"Chlothar, put your best syntagmarch with this unit for a few months. He should carry this sword while he commands. It is too fine a weapon to be wasted on a common soldier." Alexandros paused, lips quirking in an almost-smile at Valamer. "Take heart, if this were truly Rome, then one man in ten would be put to death for such failure. Chlothar, send this man Valamer to your best syntagma. He must learn he is no longer a chief, but a Roman soldier."
Chlothar nodded, then beckoned over his under-officers. The wailing among the soldiers died down a little under his glare. The big Westerner enjoyed being forbidding and Alexandros encouraged him to be the "strong hand."
The comes did not look back, but continued on with his inspection. As ever, he walked swiftly, head held a little to the side, looking sideways at the rows of tents or log buildings. It would be a long day, for he intended to inspect not only his own troops, but each Khazar and Eastern Empire regiment as well. He commanded a polyglot army, parts of which had suffered a terrible defeat. The Easterners, in particular, were demoralized. Alexandros had drilled them relentlessly, hoping to restore their spirit, but it was slow going. Soon the combined army would take the field to drive the Persians back into Constantinople, or even beyond, and Alexandros was impatient to begin.
Dahvos, kagan of the Khazar people and bek of the war host fighting for the Emperor of the East, stared gloomily down at the harbor of Perinthus. His curly blond hair was tied back behind his head, though the damp air encouraged an untidy sprawl around his shoulders. Out of habit, even within the presumably safe confines of the town, he wore a heavy shirt of overlapping iron wedges over a thick felted shirt. He carried a round iron helmet with a tapered crown and ornamented chin guards under one muscular arm. A dark green cloak hung from broad, well-muscled shoulders and the worn bone hilts of a longsword hung from a leather baldric at his side.
Below the Khazar prince, the harbor was busy with barges and boats swarming around the flanks of square-sailed merchantmen. Lines of men crowded the docks, boarding amid a confusion of wagons and horses and longshoremen and bales of goods. Tall standards surmounted by golden eagles and wreaths of silver laurel were being carried aboard the ships. Clusters of red-cloaked officers huddled among the throngs of men, deep in conversation. Soon the motley fleet would put to sea for Egypt.
"What ails you, brother?"
Another Khazar, this man taller, older, leaner, with rumpled black hair, leaned against the wall. Merriment danced in his blue eyes. Dahvos grimaced at Jusuf, then turned his attention back to the port. "I see our strength fleeing, and I wonder what the boy-king Alexandros is thinking. With the departure of the Western troops, only these Goths, our lancers and the Eastern Legions remain. Barely half the strength just defeated before Constantinople."
Jusuf nodded, though he did not seem as disturbed as his half-brother. "You heard what those fishermen said-the Persian fleet left the city, and many soldiers crowded the decks of their ships. Don't you think most of the Persians have left as well? Even the Eastern officers seem convinced the dreadful Boar has turned his attention elsewhere."
"Perhaps. But why? They have the upper hand here-Shahr-Baraz could tusk his way into Greece with ease. Even with the boy-king's touted Goths, I wonder if we could stop a determined attack. Where is the wisdom in letting a wounded enemy live?"
Jusuf raised an eyebrow and tried to keep from laughing, but mostly failed. "You're not smitten with our young comes and his battle wisdom, are you? You call him a boy-yet he's older than you! What sets you on edge about him?"
Dahvos' expression contorted into a grimace and then a snarl. The subject of Alexandros did not lie easy with him. He failed to note the mischief in his half-brother's eyes. "I don't know, but I dislike this Alexandros as much as any man I've ever met. He is ill luck for us, Jusuf. He is a bent arrow."
"Hmm. Well, with the pace of foraging and scouting, I'd say he intends to march against the Persians within the month."
"Yes." Dahvos' expression grew ever more sour. "The comes desires to see the mettle of the Persians for himself-to foray up the Imperial highway to Selymbria or beyond-to see if the enemy will come out of his camps at Constantinople. This-with only his own troops, untried and untested in battle, with these Easterners, whose spirits are as low as a grave, and as muddy, with our own horse-by which, he tells me, he sets great store."
"We have given a good account of ourselves," Jusuf said quietly. "But we will suffer if the enemy has kept his heavy horse in Thrace. Our arms, our armor, the weight of our horses, are not a match for the Persian diquans. But our men are game for the chase-they will not shy away from battle."
"No, they will not! Not when the memory of defeat is so fresh!" Dahvos turned away from the port, eyes glittering in anger. "But the Eastern cataphracts have been ground up and spit out already and our men are the only ones with the nuts to match the Persians-so we will pay a heavy price to reclaim lost honor."
"What about the Gothic spear wall?" Jusuf raised his chin in challenge, then turned and motioned out beyond the roofs of the town, towards the outer wall and the camps covering the countryside above the port. "Lord Alexandros never fails to express confidence they can stand against any cavalry charge in the world."
"Have you seen them stand in battle?" Dahvos walked along the wall, cloak thrown behind him. The day was cloudy and a constant wet haze lay over the rumpled green hills and the flat, dark waters of the narrow sea. With summer far advanced, it was far too hot. The eastern horizon was a gray line marking the shore of Chalcedon. "I have puzzled through the old books-Hieronomyus of Cardia's Historia and Polybius-and once upon a time the Greek phalanx could withstand any cavalry charge, and break it, drenching the field with blood. Now? Those Goths can barely find a privy pit to piss in… much less march in order and keep those pig-stickers straight."
"They are getting better." Jusuf tried to keep his tone level. "Their skill improves daily and even the Eastern troops are starting to regain their color. I doubt the Eastern foot has been drilled so fiercely in generations!"
"Fine." Dahvos made a sharp motion with his hand. He was still very angry. "What about their cataphracts? Do they drill? No-they mope about the camps, drinking until they fall down, cursing the gods-as if the lord of heaven had anything to do with Great Prince Theodore's idiocy on the Plain of Mars-and acting the lackwit. Listen to me, Jusuf, if we meet the Persians again in full battle, those Eastern knights will break like a rotten trace and spill us all on the cold ground."
Jusuf rubbed his long nose in response, and tapped his chin with his knuckles. "Do you think that the next battle will be decided by the actions of cataphract and clibanarus?"
"Yes," Dahvos snapped, "how else?"
Jusuf shrugged, then leaned an elbow on the battlement again. "I wonder… I think our new commander, this same comes Alexandros you dislike so much, smells the wind changing. The heavy horseman with lance, mace or striking sword in hand, girded in armor from head to tail, his horse likewise barded all about with heavy padding or even iron, has ruled the Eastern battlefield for what? Three centuries?"
"Since Emperor Valens bled out like a trussed pig at Adrianopolis," Dahvos grunted, scowling. "A little less than three hundred years…"
"Yet," Jusuf interjected smoothly, hooking a thumb down at the busy chaos in the harbor, "in the West, Rome has ridden out shock after shock, losing whole provinces and then wresting them back from the barbarians. Where are their clouds of horsemen, their cohorts of knights? They have kept their traditional Legions-oh, supplemented by barbarian horse, surely-but the core of their armies, which have been victorious for more than seven hundred years, remains the foot soldier with his shield, his stabbing sword, his weighted javelins."