by Jack Ludlow
‘I think it best to keep going in the same direction until it clouds over, Ohannes, if I can see the walls …’
The old man was bent over, puffing. ‘A pause, Master Flavius, till I can get my wind again.’
‘Not master now, Ohannes,’ came the gloomy reply, as Flavius hitched up his satchel. ‘I am in possession of nothing more than I carry.’
‘Much more of this,’ Ohannes wheezed, ‘and it may be you will need to carry me.’
‘Which means we must move at a pace that will not see you crippled.’
Still wheezing the old man responded. ‘Before we move at all we must seek to put any dogs off.’
‘How?’
‘By leaving them a smell so strong they will be confused. Time to get your pecker out, Master Flavius, and do as I do, create a circle of piss.’
Was it nerves that made it near impossible to comply? Whatever, it seemed to affect Ohannes less, for he sprayed his urine around with seeming abandon, shaming the dribbling of Flavius who had trouble obeying the other instruction, which was to avoid wetting his sandals, since that would leave a trace for dogs to follow.
As soon as the light faded they moved, this time at a walking crouch, easier for Flavius than Ohannes, but less tiring than jogging, the only impediment the odd overgrown bramble stalk that, having outgrown the hedgerow and invisible to the eye, caught their garments on its spikes. On the north side of the wheat fields it was well-maintained woodland and once in that both men could move freely and at a suitable pace as long as there was moonlight, keeping an eye on the position of that orb to guide their way to the very road they had traversed on horseback two days previously.
Without the moon, which disappeared with frustrating regularity and plunged the woodlands in complete darkness, progress was impossible. Even when they could move they were obliged to stop and let die down the distant barking of farm dogs marking their progress, being as they were in the area that had escaped the recent battles, and that constrained them until they crested the rise that overlooked the area where the barbarians had carried out their killing.
The smell of burning was still in the air, pungent and sickly, either from gutted farmhouses or maybe even from the funeral pyre, as once more an obscured moon halted their progress, making hellish what had been so far disturbing. The sounds now were the faint ones of wild beasts, from feral cats to wild dogs and wolves tearing at rotting flesh, ghostly shapes that emerged in the resurgent moonlight, as did that upon which they were feeding.
Bishop Gregory Blastos admitted he had not seen fit to properly bury the casualties the barbarians had caused, be they the men who had fought under Decimus or those who had succumbed to the massacre before flight. So much for his claim of a communal grave: they had been given no more than a shallow trench and a covering of loose earth, easily scrabbled out by eager claws. In daylight it would be the vultures that fed here, which had the youngster talking about the worst scavenger of all, for this land, with few if any survivors, was now without the families that once tilled and tended it.
Ohannes spat loudly at the mention of the Senuthius name. ‘Word is that he will give any abandoned farms to his men. How can he do that?’
‘By falsifying the titles he can erase any presence of the previous owners. And making his followers tenants buys the loyalty of those he favours and he also gains from their rents.’
That caused the old Scythian to issue what had to be, in his own tongue, a venomous and blasphemous curse not unlike the blasts of spleen that had been issued by Belisarius Pater at any mention of the Senuthius name. That particular bit of chicanery Flavius had read about in that cache of letters.
‘He did it before, Ohannes, with the help of the provincial governor, just before we arrived here as a family. It was the first complaint laid against him after my father took up his duties.’
There had been several big raids that year, followed by loud complaints to Constantinople demanding protection, that being the reason for the appointment of Decimus Belisarius to his post. It had, since that day, been his view that some of those loud in their pleas had got more than they bargained for when the new centurion discovered what was going on. He, in turn, got less when he came to realise he was powerless to stop such officially authorised thievery.
‘The Sklaveni took the farmers as slaves, Senuthius took their land, sure they would never return, but just in case he stole it by legal means.’
Flavius looked ahead to the wide silver glow of the River Danube, dotted with the odd glim of a lantern where some local was out night-fishing and that had him thinking of another one of his father’s grievances that could be laid at the door of Senuthius, an occasional dip into piracy, for the river was a major trade route from the interior to the Euxine Sea and beyond.
If the thieving of Senuthius was rare, it was always of a valuable cargo, for he had contacts upriver with the means to alert him to worthwhile objectives. It was a hard crime to stop too: the imperial centurion had no ship with which to patrol the river and nor could he tie himself and his men down on the riverbank in the hope of a surprise intervention.
If he found out about what had been pirated, and sometimes he was aware he did not, it was too late to do anything. The ship and crew would be at the bottom of the river, taken out and sunk in midstream as soon as the cargo had been unloaded, to then be dispersed and sold in places beyond the reach of his authority. Given the barbarians, too, indulged in such activities it was easy for Senuthius to protest his innocence when a ship was found to be missing and accusations were laid against him.
‘Hard to get a grip on a man who coats himself with oil,’ Ohannes moaned at the mention of this further criminality. ‘Known a few of those in my time.’
‘None as slippery as Senuthius,’ Flavius responded, as he began to list for Ohannes many of his other crimes, these too culled from the letters in his canvas satchel.
Some were only alleged, yet the list was long: it seemed there was nothing to which Senuthius would not stoop in search of profit. Stockpiling grain to create scarcity and up the price that must be paid when the harvest was poor. Adulterating both the wine and olive oil used by the poor and needy on a regular basis. The outright theft of land had already been mentioned, as had raiding across the river for slaves.
But added to that was the intimidating of lesser landowners by crop burning or physical beatings if they dared to stand up to him, demanding the payment of bribes to ensure they did not suffer more than once. Any less subservient neighbours, those who would not bend the knee, usually ended up selling him their farms rather than put up with endless harassment. He added to that downright fraud when it came to trading in any of the myriad commodities he now controlled.
Not that he participated in any criminal act himself; Senuthius always acted at one remove. He had willing lieutenants to do his bidding, the same men who had protected him from a furious Flavius, as well as too many folk who sucked up to him out of fear or merely because of his deep purse. Also plain was the simple truth and one that had frustrated Decimus above any other: the more he transgressed the more powerful Senuthius became in terms of wealth, influence and followers. Not all the citizens of worth were wholehearted in their regard for him, but they were men who looked to their own interests and could see clearly where power lay and with it their own prosperity.
These thoughts induced once more a sense of creeping despair. Swear vengeance he might for the blood of his family but there was only one power in the land that could create for him a situation in which he might kill Senuthius, something he had determined upon as he watched that funeral pyre burn. If he could not bring to the commission the truth of what had occurred, would they even find they could uphold any of what had been sent to them?
‘Ohannes, we must stop!’ The injunction was obeyed but Flavius could sense it was unwelcome. ‘If I cross the river who knows what it will lead to?’
‘Have I not already said …?’
‘Even if we rem
ain free to act as we wish on the north bank, we will have no idea if the people my father was expecting have arrived, have no knowledge of what they will hear and no way of putting before them the accusations that he listed.’
‘Something I will be willing to talk about when my backside is sat in a boat and we are more’n the length of a cast spear out on yonder water.’
‘Don’t you see, Ohannes …?’
The response was a furious hiss. ‘I see my flesh rotting on a cross if what you say they are about is true. I can see too that your mind might be working at ways to bring down Senuthius, Master Flavius, and that is to be expected. But think on the time your papa put into that and no result to show for it.’
‘I cannot stop you from crossing if that is what you wish …’
‘Don’t you dare take that tone with me,’ Ohannes spat. ‘You have your birth but recall your years.’
That checked Flavius completely; the Scythian had rarely spoken to him with anything but respect, yet here again was that stance he had adopted when he used his spear to threaten the stallion. The recollection of that produced near-equal irritation.
‘Am I only to be indulged when what you want marries my thinking?’
If he hoped to dent the older man’s ire he failed miserably. ‘Your papa is dead and so are your brothers, but were the centurion able to speak from beyond then he would ask that I keep you whole, and even if the words were never spoken that is what I shall do. Stay on this bank of the river and you will die, for certain, an’ me too for I will not leave your side.’
‘You do not know my thinking.’
‘Crossed over the river you can do as much thinking as you wish. Now it is fleeing that matters.’
‘We can find a place to hide on this side.’
‘With dogs on our trail?’ Prepared to be stubborn, the notion that he could was taken from Flavius by the sound of baying hounds, faint but unmistakable and carrying a long way on a still night, which allowed Ohannes to add, ‘Only thing that will keep us from them is water and as for the men handling them, lots of it.’
It was time to move at speed, and luck and good moonlight soon set them on the riverbank at a spot where an inundation created a small strand of pebbles, the water lapping it deep enough to break the spoor. That would not last long: the bank rose and protruded out into the river, the water becoming too deep through which to wade, so it was back to dry land and a patch of thick untended woodland. It did not need to be stated that such a dipping of feet would last only minutes; the dogs would be sent to both ends of the strand, so still making ground was essential.
Ohannes, even if he was wheezing again, showed no sign of wishing to do anything other than hurry along, although he had enough puff to curse when once more the moon was covered by cloud, killing what little light came through a thick overhead canopy. Forced to stand still, it occurred to Flavius that it had been an error to come to this part of the riverbank, albeit not having thought of it himself beforehand, he reckoned it would be churlish to point out to Ohannes why: they were within the area of the recent raid and the barbarians had taken every boat as they retreated.
They needed to get beyond the old watchtower that lay to the north, where there might be craft still beached, and that was going to be made difficult in what was now continuing pitch dark. Either the moon was obscured or the woods they passed through were too dense in the overhead cover to permit any light to penetrate, obliging them to find once more the riverbank, where they sought out another small inlet with its strand of pebbles and stopped, Ohannes stooping to splash his sweating face with water, the word spat out when he stood again.
‘Look.’
The crest of the hills that overlooked the river was dotted with tiny spots of light, numerous torches too far off to be seen as flaring, while faint on the air was the sound of the pack of dogs, which produced a sobering conclusion. Cloud cover and deep woodland would halt them but it would not hinder the pursuit of these men, let alone their beasts. Only when the sky cleared again and in open country could they move on at a pace sufficient to stave off capture. To escape would be a miracle, for they could not outrun the dogs once they were left free to take the chase on their own.
‘Take off your armour.’
‘Why?’
‘Do as I ask,’ Ohannes growled, working at the straps of his own. ‘Perhaps if we leave them here they will think we swam for it.’
‘Only a fool would do that.’
‘Or a man desperate to escape and with no other choice.’
Loath to part with a possession he prized, Flavius did as he was asked, fingering, once his breastplate and back protector were off, the shaped leather as well as the gilded metal decorations mounted on the front. The design was Roman in origin, the same as would have been worn by an imperial tribune in ancient times and elaborate enough to cause envy amongst his peers. The smell of warm leather was strong, that mixed with the sweat coming from his own body.
‘My father gifted me this.’
‘Then he will look down and see the sense of what we are doing with it.’
‘No mere centurion for you Flavius, was what he said as he gave it to me.’ There was a distinct catch in his throat as he bent down to pick up his spear.
‘We are going to have to wade along the riverbank and hope it is not too cold or deep enough to drown us.’ Sensing rather than seeing doubt, Ohannes was quick to add, ‘We can’t hope to outrun them and no stretch of pebbles is going to put them off for long. We need deeper water.’
‘But they know the direction in which we are going.’
‘With luck they will reckon we have tried to swim the river or at least to get to one of them boats out fishing. Whatever, if we stay in the water they will have to cast around a long way for the dogs to scent any spoor.’
‘And when we come ashore again?’
‘We will be dripping so much there will be nothing to pick up and that, if we can fool them, will oblige the sods to wait for sunrise. Time, Master Flavius, is our only friend.’
While he was willing to acknowledge the truth of that, the youngster’s mind was more on the canvas sack he was carrying, as well as its contents, the writing on which would scarce survive immersion in water, even those in the oilskin pouch. As for his father’s testament, that would be rendered pulp. The thought of hiding them foundered on the time it would need to dig a deep hole and one well enough hidden to avoid detection – again dogs with his spoor on their snouts would easily root out anything he had held close.
He moved back into the woods, the sound of a cursing Ohannes in his ears as he sought out a tree that he might again be able to recognise, blessed by the outline of what appeared to be an ancient oak, wide at the base, climbable if not easily so and in full leaf judging by the sound of the wind rustling its foliage. A soft call to a less than contented companion got him a leg up to one of the lower branches where he again found further progress impeded by the pain from his left shoulder.
That had to be ignored and up he went until he felt sure whatever he left here would not be visible from the ground. With a silent prayer he put his lips to the sack then tied the loops he had used to carry it tightly round a branch before tucking the body into the joint of the main trunk. Getting down was easier and Ohannes was there to aid his final descent. The thought of slicing the oak with a couple of sword cuts, so he could find it easily again, had to be discarded; if he could see them so could others but the location had to be marked in some way or he might never again find it.
Flavius fetched half a dozen pebbles from the riverbank and, by the tree, arranged them in a small mound, fiddling until an impatient Ohannes dragged him once more to the edge, he wading into the silver, rippling water, hissing his worry, given he was taller.
‘Keep your head above the water, Master Flavius, we can’t have you drown.’
‘Ohannes, I can swim.’
‘Good, and I hope it is enough to save me from going under, if God is with us.’
‘Hard to believe after what has happened that God has any time for a Belisarius.’
‘Well cursing him won’t do us much good,’ Ohannes barked, his voice holding a catch of breath as the river water came up above his groin.
Flavius, realising that his backplate would float and before he followed the Scythian, picked it up and threw it out onto the river, far enough to hope it would drift downstream and still be visible; to his mind leaving it on the bank would only tell the pursuit that they had been on this spot and fix their chase. Then, carrying his breastplate he waded in with his spear above his head, following Ohannes into water that was icy cold, barely warmed by the sun and still with some of the glacier melt or underground springs from which it and its tributaries emanated many hundreds of leagues to the west and north.
The breastplate he jammed into the tangled tree roots that stuck out of the first stretch of high bank he encountered, decorations to the fore, something that would at least be visible from the river if hidden from those on land, another indicator of where he had hidden his sack. Progress, easy to begin with, was made awkward by the way that those outcrops of ground jutted out from the bank, obliging the pair to risk deeper water, this compounded by the odd depression underfoot. Risk also came in the regular shallow little inlets, for these had to be traversed at speed and in full view of the shoreline, having made sure the men pursuing them were not within sight.
In this their use of torches became an aid; they would not move without them for fear of ambush and the glare was a sure indication of their location: likewise the noise of the dogs, still on leads, much more prominent now, was an indicator. When that baying sound rose to indicate the pack was close, Ohannes called a halt and had them take shelter under an overhang where the water came up to their necks, the trailing branches of a tree above their heads. To counter the glare of the moon reflecting off the water the Scythian grabbed some damp mud and began to smear his face, Flavius following suit.
