The Last Roman: Vengeance

by Jack Ludlow

  THE LAST ROMAN: VENGEANCE

  JACK LUDLOW

  To Lucy & Jeremy

  two lovely people

  of whom we don’t see enough

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  About the Author

  By Jack Ludlow

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  The tension easily penetrated the walls of a schoolroom only just beginning the functioning day: running footsteps, occasional raised voices, followed by a full-throated shout of the kind that hinted at major alarm. This made life awkward for the pupils seeking to concentrate on the subject of mathematics, never one to hold the mind of a group of boys on the cusp of manhood, youngsters who hankered to be outdoors playing games or doing military training, rather than ingesting the other three pillars of imperial education: Latin, Greek, and rhetoric.

  The sounds of commotion made it seem necessary for everyone in the class to make contact with the others, and in this they were as one – not always the case. As in any group of a dozen adolescents there were as many rivalries as friendships and even the odd relationship founded on jealousy or deep antagonism, not least by an interest in the opposite sex that had gone from indifference, though interest, to the start of rivalry. These were all now set aside by intense inquisitiveness added to an opportunity for exchanged whispers and excessive shuffling.

  Rendered impatient by the distraction displayed by his pupils he might be, but their teacher was too kindly a soul to inflict what others might have imposed on an inattentive classroom: Beppolenus was not one to wield a vine sapling, and besides, he could not be other than inquisitive himself. He might well be fearful for he was a timid soul, noted for a vivid imagination that saw danger in mere shadows.

  Not that it was unusual to be rendered fretful living on the very edge of the Eastern Roman Empire. It was a region subject to unremitting threats from barbarians, made doubly insecure by the instability presently disturbing the whole Diocese of Thrace, the causes being the onerous taxation decreed by an avaricious emperor and the imperial decision to endorse a dogma so at odds with the strongly held beliefs of the local population that insurrection was in the air.

  It was from the north that danger was more often anticipated: the River Danube, which formed the border, was not visible from the windows of the Belisarius villa but beyond that, from the upper floor on a clear and crystal day, the hills that hemmed the lands of the barbarian Sklaveni were clear to the eye, dark green and forbidding, rising in time to the distant mountains that held their caps of snow even into the height of summer.

  Behind the Sklaveni and beyond those mountains stood a more serious threat, the nomadic Huns and Alans, tribes many times more numerous and as much a menace to the people who bordered the empire as they were to those on the southern bank of the river. Although these more distant barbarians had not recently caused trouble it was within living memory what had come from that quarter on the last occasion they had mounted a serious incursion: death, mutilation and wholesale destruction only alleviated when, sated by the wealth they had plundered, they withdrew in the face of an approaching Roman army.

  Schoolroom order had barely been restored when a loud military bellow caused Beppolenus to look anxiously towards the stout oak door that did little to muffle the sound. His pupils naturally threw their teacher another surreptitious glance to see how he would react, none more curious than Flavius Belisarius, the son of the house. If there were some kind of emergency it would involve his father, who commanded the under-strength cohort that was all that was available in these times for border security in what had, in the distant past, been a proper legionary outpost.

  A new sound overrode that from within the walls, this time coming in through the open casements overlooking the street, a cacophony of alarm – horns mixed with the babble of men and women on the move, punctured by the wailing of fractious infants. A ripple of whispers crossed the room to report that the citizens, many bearing bundles, were hurrying towards the old citadel of Dorostorum which, though it was in less than perfect repair, offered better protection from a marauding horde than the indifferently repaired walls of the city.

  No regional uprising could be the cause of such abandonment of homes and most of their possessions; there had to be a barbarian raid and a serious one to produce general panic, which had Flavius wondering at how such an incursion could have been mounted without any prior warning from those who, by habit or instruction, were best placed to advise of approaching danger.

  The possibility of such an event was a subject often speculated upon by him and his fellow pupils, friends and rivals alike, as well as the way they would, with their yet to be appreciated fighting abilities, help their seniors to counter it. They knew themselves to be heroes in the making and were prone to vocal frustration that, given no forays of any magnitude had happened for years, the chance to show their martial prowess seemed destined never to arrive. Had it done so now?

  Flavius, an avid student of anything military, put himself in the place of the barbarians to speculate on how they would have made the crossing in a way that achieved surprise. They must have sealed the northern bank of the Danube long enough to keep hidden their preparations, the gathering of boats plus men in numbers. Had they made their crossing in darkness? The previous night had been one of heavy cloud that had obscured the moon, which would allow them to move in serious numbers without discovery.

  Or had they then launched those boats way upstream in broad daylight, to avoid any sight of their presence being reported by the farmers who tilled the southern flood plain? The meandering current would carry them slowly downstream and it would take little in the way of steering to make an unobserved landfall at the right time and at a suitable place.

  Such imaginings were rudely interrupted as the schoolroom door was thrown open in a way that made the teacher cower in foreboding, the gap filled by the imposing frame of Cassius, Flavius’s eldest brother, dressed in breastplate and greaves, sword at his side, his helmet under his arm, the sight of him immediately followed by a peremptory command.

  ‘Pack up your lesson tablets and make for the citadel.’

  The sibling reply, a rasping one, was addressed to a man already turning away. ‘Do they not go to their families first?’

  Cassius swung round, the look on his face one of mild impatience. In his voice there was just a hint of weariness at being questioned by a much-loved younger brother, who was also capable of being, at times, a sore trial.

  ‘Their families, if they have any sense, they will find already within the walls.’ He chucked over a set of large keys, swiftly caught. ‘Now you, Flavius, go to where the servants are gathering in the atrium and do what your father requires of you. Take them to safety.’

  ‘It is serious then?’

  ‘We shal
l need every man we can muster to put a check on what we face. A messenger has already gone to seek support from the forces camped north of Marcianopolis in case we cannot.’

  ‘Can I not fight alongside you?’

  ‘You’re too young,’ Cassius snapped, as those he reckoned wiser heads were already pushing past him, their teacher well to the fore.

  ‘Not by much.’

  The response was delivered over a departing shoulder. ‘By enough.’

  Soon there were only three pupils left in the room, Flavius and his two closest companions, Asticus and Philaretus. Both matched him in age and attitude, if not in height, boys eager to know what their friend would do: obey his brother’s command or flout parental authority, a pattern of behaviour to which age was making them all particularly prone? There was no doubt that Flavius was tempted but he could not meet what was their clear hope.

  ‘If you decide to follow your father and join in the fight we could do so with you.’

  Looking at Asticus, with his eager expression, Flavius had to shake his head. He often took the lead in their adventures and he was being asked to do the same now, as a sort of cover for what would be seen as wrongdoing even if they acquitted themselves well: just as often he got the blame if matters went awry, obliged to accept whatever came of their misdemeanours. In the background the sounds of activity within the walls were fading, meaning there was little time to make up his mind, and it was with an air of resignation that the moment arrived.

  ‘No, I must obey.’

  ‘Flavius?’ Philaretus hissed, disappointment obvious through the tone in which the name was used. ‘How long have we prayed for a moment like this, a chance to show our mettle?’

  ‘There’s no one else to carry out the task my father has set me, Phila, and what will happen to you if you do not do as my brother commanded?’

  ‘My father was not present to hear it.’

  ‘He will hear of it and out will come that staff of his.’

  That brought forth an obstinate look and a squaring of the shoulders. ‘Which I do not fear.’

  That was, if not an outright falsehood, close to one; Philaretus had a parent easily driven to anger and a level of chastisement not visited upon his friends, both of whom had seen too many times the way he sought to avoid punishment as well as the stiffness brought about by the failure to do so. The true extent became very evident when they bathed after fighting practice or bouts of wrestling, great blue and black weals all over Phila’s body.

  ‘If we are to go,’ Asticus said, clearly accepting Flavius’s argument, ‘we’d best move.’

  ‘If you insist …’

  Flavius cut off the disenchantment with a quick embrace. ‘Time will grant us the chance we need.’

  ‘Till then,’ added Asticus, moving forward to hold out his arm, to be clasped in turn by both his companions in the prescribed Roman manner. Then they were gone.

  Left on his own, Flavius went to look down at the crowd milling along the road in search of safety, which underlined to him, if his brother’s response had not already done so, that it must be a very significant attack. Raids were a regular part of life in this part of the world but they had tended towards pinpricks, incursions low in numbers and effect; a few small livestock stolen, a few bodies taken into slavery and very rarely a man killed or a woman defiled.

  Four whole years had passed since anything occurred which might cause the population of the city to seek the security of the citadel; he could recall quite clearly being taken there by his mother at the time. With a mind still churning on how it had come about, as well as how it would be countered, he turned away to carry out his father’s instructions, though he resolved to go by his quarters to don his own set of armour and collect his sword. If he could not be a fighting soldier he could at least look like one.

  Citizens of the region were prone to fright but that was as nothing to the fear of the slaves and servants, the fact made plain to Flavius before he ever clapped eyes on them. The sound of the wailing filled the atrium, near loud enough to drown out the clattering sound of horses’ hooves and stamping feet as their master led his men away to do battle, this overlain with the barking of the family hounds that would run ahead of them.

  It did nothing to quell their anxieties that the youngest of their master’s sons should appear before them dressed in a decorated leather breastplate, with a sheathed sword at his side. Try as he might, Flavius could not command silence with the kind of tone that would have come easily to the other male members of his family. His voice was yet to fully break so his instruction came out as a croak and being that was utterly ignored.

  Thankfully Ohannes, his father’s domesticus, had the ability to replicate the order and be heard to do so, which if it did not bring calm at least diminished the howling so that the young master could issue his instructions and, once heard, lead what he thought of as a flock no better than goats out of the double gates of the villa, locking them behind him.

  Each of the servants, twenty in number and varying in age, had their bundle in their arms, within which would be laid their meagre possessions. Flavius could not help but wonder if there was some of the family’s property in there too, such an alarm being a perfect time to pilfer. If the barbarians made it to the Belisarius villa and sacked it, who was to say what they had taken, against what had been secreted away beforehand? If after all the barbarians did not reach the villa, any stolen object could be later replaced.

  ‘They would not dare,’ Ohannes snapped, when Flavius quietly suggested the possibility, added to the notion that they might be searched.

  Looking up at the old man’s face, mostly the prominent nose and the jutting jaw – it was half hidden by his long greying hair – Flavius had to smile; this old soldier was too faithful to his master himself to see a lack of that in others. The notion that he should order those bundles examined was, on consideration, an instruction Flavius declined to issue and in this his years were once more against him. If it turned out he was wrong then it would be he who suffered the wrath of his family for the resentment caused; aggrieved servants, even if most of them were slaves, had many subtle ways of exacting revenge on those they served for perceived slights.

  The presence of Ohannes was telling; would he not have set off at the side of his master if there had been anyone to shepherd the servants bar Flavius? True, Ohannes was past his prime and perhaps not fit enough for a hard march followed by fighting. Yet he was held in high regard by the head of the house so he might have been expected, at the very least, to be left to protect the Belisarius property, which could not be left empty. A gentle enquiry regarding that duty established the task had gone to another.

  ‘Would you not then be more contented riding to do battle?’

  ‘I have done enough of that in my time, Master Flavius, which my scars would tell you.’ That was followed by a derisive snort. ‘And what makes you think I rode? Folk like me used our feet and my bones are a mite rigid for too much of that now.’

  The steps Ohannes was taking gave something of a lie to the assertion; slightly stooped by his years, he was long in the leg and his footfall was extended and seemed firm. A Scythian recruit to the armies of Byzantium, he had ended up on the Moesian border and on retirement had taken service with the man who had been his last commander. It was a position in which he clearly felt comfortable, appreciated and of some value; if Ohannes was heard to moan, and that was not uncommon, it was not about the tasks he was asked to perform. His complaints were aimed at the uselessness of the servants who also tended to the Belisarius household, at their lack of application and any sense of discipline.

  ‘Time to use your elbows, young sir,’ he growled.

  The street that formed the approach to the fortress had become increasingly crowded, turning to a pushing and shoving throng, which did not diminish as they flowed out onto the old parade ground that lay before the gates. Streams of fleeing citizenry, coming from several directions, were melding into one hea
ving mass, each person seeking advantage so that the sound of disputes rose to a crescendo as men and women jostled to get themselves and their possessions to safety.

  Even if his voice could have carried, it would have been useless for Flavius to try to shout out and state that panic was unnecessary, to say the Sklaveni were not on their heels and the garrison, soon to be joined by the men retained by the local landowners to protect their own property, had set out to impede any advance on Dorostorum. The mood had taken hold and could not be controlled and what was before them now was getting dangerous: a melee in which to stumble risked being trampled.

  ‘Let us hold back, Ohannes,’ Flavius croaked.

  ‘Your charges won’t wait, Master Flavius, better you draw that sword on your hip and force your way through by a bit of belabouring or we will lose them.’

  The noise of the crowd made it equally impossible for Flavius to impose a check on the servants who, already wracked with anxiety, had picked up on the general air of alarm. Pushing forward despite his rasping command to halt they became mingled with the terrified citizenry. He had stopped, while Ohannes, by his side and hearing his order, had done likewise. There they stood, watching as matters ahead of them descended into chaos, the crowd around them shoving to get by, while by the double gate itself it was clear people were being crushed.

  ‘This should have been done with more calm.’

  ‘Easy to say, young sir, hard to manage when terror takes hold.’

  ‘It is enough for me, I have done my duty as requested.’ Those words being met with an expression of enquiry, Flavius added, ‘The servants are either on their way to safety or in a place where, even if it is dangerous, I cannot aid them.’

  The look he got from the taller man clearly begged a question, which he answered with a puffed-out chest. There was a sense that in declining the requests of his school friends he had diminished himself, something circumstances now allowed him to redress.

  ‘I intend to ride to join my father.’