Padway argued some more. But, remembering his Procopius, he had little hope of shaking the Thracian's stern rectitude. Belisarius was a fine fellow, but his rigid virtue made him a slightly uncomfortable companion. He asked: "Where's your secretary, Procopius of Caesarea?"
"I don't know. He was in southern Italy, and supposedly on his way to join us."
"Good. We'll gather him in. We shall need a competent historian."
Belisarius' eyes widened. "How do you know about the histories he's collecting notes for? I thought he'd told nobody but me."
"Oh, I have ways. That's why they call me Mysterious Martinus."
They marched into Rome by the Latin Gate, north past the Circus Maximus and the Colosseum, and up the Quirinal Valley to the Old Viminal Gate and the Pretorian Camp.
Here Padway gave orders to encamp the prisoners, and told Gudareths to set a guard over them. That was obvious enough. Then he found himself in the midst of a crowd of officers looking at him expectantly. He could not think what orders to give next.
He rubbed his ear lobe for a few seconds, then took the captive Belisarius aside, "Say, illustrious general," he said in a low voice, "what in hell do I do next? This military business isn't my proper trade."
There was a hint of amusement in Belisarius' broad and usually solemn face. He answered: "Call out your paymaster and have him pay the men's wages. Better give them a little bonus for winning the battle. Detail an officer to round up some physicians to tend the wounded; at least I don't suppose a barbarian army like this has its own medical corps. There ought to be a man whose duty it is to check the rolls. Find out about it. I hear the commander of the Rome garrison was killed. Appoint a man in his place, and have the garrison returned to barracks. Tell the commanders of the other contingents to find what lodging they can for their men. If they have to board at private houses, say the owners will he compensated at standard rates. You can find those out later. But first you ought to make a speech."
"Me make a speech?" hissed Padway in horror. "My Gothic is lousy—"