by Jack Ludlow
The reply was given in a mordant tone and one that implied some kind of knowledge. ‘No, you do not.’
‘You have yet to answer my question, Dardanies,’ Flavius said, his mind too fixed on his own preoccupation to pursue any other avenue. ‘Did you join with them?’
‘It was too good an opportunity to let pass.’
‘A chance to kill Romans?’
‘You praised my knowledge of Latin. How does a warrior of the Sklaveni get that?’
‘By being captured?’ That got a nod. ‘Were you a slave?’
‘Perhaps you are not a fool after all, Flavius Belisarius. Perhaps one day I will show you the scars you get from a Roman master who takes pleasure in punishment. And let me tell you, before I do, that I have never met anyone so devoted to the God you just sought to invoke when you spoke of your family.’
‘How close were you to my father and brothers when they were …?’ He could not finish, could not say the word ‘killed’.
‘Nowhere near, but do not doubt if I had been I would have used my weapons in the same manner as the Huns who did cut them down.’
‘And you have been chosen to get me to somewhere safe.’
‘I have been commanded to do so and it is not a duty I relish.’
‘Perhaps I might have to pay the price for your hatred of Rome?’
‘No, Master Flavius,’ Ohannes interjected. ‘This man will not harm you.’
‘I might, fellow, but only if we meet after I have discharged the task given to me.’
‘How can you be sure, Ohannes?’
‘Perhaps he will tell you.’
‘Better coming from you, Greek.’
‘Neither Greek nor Roman,’ the Scythian replied forcefully. ‘Not that it makes much odds, since I was a soldier of the empire.’
Then he turned to Flavius. ‘If he was minded to cut your throat, Master Flavius, he would have taken on the mission he has been given with glee. I might not know a word of his tongue but I can read a face and what I saw was a man in despond.’
‘Enough,’ Dardanies snapped. ‘If we are to take a boat out on the river and be in plain sight of the southern bank, you Flavius Belisarius need to be disguised and that includes hiding those bruises on your face that make you look like an owl.’ He laughed then, a loud hoot. ‘Might be best to dress you up as a woman.’
There was sheer pleasure for Dardanies then, provided by the reaction those words received; Flavius, on the cusp of manhood, was deeply offended.
The disguise was flour mixed with water and plastered around his eyes, added to a hooded smock that, pulled well forward, hid much of his face from view. It was less that he might be spotted from the riverbank than that they were bound to pass other boats on the constantly fished-upon river, where a sort of truce existed. Each person seeking to cast a net, whichever side be they from, was, unless open conflict was in progress, left in peace.
Much of the day had already gone so, with the sun beginning to sink towards the level of the treetops and using the boat Ohannes had acquired by terror, they set out, Flavius laying low in the bow. Dardanies and the Scythian did the rowing, harder against the flow of the river, the latter with his previous cack-handedness until instruction had him working his stick with competence if not skill.
The Sklaveni knew the river well and was good at identifying landmarks on both banks, asking a stream of questions about the time they had taken to cross. That neither knew, just as they had no precise idea as to from where they had set off. With little to aid him and the light fading and it being useless to search in darkness, that first evening produced no result.
Once more beached on the northern shore, they made their way back to the hut, Ohannes and Flavius to spend the night under guard, Dardanies going off to wherever it was he resided, returning before dawn. They were soon once more out on the river, working from the point at which they had previously abandoned the search. Spotting one of the watchtowers that had lined the river since the time of Hadrian, Flavius knew they had gone too far, so they reversed their course.
‘It would aid us to be closer to the shore,’ he suggested.
Dardanies was wary and with good reason, given he did not know what Senuthius had set in motion – everything he could muster, he supposed, given that, according to his young captive, he might stand to lose the same should Flavius Belisarius survive.
‘He must know by now that you did not go south but either crossed the river or are in hiding on his side. Why else would he seek to reward us for your capture?’
‘We have seen no one looking.’
The reply was brusque, with a sharp nod towards the densely wooded shore they were presently passing. ‘That does not mean they are not there.’
It was a flash of sunlight, suddenly breaking through a gap in the tree canopy, that caught one of the decorative motifs on Flavius’s breastplate – a glint, no more, and in time a blink of the human eye. This had the youngster pointing, his voice less excited than his motion as he nailed the contradiction in the Sklaveni’s reservations.
‘How are we to get possession of it if we do not land?’ Flavius said, as he cast his eyes up to examine the trees, several of them oaks, prepared to exaggerate what he could see and identify. ‘I think I see the very tree there!’
The oars being swiftly backed, the boat came to a standstill, the sticks used to keep it in place as the wooded bank was examined. They were searching for any movement, acutely aware that if they had been spotted, to observe any would be unlikely; anyone wishing them harm would stay still until they landed. It was also true there was little choice, so Dardanies having checked with Flavius, at a word the oars were lifted and dipped, and very gently employed to take them close to the shore.
‘Take up my spear,’ Dardanies said, he being armed, obviously directed to Flavius since he was not rowing.
The youngster lifted it and for a moment he exchanged a look with the Sklaveni and it was one full of meaning. Were you really nowhere near my father and brothers when they were cut down, it asked? Will you keep to your task when taking Ohannes and me south or will you seek to kill us as soon as you are out of sight of your elders, and thus get vengeance on Rome?
‘Ever thrown a spear from off of a boat before?’
‘No.’
‘Then brace yourself well and aim high, for it will move under your feet.’
Those words broke the spell, which had Flavius, spear on his good shoulder and feet braced by the timbers, looking hard at the shore until he used the point for a second to indicate the now visible breastplate stuck in the roots of the riverside trees.
‘There!’
‘Pull hard on my word, then lift clear!’
Dardanies snapped this command to Ohannes which, when carried out, propelled the prow towards a strand of pebbles. He immediately shipped his oar and took out his sword to leap ashore as soon as the keel ground on the stones, there to stand ready to fight if anyone appeared. After a pause he turned to put his finger to his lips and to show them the palm of his hand, thus ordering silence and stillness, a pose he held for what seemed an age, until some birds began to sing.
They would have been alarmed at their noisy arrival, but with the boat and its occupants still, their tweeting sent a sign to tell all three that no one else was moving within the woods, that driven home by the sudden silence as soon as Flavius came ashore to look for his pile of pebbles, his feet crunching on the stones. He found them quickly and gestured to Dardanies that he had done so.
‘Then find that damned sack,’ the Sklaveni growled, relieving him of the spear. ‘And be quick.’
Which Flavius did, climbing as quickly as pain allowed, the sack grabbed from his hands as soon as he came back to the ground; he also waded into the water to retrieve his breastplate.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Justinus had heard no more of what the Emperor Anastasius had imparted to him nor did he show either by gesture or voice that he was in any way put out by the decision,
merely sending word by fast messenger to his nephew that he should return to the capital. In the words used there was no expression of approval or regret and he went about his duties as if nothing had been said.
It was axiomatic at court that the suppression of any personal feelings was the only safe way to behave and if he felt sure that their conversations on the subject had been just between Anastasius and himself he could never be certain: no man could keep such a throne without being himself an intriguer.
There was rising tension within the imperial palace, growing daily, with news coming from southern Moesia of the activities of Vitalian, who had within the areas he controlled – those within reach of the army he commanded – removed several Monophysite bishops despite a direct instruction from the magister militum per Thracias not to do so. Not that the writ of that official, unpopular both as a satrap and a person, carried much weight with a count of the foederati, general to a strong body of mounted barbarian mercenaries.
Justinus was present in his official capacity as the council gathered to discuss what action to take and it was with a creeping sense of disquiet he listened to men who knew nothing about a man like Vitalian propose solutions that could only inflame matters. Chief among them were the three nephews of Anastasius – he had lost his only bastard son to a Hippodrome riot – who tended to compete with each other in order to ingratiate themselves, each vying to be named his successor.
It was instructive to watch such born courtiers – patricians by both birth and habit – deploy their arguments, each one showing a sensitivity, not to the problem under discussion but simply seeking to discern the effect their words had on their uncle and thus a reflection of their standing. The emperor had the unusual physical trait of different-coloured eyes, one being blue the other green – which had earned him the sobriquet Dicorus – said by some to be a sign of the devil, by others of divine approval, these in a face now lined with the ravages of age, loose flesh on the neck and jowls, the nose grown more prominent as had the sagging ears.
Yet it was an expressive face, so the slightest intimation that anything they put forward met with disapproval brought an immediate switch of tack; if a rival seemed to have struck a chord then that was the line taken by all. The rest of the imperial council – dozens in numbers and all men of shifting principles and profound self-interest – tended to let these nephews make the running until they could pick up which way the wind was blowing; it was then time to advance an opinion.
‘If the foederati cannot eat, Highness, they are scarce going to rebel,’ claimed Hypatius, the nephew Justinus reckoned most likely to succeed his uncle.
‘You suggest we deny them rations?’ Anastasius mused, in a way that showed it an idea that appealed to him, for while it would irritate Vitalian, it might not inflame matters to the point of a complete break.
‘Or the funds needed to purchase them,’ added the younger brother Pompeius, who had been advocating a totally different and more drastic point just moments before.
‘Not deny, Highness,’ Hypatius remarked, giving his brother a sideways glance full of bile. ‘Restrict. Empty bellies will provoke them, occasional hunger may not.’
‘And what if you are wrong?’ argued nephew three, the youngest and the dimmest. Probus was obviously thinking that clear blue waters between his cousins and himself might serve him well. What he got from Hypatius was a sneer and a winning rejoinder.
‘I cast only an opinion, Probus. I leave our emperor to take a decision that falls to him and I would not so traduce his wisdom to even suggest he might be in error.’
‘I meant—’
‘His Highness knows what you meant.’
‘We cannot be seen to give ground,’ Pompeius interjected, seeming to be clear now which way matters were likely to proceed, ‘to any general who opposes imperial edicts.’
Anastasius nodded very slowly, then looked around the glittering audience chamber, at his dozens of non-related courtiers, none of whom had as yet voiced an opinion and it looked as though none would, which Justinus found curious. Within that overstuffed body lay every vice known to man, but if they lacked sexual or financial morality they did not want for a degree of dexterity. It seemed obvious to the comes excubitorum that Anastasius was inclined to accept what was being proposed by Hypatius, to his mind like throwing a flaming torch into a vat of heated oil.
Sense dictated that some of them oppose such a dangerous policy but they seemed, by their lack of expression, to be in some way endorsing it and it was not difficult to find a reason why. For some, they knew they might be looking, in Hypatius, at the next emperor, so to rebut him was unwise. For others, who would reckon the nephew to be foolish, letting him have his head with a futile policy might be a good way to diminish him, given they would have views of their own on the succession, in several cases candidates from their own family.
Thus it was in the Roman Eastern Empire and it was no different in the West, now ruled by the barbarian Ostrogoth Theodoric, a man without an ounce of Rome in his being. There was no certainty to succession here or in Rome and even being strong militarily was not enough, so mere blood ties offered no guarantee. Any number of conflicting centres of power came into play on the death of an emperor so that it seemed more sheer chance than guiding principle decided the succession, Anastasius himself being a prime example.
‘Let it be so,’ declared the emperor after a long pause, indicating that he had given it due consideration. ‘It will do good to let the foederati be reminded of who it is who provides their meat, be it on the Persian border or in Moesia. If they do not like it let them go back from whence they came, where they will likely starve.’
That decided, a cacophony of noise erupted, as each man present sought the floor to propose to the emperor their full support, following on to advocate some project or point of their own outside the main discussion.
Lanterns were brought to the gloomy hut – if it was still day outside little light penetrated – and with them came that same trio of elders, this time with a monk in tow. Religion on the northern bank of the Danube was diverse, folk worshipping both their own pagan gods in a form of animism and Christianity as they chose, with no overarching authority to tell them who was right and who was damned. Fear of the latter and no certainty in either was inclined to have many of them worship both.
This divine, a disciple of St Basil, had for his faith travelled all the way from Syria across the empire, to preach to the pagan Sklaveni, while also administering to those he and his predecessors had converted, for this was a land the bishop of the southern bank left alone. He could read and write in both Greek and Latin, as well as now speak in the local tongue, so it was to him that the contents of Flavius’s sack were passed, read out to men who were probably not literate.
‘I could have done that for them,’ Flavius said when he realised what was happening.
‘Who says they would believe you?’
‘They would only have to look into my eyes to see I am telling the truth.’
‘Not those eyes,’ Ohannes jested, with a circular roll of a finger.
The testament of Decimus Belisarius was immediately handed over to Flavius, as soon as the monk had told the elders of its contents. Such things were of no interest to them, in stark contrast to the information contained in the letters to and from Justinus, evidenced by the noises emanating from the tight listening conclave, loud enough, given Flavius and Ohannes were sitting well away from the gathering, to cover a whispered conversation.
‘I think at least one, if not two of them have recognised their own names. My father listed those with whom he had dealings.’
‘Happen,’ came the laconic reply.
Yet again a question occurred to Flavius, one, like so many others, he realised he should have asked before. ‘Do you recognise any of them? You said you came over with my father when he dealt with them.’
‘I was never part of their talking, Master Flavius, that was done out of my sight. All I recall i
s that they were too mean of spirit to feed me even a bowl of meal.’
Voices were being raised. Flavius once more sensed dispute and Ohannes was in agreement, for both could guess there was more than one way to take advantage of what these barbarians had acquired. How much, for instance, would Senuthius pay to have a list of the charges against him as well as those who might bear witness in his possession? What if they gave him both the letters and the youngster who had spirited them away?
Throughout the ongoing arguments the monk sat silent – having finished his reading his opinion was not sought – yet both prisoners perked up when they heard him interject, softly but insistently, mentioning a very recognisable name to both prisoners, that of Bishop Gregory Blastos.
That the monk was held in some regard was clear by the way he was attended to, no one interrupting, but it was doubly frustrating for Flavius not to be able to understand what was being said. Here was a man he did not know and he had heard that, as a breed, monks could be just as saintly or just as venal as any other person who took to preaching the Gospels. The name Blastos recurred time and again but so even was the voice it was impossible to make out from his tone either approval or condemnation.
Then the discussion opened out, once more encompassing those tribal elders, voices rising and falling as views were expressed and countered, with the monk now listening in silence for what seemed an age, as if weighing up the case. Finally he spoke again, crossing himself as he did so, what he was imparting being received with nods from his audience. Eventually Dardanies, who had taken no part at all in the discussions, was spoken to and sent over to talk to them.
‘It has been decided that these letters must stay with us.’
‘No!’
Dardanies shook his head. ‘You do not have a choice in this, it has been decided.’
‘Why?’
It being Ohannes who had asked, the Sklaveni turned to him. ‘There is more than one reason. In your possession and once over the river …?’ That unfinished remark was followed by a shrug.
