Feudalism is always complicated, came Aide's interjection. Most convoluted system you—we humans have ever come up with. And we're a convoluted folk. Especially you protoplasmic types.
"So it is," murmured Belisarius. He did not inquire as to the meaning of "protoplasmic." He suspected he didn't want to know.
Each nobleman of sahrdaran and vurzurgan rank maintained a private army, made up of soldiers from their province or district. Some of those—the "household troops"—were financially supported by their lord. The rest were dehgans, whose obligation to provide military service was a more nebulous affair.
The dehgans were village and small town knights, essentially. The lowest rank in the aristocracy, but still part of what Aryans called the azadan. Though they were officially under the command of the higher nobility, the dehgans were economically independent and not, as a class, given to subservience. When it came to rallying the support of "his" dehgans, a high lord's prestige counted for more than formal obligation.
For their part, each dehgan maintained a small body of retainers who would accompany him on campaign. Not more than a handful, usually. Well-respected men of their village or town—prosperous farmers and blacksmiths, in the main—who had not only the strength, fitness and skill to serve as armored archers but could afford the horse and gear as well.
The Persian Emperor himself, beyond his own household troops, directly commanded nothing but his personal bodyguard—a regiment of men who still bore the ancient title of the Immortals. For the rest, the Shahanshah depended on the support of the great nobility. Who, in turn, depended on the support of the dehgans.
In theory, it was all very neatly pyramidal. In practice—
Aide summed it up nicely: Victory has a multitude of fathers. Defeat is an orphan. Or, in this case: victory has a multitude of would-be sons.
Belisarius smiled.
And defeat is childless.
He twisted in his saddle, passing the smile onto Baresmanas.
"You think Ormazd's joints are aching, then?"
The sahrdaran chuckled.
"I suspect that Ormazd, right now, is feeling very much like a victim of arthritis. Each morning, when he wakes up, he finds his army has shrunk a bit more. While faithless dehgans disappear, seeking fame and fortune in more likely quarters."
Belisarius studied the huge "escort" which surrounded them. The Persians were marching in good order, although, to a Roman general's eye, the formation seemed a bit odd. After a moment, he realized that the peculiar "lumpiness" was due to the formation's social order. Rather than marching in Roman ranks and files, the Persians tended to cluster in small groups. Retainers accompanying their dehgans, he realized. Where the basic unit of the Roman army was a squad, that of the Persian force was a village band. Men who had grown up together, and known each other all their lives.
After a minute or so, Belisarius found himself deep in a rumination over the most effective way to combine Roman and Persian forces, given each people's habits and characteristics. He shook off the thoughts, for now. He had something more immediate to attend to.
"We need to make a stop at the prisoners' camp," he announced.
Baresmanas raised a questioning eyebrow, but made no protest. He simply called out a name.
Immediately, one of the Persians riding nearby trotted his horse over to the sahrdaran and the Roman general. As soon as he arrived, Baresmanas made a little sweeping gesture with his hand.
"I would like to introduce the commander of my household troops, General Belisarius. Merena is his name, from a fine azadan family affiliated to the Suren."
Belisarius nodded politely. The Persian commander returned the nod, very stiffly. Examining him, Belisarius was not sure if the stiffness was inherent in the man himself, or was due to the specific circumstances.
A bit of both, he decided. As a rule, in his experience, Persians tended toward a certain athletic slenderness. Merena, on the other hand, was a large man, almost as heavyset as Belisarius' friend Sittas. But where Sittas handled his weight and girth with a certain sprawling ease, Merena seemed to prefer a far more immobile method. For all the man's obvious horsemanship, he sat his saddle almost like a statue.
Baresmanas passed on the command to visit the prisoners' camp on the way north. Merena nodded—again, very stiffly—and trotted away to give the orders.
"Not the most informal sort of fellow," remarked Belisarius.
Baresmanas' lips twisted.
"Normally, he is not so rigid and proper. But I think he is unsure of how to manage the current situation. This is not, actually, the first time you and he were introduced. In a manner of speaking."
Belisarius pursed his lips.
"He, too, was at Mindouos." It was a statement more than a question.
"Oh, yes. Right by my side, during Firuz' mad charge. He tried to come to my aid, after a lance spilled me from my horse. But he was disabled himself, by a plumbata right through the thigh."
Belasarius winced. The plumbata was the weapon which modern Roman infantrymen used in place of the pilum, the javelin favored in the earlier days of the Empire. The plumbata was a much shorter weapon—more like a dart than a throwing spear. But what it lost in range it gained in penetrating power, due to the heavy lead weight fitted to the shaft below the spearpoint. At close range, hurled with the underarm motion of an expert, it could penetrate even the armor of cataphracts or dehgans. The wounds it produced were notoriously brutal.
"Pinned him right to the saddle," continued Baresmanas. "Then, when his horse was hamstrung and gutted, the beast rolled over on top of him. Almost took off his leg. Would have, I'm sure, if he were a smaller man. He still walks with a terrible limp."
The general's wince turned into a grimace. Seeing the expression, Baresmanas shrugged.
"He does not bear you any ill-will, Belisarius. Ill-will over that battle, of course, he has in plenty—but all of it is directed toward Firuz. Still, he does not exactly count you among his bosom companions."
"I imagine not!" The general hesitated, for a moment. Then, deciding that politeness was overridden by necessity:
"I must know, however—please do not take offense—if he will be able to serve properly. Being forced in such close—"
"Have no fear on that score," interrupted Bares-manas. "Whatever his attitude may be toward you, there is not the slightest doubt of his feelings for me, and my family."
Belisarius' face must have exhibited a certain skepticism, for the sahrdaran immediately added:
"It is not simply a matter of duty and tradition. Merena's family is noted—even famed—for its military accomplishments. But they are not rich. He would still be in captivity had I not paid his ransom out of my own funds."
Belisarius nodded. He and Baresmanas rode together in silence, for a minute. Then the sahrdaran remarked, almost idly:
"I have noted that you yourself are quite generous to your bucellarii. I was told that you dispense a full half of your battle-gained treasure to them, in fact. Most munificent, indeed."
Belisarius smiled crookedly. "That's quite true. My retainers are sworn to my service anyway, of course. But I'm a practical man. Men are not tools, mind you. Still, a blacksmith takes good care of the implements of his trade. Keeps them clean, sharp—and well-oiled."
Silence fell upon them again, as they neared the pri-soners' camp. A very companionable silence, between two men who understood each other quite well.
It was Belisarius' first visit to the camp, since the army had reached Peroz-Shapur. He was pleased to see that his bucellarii had carried out his instructions to the letter.
Merena was riding alongside Baresmanas as they entered. His eyebrows lifted.
"This is a prisoners' camp?" he asked.