Honour

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘Then there will be eyes on us now?’

  ‘There will, but I would not like to seek to find them. We’re safer in the open than on the turf they will call home.’

  Flavius smiled; this older man was probably just taking precautions against the impetuosity of youth, unaware that he had no need to issue such a warning: they were on a mission to find Vitalian and that was paramount. He mused that whoever might be trailing them had to be a native and that must constrain the amount of distance they would move from their hearths.

  ‘They will not stay with us more than one day, will they?’

  ‘No, which makes tonight they’re only chance.’ Karas grunted. ‘Should have fetched along a hound or two.’

  ‘We will post sentinels, Karas.’

  ‘Who I have known to fall asleep, even facing the wheel. Dogs you can rely on.’

  ‘I think it best we don our armour, Karas, let them see what they are up against. It will make whoever is out there think.’

  That got a jaundiced look; in the last two days they had been riding and walking in loose garments that suited the heat and humidity. Armour meant the padded jackets that lay beneath it for the body and an extra layer on the thighs, arms and lower legs, thus a high degree of discomfort.

  ‘I would rather deter than let them raid and steal.’

  The order was not well received yet that was well disguised – insubordination was too risky even with what seemed to be a soft officer, so the Excubitors were fully kitted out and sweating for it with short order. Flavius did not want any risk that their uniforms should be stolen; that would leave them looking very unmilitary in a situation in which he required appearances to be correct. Thus clad, they unloaded the packhorses and piled their belongings in what was to be the very centre of their encampment, near a large and kept flaming fire by which they took it in turns to sleep on what turned out to be an uneventful night.

  At dawn, and after a breakfast of hard biscuit and water, they remounted and got back on to the road. Finding a long stretch to be seemingly in good repair, Flavius gave the order first to canter then to gallop. That was held longer than seemed wise given, once he called them back to a trot, it left the horses with their heads down and their mouths flecked with froth. Nor did he then dismount and walk them, he kept up a pace that seemed excessive until, earlier than would have been normal, a halt was called at yet another stream-dissected forest glade, though this time of greater size than hitherto.

  ‘Now,’ came the next command, which was not the usual order to remove saddles and see to the mounts, ‘since we will have outrun anyone trailing us, let us lay for them some traps before they can catch up.’

  ‘If we’ve outrun them, Your Honour,’ Karas responded, part in question but also in part acknowledgement.

  As a boy Flavius had hunted rabbits and small game and so it seemed had many of his soldiers, but this was different: little snares would be no good against human thieving. Stakes were cut from the surrounding branches, sharpened and set in the ground. One of his men had the notion of swinging rocks that would cover the gaps between the trees, their release set off by someone disturbing the tie on the ground. Likewise saplings were bent and secured so they would spring back and wound if disturbed.

  Only then could the horses be looked to, fed and watered before being hobbled in lines. Lastly, as would have happened anyway and before it became dark, another large fire was created on which the whole unit could cook their food and one which, if kept fed, would illuminate much of the ground on which the majority would at any time be asleep, albeit fully clad and ready to defend themselves.

  Flavius knew he would not be one of them; even if Karas volunteered to do likewise, the responsibility fell to him as an officer to ensure that those set as sentinels stayed awake. Also they had to be replaced and from his pack he produced the required hourglass that would be allowed to run through twice as the whole was rotated to cover the twelve hours of darkness.

  ‘I hope they have given up, Karas, and all this will be a waste. Now, Decanus, check on the horse lines then get to sleep.’

  Having done the duty himself Flavius knew that those set to keep watch would have imaginings, especially when the sky clouded over, trapping the heat of the day and cutting out any star or moonlight. Regardless of how many times you do it no one can stand sentinel without seeing chimeras as they stare in to a wall of blackness. Sitting down is forbidden for that brings on sleep, an offence that could see you broken on the wheel in the days of the Roman legions, so a man must wander to and fro, aware that half of the time his back is exposed to danger.

  Forests do not sleep at night; they have their own sounds as the nocturnal hunters emerge to find their food, this while the wind moves the branches of trees in full leaf and they do not always just rustle. Nerves would be stretched even more by the suspicion that there was some kind of danger lurking just outside the ring of light provided by the fire, not aided by the hooting of owls and the swish of passing bats.

  Flavius did not know what set off one of the traps, but the cry as a snapping-back sapling hit someone had his entire unit coming awake and getting to their feet, following a previous instruction to fan out and cover the ground. Only by looking backwards could they see those hoping to surreptitiously steal for they were in their midst, the crouched outlines silhouetted against the flickering embers of the fire.

  Flavius had reacted the fastest; sword out, he ran towards the horse lines followed by a couple of his men carrying the torches they had just set light to. There was no casting of spears: in the dark, what might you hit? – a horse you needed to ride or one of your own. His quarry was no more than a shape, while he was silhouetted against the fire, so that when he raised his sword to strike the blade sent forth a flash of glaring orange.

  The scream that action produced was so high and piercing it caused him to hesitate long enough to register that what he was about to cut in half was the wrong size. Instead of striking, he leant forward to grab and got hold of a smock. Pulling raised up what was either a dwarf or a child and, judging by the sound, it was not the former, a fact confirmed when one of his men shoved forward a torch to show a grubby, small and terrified face.

  Torches now illuminated the glade and a quick turn showed what looked like dozens of scampering children seeking to avoid the swords that threatened to lop off their heads. Flavius called out a command to secure the perimeter and not to seek to kill those caught inside it. As a response it was not entirely successful, given there was too much space to fully secure, but when things died down, not least the screaming of children, that was what he found he had to deal with, his men having caught hold of half a dozen intruders, while it was obvious most had got clear.

  It would have been funny had it not then created another problem: what to do with them once the sun came up and he could look at them properly? Attempts to ask questions fell up against two hurdles: mulish silence and, when they could be brought to speak, an impenetrable local dialect. Had he put it to his men how to respond to these youngsters – he reckoned none had seen twelve summers – they would have been strung from the surrounding trees.

  His solution was less harsh, albeit it was painful. He had his men cut flexible saplings and administer a sound beating. While this was in progress he stomped the perimeter and glared into the forest at the ones who had escaped, sure they were still watching, sure they would get his message as the cries of their compatriots turned from yells to whimpers. His last act was to put them on the road, and facing east, with a stern finger that told them to go back from whence they came.

  ‘Am I allowed to say you’re too soft, Your Honour?’

  ‘Hang them, Karas? Urchins when they did not have so much as a knife between them? No, that would be blasphemy, so let us breakfast and then be on our way.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The first manned outposts protecting Vitalian heartlands were more than a full league from the main camp, precautions the general took to av
oid being surprised. That had happened three years previously when Anastasius had sent an army under his nephew Hypatius to both surprise and chastise the rebellion, this at the same time as he was talking peace and reconciliation, a melee in which Flavius had inadvertently become embroiled.

  The small rough and wooden stockade was manned by foederati, large men, with long blond hair and fearsome bodily decoration who hailed from a far northern Germanic tribe called the Gautoi. Terrible in battle, such men could also be hard to control; once the killing began, their lust for blood made it hard for any commander to bring them to order and sometimes they had been known, when engaged in one of their epic drinking bouts, to slay people just for sport. Vitalian had managed to keep them under tight control in the past; was that still the case now?

  Given the Excubitors were clearly military and not of the rebellious army it was not worth taking a chance, especially since the whole Gautoi contingent was hauled out with their arms to face them as soon as they were sighted. Ahead of Flavius lay a straight road leading to their small stockade. There was a barrier, too, where local trade would be halted and taxed for passage, this to augment the pay Vitalian must provide to keep what were mercenary soldiers both happy and loyal.

  In reflecting on this long rebellion, while acknowledging it to have proved fruitless so far, there had to be admiration for the mere fact of keeping it alive, this in the face of repeated failures to force the Emperor Anastasius to modify his stance on Monophysite dogma. To march on Constantinople and be rebuffed the first time had taken a massive effort of will; to repeat that in the face of disappointment required a great deal of charisma, for if these foederati formed the backbone of his forces they were insufficient to present any threat to the far more numerous imperial troops.

  Every time he marched Vitalian had been required to raise a sizeable army from within the dissident Diocese of Thrace, a few trained soldiers but mostly idle or angry peasants. If most of those men were fired by their religion it still took great ability to tap into that zeal and gather them together to repeatedly disturb the public peace. Flavius, marching in the first rebellion, had carried his own purpose – he sought revenge for his family – but he well remembered how many of his compatriots were willing to risk their lives for the right to worship within the tenets agreed at the Council of Chalcedon. There were, of course, others who marched in search of plunder, men quite willing to cloak themselves in pious fervour to gain access to possible booty.

  Flavius halted his party well beyond spear-throwing distance and, handing over the reins of his own packhorse, he rode forward alone to give his name and his purpose, first dismounting then seeking permission for him and his men to ride on and deliver the message he carried to their general, that swiftly denied.

  ‘No force bearing arms is allowed to approach the main camp.’

  ‘I would not proceed without them.’

  It was not just pride that had Flavius declare such a stance; once inside the perimeter created to protect Vitalian he would be at the mercy of the type of men before him and he was wary of trusting them. They might reckon to have more to gain by delivering his severed head than his whole person.

  ‘Then I bid you carry a message that the tribunos Flavius Belisarius wishes an audience with General Vitalian. He will know that his old enemy Anastasius is no more. I come on behalf of the Emperor Justin to offer peace and an amnesty for past misdeeds.’

  ‘I’ve heard that name, Belisarius,’ was the response, delivered in bad Latin.

  ‘Then you will know it as one who has fought at your side.’

  ‘Who perhaps betrayed us and now wears the armour of our enemies?’ There was no point in seeking to deny that so he sat in silence until the Gautoi spoke again. ‘Peace?’

  That question set up a murmur in the whole file this man commanded, leaving Flavius to wonder if the notion of peace might be unwelcome to men who earned their living by war. If this lot had any religious feelings they would be pagan, not Christian, so they would be indifferent to either dogma. He had no right to make promises on behalf of Justin but he needed to say something reassuring, even if the amnesty he brought applied only to Vitalian, his sons and his officers.

  ‘It is time to welcome the Thracian foederati back into the imperial army.’

  Which basically meant regular food and pay, as well as a chance of fighting and spoils, which they would not be getting now. If it was a loose commitment it was sufficient.

  ‘Your message will be sent and you may wait within the stockade if you wish.’

  ‘We will wait where we are and I require that the general sends back to me an escort from his comitatus.’

  Which meant his personal guard, not Gautoi. Once back with his own, Flavius increased the distance between his men and the stockade by several stades, and if they dismounted there was no relaxation. Two men were sent even further back with the pack animals while the remainder stood to with their spears at the ready, mounts by their side to give the impression they were prepared to give battle. Not that Flavius would do so; they might be matched in numbers but he doubted his Excubitors could stand in close combat against such fearsome warriors. Their horses were left saddled and ready for flight.

  If the response was not swift there was no way of telling why. Was the man sent to advise him of this request just taking an interminable time or was the wily Vitalian deliberating, weighing the odds of refusal against agreement. Having been previously the victim of much imperial underhandedness he was bound to be cautious about allowing armed men in to his inner defences. The key was the name of the messenger; he knew Flavius and had some reason, it was hoped, to hold him as trustworthy.

  The body of cavalry who appeared – their noisy hooves had signalled their coming – were recognisably comitatus, personal troops committed to their general not just for pay but also bound by ties of blood or deep loyalty.

  Originally a German concept it was another sign of the way the Romans adopted the habits of their enemies, so that now every general had such a body, men who would never leave his side unless expressly ordered to do so. They could also be the shock troops of his army, for they tended to a discipline and cohesion rare in mounted warriors and were often led or thrown into battle at key moments.

  The barrier was to allow through a single rider and once he was close Flavius recognised Marcus Vigilius, the man who had been his tribune on that first march to the capital. The greeting was cautious rather than friendly but the message was welcome: he was there to escort them to the main camp.

  ‘How will we be received?’ Flavius asked, once he and his soldiers were both reunited and mounted.

  ‘Guardedly.’

  ‘He can trust the word of the man who sent me.’

  The response was sharp. ‘Vitalian no longer trusts anyone!’

  Handsome and from a rich patrician family, Vigilius had aged since last seen. There were lines in a face that had previously lacked blemish and the skin around the eyes was now creased and the whole had a weary look. Flavius wanted to ask how he fared and what had happened since they last met but Vigilius’s attitude did not invite enquiry.

  If his old tribune had aged that was as nothing to his leader. Vitalian seemed to have shrunk; though not tall, his once square shoulders were slightly rounded, the face cratered and the cheeks sunken, far from the commanding visage Flavius remembered. Also, he displayed an attitude that spoke of a burden too heavy to carry, not of a cause full of promise. With an acute eye, as they rode into the main encampment, Flavius had sensed decline; there was no feeling of fervour in the dull looks he got from those armed men he rode past and even the segment occupied by the camp followers, gimcrack huts and tents, seemed to be on the perish.

  He was afforded no chance to address Vitalian alone; the rebel commander met the dismounted messenger flanked by two of his sons, Bouzes and Coutzes, now grown to full manhood and obviously, by their attitude and bearing, now raised to positions of command. This trio was surrounded by Vita
lian’s senior adherents, each of whom led their own groups, men Flavius also remembered from his last visit to this camp and it was evident that these were fewer in number than hitherto. Yet when Vitalian spoke, it was with a well-recalled strength of voice; if he looked diminished he did not sound so.

  ‘So, my old comrade Justinus has grabbed the diadem?’

  ‘Justin was the choice of the old imperial council, then presented to the citizens and acclaimed emperor in the Hippodrome.’

  ‘By a mob that would be as quick to tear him limb from limb.’

  ‘They were ecstatic, General. He is a good man and will make a fair-minded ruler.

  ‘Justin?’

  ‘His Imperial Highness wishes to be seen as the ruler for all citizens of empire, Greek and Roman.’

  ‘Barbarians too?’ Flavius nodded for it was a pointless question. ‘Just as well, given his bloodline. You’ve changed, Flavius Belisarius, grown up.’

  ‘If I may come to my purpose?’

  There was a pause before Vitalian acceded to that, giving the impression that he knew what was coming – it could not be otherwise – and it not being fully welcome. A new emperor would only send a messenger on one resolve, to secure an end to this rebellion, and Flavius could understand the feeling that acceptance of such could be seen as capitulation.

  But any impressions he had were of no account; he had his instructions and he delivered them as he should. The dispute on dogma was laid to rest, there would be no further repression of Chalcedony and any bishops or priests deposed from their diocese or churches by Anastasius would be reinstated forthwith. Vitalian and his officers should come to Constantinople where Justin would offer them the hand of amity as well as an amnesty for past misdeeds.

  ‘Or lop off my head?’ Vitalian grunted, his head turning to make the point to those around him. ‘To be set on a pike atop the Golden Gate, perhaps.’

  ‘If you believe that, then is it not my head that will adorn your gate? The Emperor wants this rebellion to end and not just for reasons of dogma but also of a remembered friendship. He desires to welcome you back into the fold where he assures me he would welcome your close counsel.’