words.
Which they will. Oh, yes, I have my army now.
"—then the soldiers will begin to develop their own customs. Armies tend to be conservative. If taking a Persian wife while on campaign in Mesopotamia—a wife of convenience, perhaps, but a wife nonetheless—becomes ingrained in their habits, they'll frown on their less reputable comrades. Bad thing, being frowned on by your mates."
He gave Baresmanas his own skeptical eye.
"You understand, of course, that many of those soldiers will already have a wife back home. And that any Persian wife will not be recognized under Roman law?"
Baresmanas laughed. "Please, Belisarius!" He waved his hand in a grand gesture of dismissal. "What do we pure-blood Aryans care about the superstitious rituals of foreign barbarians, practiced in their far-off and distant lands?"
A thought came from Aide.
"Thou hast committed fornication!"
"But that was in another country, and besides, the wench is not patixsayih."
It's from a future poet. A bit hesitantly: It's appropriate, though, isn't it?
Belisarius was astonished. He had never seen Aide exhibit such a subtle grasp of the intricacies of human relationships.
The "jewel" exuded quiet pride. Belisarius began to send a congratulatory thought, when his attention was drawn away by Baresmanas' next words: