nodded. He was not surprised. Still, he was gratified.
"The enemy'll be disheartened, too," added Ashot. "Confused—half-leaderless, probably—scared shitless."
Again, he spat into the ocean. "Lambs to the slaughter. Lambs to the slaughter."
Belisarius saw that John had apparently reached the same conclusion as Ashot. The artillery ship was veering off in pursuit of the corbita retreating to Chalcedon.
"Will he catch any of them?" he asked.
"Not a chance," replied the Armenian instantly. "They're sailing almost before the wind, on that heading. The advantage now is with the heavier corbita and their square-rigged sails, especially since the rowers on John's galley are bound to be tired. But once they reach Chalcedon, those ships are trapped. John can stand off in the mouth of the harbor and bombard them with impunity. He'll turn the whole fleet into so much kindling."
Another spit into the sea. "The Army of Bithynia's out of it, general. Except for the few who are heading for southern Constantinople."
For a moment, Belisarius examined the cataphract standing next to him. The Armenian was now watching the enemy ships sailing toward Portus Caesarii, oblivious to his general's gaze.
Abruptly, Belisarius made his decision.
"In a few months, Ashot, I'll be promoting several of the men to hecatontarch. You're one of them."
The Armenian's eyes widened. He stared at the general.
"You've only got one hecatontarch—Maurice. And I don't—" Ashot groped for words. Like all of Belisarius' cataphracts, he had a towering respect for Maurice.
Belisarius smiled.
"Oh, Maurice'll be promoted also. A chiliarch he'll be, now."
Ashot was still wide-eyed. Belisarius shook his head.
"We're in a new world, Ashot. I never felt I needed more than a few hundred bucellarii, before. But among the many things I learned while I was in India is that the Malwa don't have genuine elite troops. Not ones they can rely on, at least. That's a Roman advantage I intend to maximize."
He scratched his chin, estimating.
"Five thousand bucellarii. Seven thousand, if possible. Not at once, of course—I want them to be elite troops, not warm bodies. But that's my goal." His smile grew crooked. "You'll probably wind
"The enemy'll be disheartened, too," added Ashot. "Confused—half-leaderless, probably—scared shitless."
Again, he spat into the ocean. "Lambs to the slaughter. Lambs to the slaughter."
Belisarius saw that John had apparently reached the same conclusion as Ashot. The artillery ship was veering off in pursuit of the corbita retreating to Chalcedon.
"Will he catch any of them?" he asked.
"Not a chance," replied the Armenian instantly. "They're sailing almost before the wind, on that heading. The advantage now is with the heavier corbita and their square-rigged sails, especially since the rowers on John's galley are bound to be tired. But once they reach Chalcedon, those ships are trapped. John can stand off in the mouth of the harbor and bombard them with impunity. He'll turn the whole fleet into so much kindling."
Another spit into the sea. "The Army of Bithynia's out of it, general. Except for the few who are heading for southern Constantinople."
For a moment, Belisarius examined the cataphract standing next to him. The Armenian was now watching the enemy ships sailing toward Portus Caesarii, oblivious to his general's gaze.
Abruptly, Belisarius made his decision.
"In a few months, Ashot, I'll be promoting several of the men to hecatontarch. You're one of them."
The Armenian's eyes widened. He stared at the general.
"You've only got one hecatontarch—Maurice. And I don't—" Ashot groped for words. Like all of Belisarius' cataphracts, he had a towering respect for Maurice.
Belisarius smiled.
"Oh, Maurice'll be promoted also. A chiliarch he'll be, now."
Ashot was still wide-eyed. Belisarius shook his head.
"We're in a new world, Ashot. I never felt I needed more than a few hundred bucellarii, before. But among the many things I learned while I was in India is that the Malwa don't have genuine elite troops. Not ones they can rely on, at least. That's a Roman advantage I intend to maximize."
He scratched his chin, estimating.
"Five thousand bucellarii. Seven thousand, if possible. Not at once, of course—I want them to be elite troops, not warm bodies. But that's my goal." His smile grew crooked. "You'll probably wind