Alexandros watched the legionaries carefully, seeing hesitation in their movements as they set their bow cases on the ground. Many of the men looked sick, or ill, and one young Goth, long blond hair hanging on either side of his face in braids, was trembling as he drew out his bow and laid it on a cloth. Others seemed more composed, drawing longswords from their scabbards and laying them out.
Behind the Macedonian, his aides clumped up, puzzled. The road through the camp was clear for the moment, but men from other syntagma would soon pass by. Rumor flickered through the sprawling camp like a fire in dry grass and soldiers were more curious than cats. Keeping his face entirely impassive, Alexandros paced to the beginning of the first row of men. He was already displeased, just seeing the fear in their faces. At the same time, there was a cool sense of relief in his stomach—he could already guess how things were and he would take appropriate measures immediately, and then—perhaps—such a problem would not recur. He took his time, walking slowly, letting the men fidget and sweat.
A dozen soldiers from other units were loitering in front of the log buildings the army had thrown up in the fields around Perinthus. More were coming and Alexandros wanted everyone to see what happened. By the time he reached the head of the first line of men, at least two-dozen curious onlookers were watching.
"Soldier," he growled, "show me your bow."
The lead man—a senior noncommissioned officer, what the Western army would call an optimate—held out a long, curved bow in stiff hands. Alexandros took the weapon, and ran a hand along the smooth upper limb, tracing the S-curve and digging the corner of a nail into the thin lines of glue holding the bone and willow laminate together.
The weapon was modeled on the Hunnic horse bow, but heavier and faster to produce. The "Alexandrine" bow was not designed for use from horseback, but rather while standing in serried ranks. The Macedonian knew, from stolen books, a trained man could loose six shafts within a minute's time. An arrow flung from this recurved bow, driven by a strong man's shoulder and arm, could punch straight through the heavy pine laminate shields favored by the Legions or even the overlapping iron armor of the Persian or Roman heavy horse. Alexandros imagined a battle line of nearly a thousand Peltasts supporting his main body of pikemen. Arranged in three or four ranks, the Peltasts fill the air with an unceasing, constant rain of arrows. Should an enemy cavalry charge manage to break through the arrow storm, they would face the hoplites and their eighteen-foot spears, also arrayed in ranks.
Alexandros knew, from long experience, the phalanx was unbreakable if composed of disciplined, veteran, properly trained men. He was also sadly aware a gulf of nearly seven hundred years separated him from the last true phalanx army. Rome had eclipsed the Greek city-states and their armies of hoplites. This little army was a ghost of the power he once employed. Still, he would do what he could with the time and materials at hand.
He finished his inspection of the bow. The glue and laminate seemed sound. The centurion's sword was well oiled and free from rust. Alexandros grunted, gave the man his weapons back, then moved on to the next soldier in line. This time, as he bent the bow in his hands, he heard a creaking sound, and—sure enough—the laminate was cracking, warped by moisture. Alexandros made no comment, returning the shaking, pale-faced soldier his weapon. So he went along the lines of men, testing each bow with his own hands, examining their armor, sword and dagger. Some men carried axes or maces as well, and these weapons were also subjected to a close scrutiny.
"You men," he shouted, at last, when he stood before them, "are soldiers in the army of the Republic of Rome. You have sworn oaths to the Emperor, to serve faithfully, to stand your ground, to obey the orders of your superior officers."
The sun had climbed far into the sky, and the day was hot and very humid. Standing at inspection, in their mailed shirts and leather bracings, the men sweated furiously and some looked rather wilted. Alexandros, himself, did not feel the burning sun and many of his men had remarked, quietly, and only to close companions, the general seemed tireless and it was widely known he rarely slept.
"You are not children," Alexandros barked, cold voice ringing in their ears. "More than half of your weapons are useless, pitted with rust or split in this damp climate. Your armor is likewise rusted, with loose or rotted straps. You have failed to follow my direct orders: that each man's kit be spotless, that his arms and armor be kept in readiness, clean and free of rust, at all times, that he draw a heavy bow sixty times a day in practice, that by every third day each man should loose ten times forty arrows against a target."
The cold dispassionate tone struck each man like a physical blow. In the back ranks, one of the younger men—a Gepid by the look of his wild red hair—staggered and nearly fell.
"The lives of every man in this army are placed in peril by your failure. There must be a punishment, for I will not have men's lives spent uselessly. Syntagmarch Valamer, step forward!"
The syntagmarch stepped away from the line, his face a mask, and stood before the Macedonian. Alexandros saw the man's weapons and armor were in moderate condition, though his sword hilt was chased with gold and his tunic was of fine-quality linen. Pride struggled with fear in the Goth's face and Alexandros remembered something of his history. Valamer was a chieftain, one of the Gothic amali—their most noble tribesmen. A man used to command and assured by an ancient tradition of unquestioning obedience.
He knew the bows were ruined, the Macedonian thought, and could not bring himself to seek aid from the armorers, or from me. It was not the first time such a thing had happened. Caring for the bows was especially difficult in these humid lowlands—they needed to be stored, when not actually in use, in specially heated wooden boxes. A damp bow was useless.
"You have failed me, soldier," Alexandros said, his voice carrying into the ranks. "My father once said this to me, and to my half-brother: there are no bad legionaries, only bad officers. You are at fault here, for you knew your duty and you did not carry it out."
Alexandros gestured for the man's sword, and Valamer, face turning sickly gray, removed the spatha from its baldric and presented it to the general. The Macedonian hefted the sword in one hand, then removed it from the sheath in a quick, fluid movement. He raised it over his head.
"This man, Valamer, a Goth, has shown himself unworthy of being syntagmarch! Therefore, until he redeems himself by deeds, he shall be no more than a common soldier, an attendant, who will hold the horses and gear of other men, while they fight!"
The Goth blinked and breathed again, then his mouth settled into a tight line. In common course, only camp followers, or the wounded, or raw recruits held the horses of men in the line of battle. He was shamed, but he would not be killed out of hand. Alexandros did not return the sword, though he sheathed it again. The general did not look at Valamer and the Goth remained standing, swaying slightly, weaponless.
"Many of you," Alexandros continued, his voice still cold, "followed this poor example and have not kept your bows dry, your arms and armor clean. I know this discipline is new to you, for many of you have come from brave nations, but those nations are not Rome. You will, therefore, learn to keep those tools which sustain life and bring victory as if they were a dear child."
Alexandros' voice suddenly rose and his anger leaked through in a biting, acid tone.
"Each man whose kit has failed inspection will be provided with new weapons and armor from stores, but his pay will be docked to account for this waste. Further... men know how to follow orders and do their duty; but children, boys, are oft remiss, for they have not learned the ways of men. Therefore, each man who has failed his duty will have his hair shorn and his beard shaved. You have acted like boys, now you will look the part, until you have learned discipline!"
At these words, the soldiers gave out with a groan of fear. The Goths, Germans and particularly the Franks in the ranks were devastated. Some men, heedless, fell to their knees and began crying out, begging for forgiveness. Amid the tumult, Alexandros beckoned to Chlothar, the commander of all the Peltasts in the army. The big Frank's face was tight with anger and his liquid blue eyes were filled with pain. He too came into Alexandros' service with short, shorn hair—disgraced. The Macedonian saw the look in his eyes.
"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."
"What does this have to do with Alexandros and his Goths?" Dahvos winced, hearing a surly whine creeping into his voice. "He's brought a mishmash of men on foot, men that ride then fight afoot, archers, that bastardized outdated phalanx, lancers..."