Theodore cast a possessive eye over the lines of men marching past. The army still numbered far too many infantry for his taste, though they did make a stirring sight as they swung past with their spears and bowcases over their shoulders, belongings tied up in a sack on a pole. The tramp of those thousands of feet on the paving stones sent a shiver up his spine.
These are mine, he gloated. My army, at last.
With the restoration of Imperial authority over the highlands of Anatolikon and the departure of the Avars to their lands beyond the Danuvius, a flood of manpower had offered itself up to the Emperor. Theodore, acting in his brother's place, had seized upon the fresh levy with alacrity. Nearly half of his banda were green troops, but he knew that they would train up quickly. The Anatolians, in particular, were natural soldiers. More to the point, they would form an army that had never known another commander. They had never served under his brother and gained that grating loyalty that seemed to follow the Emperor wherever he went.
The first of the cavalry regiments paraded past, the equities raising their arms in salute to the Prince. Theodore grinned, his heart swelling with pride. Here were the finest fighting men in the world, the cataphracti of Rome. Today they rode past with their conical helms slung from a strap on their high, four-cornered saddles. Their long curved bows were safely cased away at their sides and the wicked spatha were sheathed. Lamellar mail, bound of hundreds of metal lozenges on a leather and felt backing, shimmered in the sunlight. In battle, their horses would bear heavy felted barding, sewn with metal plates. Wagons carried their armor now, for the disembarkment procedure was difficult enough without the extra weight.
The Prince raised his arm in salute and a cheer went up, ringing off the limestone facing on the warehouses and port offices.
"Come," said the Prince, ebullient. "We must make our way to camp and sort things out. Things will be in a right mess there, I am sure. Within the week, once all ships have unloaded, we march to Damascus to see about the suppression of this rabble in the desert and the extension of the rule of law."
The staff officers smiled back, their faces shining with thoughts of victory and conquest. The armies of the frontier states- Palmyra and Nabatea and the Decapolis- had been scattered and destroyed by Persia. The inland cities, grown fat on the Indian trade and the staggering profits of Chin silk, would be a rich prize. Four new provinces were planned, each under the direct rule of a newly appointed Imperial governor.
Theodore stamped down the steps and swung up onto his horse, a massive coal black stallion he had chosen from the stables of the Imperial palace. He felt joy fill him, seeing this pure blue sky and the dry hills above the port. Here was his Empire, waiting for him. He spurred the horse and it clattered up the street, its mane blowing in the wind of his passage.
Behind him, another cohort of infantry marched past the offices, swords and spears jangling. Out at sea, another hundred of the massive transport ships were waiting, heeled against the wind, protected by the prowling galleys of the Imperial fleet. Nearly twenty thousand men would come ashore over the next week.
On the near dock, a centurion cursed at the green troops under his command. They had fouled a line and their supply wagon had tipped, spilling its cargo of arrows, sharpened stakes, bags of millet, and barrels of acetum onto the dock.
"Move it, you offal!" His baton made a meaty sound on their backs. The men rushed to turn the wagon back over.
The centurion wiped his brow. It was dreadfully hot here. Soon it would be worse as full summer came. He squinted at the dry hills, snarling in disgust at the thin grass and scrawny trees.
Colonna hated Judea. It was always bad luck to serve here.