"David Drake - Belisarius 3 - Destiny's Shield" - читать интересную книгу автора (Drake David)

himself, but for his helpless children. The Persian camp was unprotected,
then, from the triumphing Romans. Baresmanas had known the Roman soldiers
would ravage it like wolves, especially their Hun auxiliaries, raping and
murdering.
And so they had; or, at least, had started to do.
Until Belisarius, and his cataphracts, had put a stop to the atrocities. He
had been as decisive and ruthless toward his own Huns as he had been toward
the Persians.
Weeks later, after he had been ransomed by his family, Baresmanas had heard
the tale from his daughter Tahmina. Seeing the oncoming Huns, she and her
brother had hidden themselves under the silk cushions in their tent. But the
savages had not been fooled. A squad of Huns had found Tahmina soon enough,
and dragged her out of the tent. Her brother had tried to come to her rescue,
but it had been a futile gesture. The Huns had not killed the boy -- alive, he
would bring a good price on the slave market. They had simply split his scalp
with a blow, casually, while they began stripping off his sister's clothing.
The Roman general had arrived then, accompanied by his cataphracts, and
ordered the Huns to cease. Tahmina had described to Baresmanas how the Hun who
held her by the hair had taunted Belisarius. And how the general, cold-faced,
had simply spoken the name of his cataphract. A cataphract whose face was even
colder, and as wicked-looking as a weasel. The cataphract had been as quick
and deadly as a weasel, too. His arrows had slaughtered the Huns holding
Tahmina like so many chickens.
Belisarius.
Strange, peculiar man. With that odd streak of mercy, lying under the edge of
his ruthless and cunning brain.
Baresmanas turned his head, staring back at the fire. And now, for the first
time since he learned of the Malwa butchery of Mesopotamia, could see the
enemy roasting in the flames.
Belisarius.


Chapter 4
It was the most beautiful cathedral Justinian had ever seen. More beautiful,
and more majestic, than he had even dreamed. The capstone to his life. The
Hagia Sophia that he had planned to build.
The Mese, the great central thoroughfare of Constantinople, began at the
Golden Gate and ended at the base of the cathedral. Down its entire length --
here in scatters; there, mounded up in piles like so much offal -- were the
bodies of the plague victims.
Half the city was dead, or dying. The stench of uncollected rotting bodies
mingled with the sickly smell of burning cadavers to produce a thick miasma,
hanging over Constantinople like a constant fog. The same miasma that he had
seen hanging over Italy, and North Africa, and every province which Belisarius
had reconquered for him.
Justinian the Great. Who, in the name of restoring the greatness of the Roman
Empire, had bankrupted the eastern half to destroy the western. And left the
entire Mediterranean a war-ravaged breeding ground for the worst plague in
centuries.
Justinian the Great. Who, more than any other man, caused the final