by Jack Ludlow
Flavius knew it to be a comforting fallacy, the stuff of imaginings common to him and his peers as they wielded their wooden weapons and dreamt of glory, but he could not find it in himself to challenge Ohannes in a cruel way.
‘You have many years on you and still breathe.’
‘For which I thank the Lord.’
‘And I thank him too,’ Flavius replied, crossing himself.
A sort of commotion in another part of the barn distracted them, the sound of a squealing female and the raised voice of one of the men they had met late in the day. Standing, for to do so was to take his mind away from his troubled thoughts, Flavius saw that the fellow had hold of the girl’s wrist – and she was that, not much more than his age and slim of figure, no match in strength for the fellow troubling her.
The movement of Dardanies, much closer to him, he caught out of the corner of his eye. He was feeling for his spear and Flavius guessed it was a desire to protect the girl that would animate him; she was a slave and very likely she was like him, a barbarian and a pagan, perhaps even one of those taken by Senuthius in one of his raids on the Sklaveni and sold to this well-to-do farmer.
‘Dardanies,’ he hissed.
Flavius was shaking his head violently as he stepped out into the centre of the barn, glad to see that his action had stopped the movement of the hand. It had not changed the look on the face, which was still one of seething fury, and that deepened as the girl squealed again and twisted to try and get clear, the action producing laughter, worryingly from more than one throat.
‘Ohannes, help me deal with this.’
Flavius stepped forward without waiting to see if his request had been met, moving towards the point of nuisance, unhappy to note that Bassus, who acted the leader in everything else, was not willing to do so now. The voice over his shoulder calmed him.
‘Best leave that wench be, friend,’ said Ohannes.
That killed off the laughter and changed it to something more troubling. After a moment of confusion the face of the man holding and pulling at the girl’s wrist altered completely. When he spoke there was not a trace of affability in his voice.
‘And who would be telling me what to do and what not?’
‘I would,’ Ohannes said, stepping past Flavius.
In a straw-filled barn lit by oil lamps, placed carefully to avoid starting a fire, the old soldier looked grim, ten times more so with his badly cut hair than he had before.
‘And who might you be?’
‘A Christian, brother, as are you and one that would feel it a sin to taunt.’
The eyebrows went up and he tugged at the held wrist. ‘This? She’s a barbarian, man.’
‘So you would treat her as a plaything?’ Flavius asked.
‘Jealous are you, youngster?’
‘Disappointed that anyone marching on the Lord’s business should act as you are doing now.’
That made the fellow sit forward, the action dragging the still-held girl with him, bringing from her throat a whimper of pain. ‘Careful I don’t box your ears, lad.’
Flavius was dying to look behind him, to see what Dardanies was doing, but he dared not; he needed to hold this fellow’s eyes, even as he jeered at him.
‘By the look of your mug that’s been visited upon you not long past.’
‘And,’ Ohannes barked, ‘the man who did it is dead.’
‘What, this mite a killer?’
The miscreant looked around his companions and laughed, far from encouraged by their less supportive response – his insult aimed at Flavius was being seen as wide of the mark, for if he did look young he was tall, showed decent muscle, while the glare on his face left no one in any doubt he was serious. All of these factors, when he did speak again, made the fellow sound sullen.
‘Man wants to have a bit of fun with a slave girl and suddenly …’
He did not finish, his eyes moving sideways, which told Flavius that Dardanies had joined him. As his look ranged over them it was clear he saw the threat the trio posed and so did those he could call companions.
‘Game’s not worth the candle, is it?’ Ohannes asked.
The moment of danger seemed to last longer than the actual time, the tension being something Flavius felt he could almost touch. The girl’s wrist he let go of and she ran out of the barn, an act followed by a stillness as the odds were assessed, not least how much support the man who had held her had from those with whom he had taken to the road. It was the lack of certainty there, Flavius thought, which produced the response.
‘Please yourself,’ he said half turning to break eye contact, ‘but I shall keep one eye open as I sleep. Strikes me you three might want that wench for yourselves.’
The final shot was aimed at Flavius and accompanied by a barked laugh intended to amuse his friends. ‘Not that you would do her much good, lad, with what you have to gift her. As for the ghoul at your side, well I doubt his years would see him the stallion.’
Ohannes turned his back on the voice, to whisper in the ear of Flavius. ‘We have made an enemy there.’
‘My friend,’ Flavius called out, blushing at the way the fellow had insulted his manhood. ‘If I interfered it was for the sake of your soul, not from any desire for my own gratification.’
‘Hark at him,’ came the response to his facility with words. ‘Lord of the manor or what?’
‘We are all engaged in an enterprise that we hope will raise us in the eyes of God. What a shame it would be to sully that.’ He turned to Bassus. ‘I suggest that prayers would be in order, to thank the Lord for what we have received this day and what we hope to achieve in those to come.’
That being a hard suggestion to gainsay, the whole assembly were soon on their knees, Flavius throwing Dardanies a meaningful look that forced him to comply, though not without a cynical smile on his face. As others mouthed the words of their prayers, he stayed head down and silent, which caused no comment at all, it being commonplace. Naturally, given the hour, what they had just done and a long day’s march on the morrow, the next act was to settle down to sleep, and exhaustion was enough, in the case of Flavius, to compensate for the loud snoring that filled the barn and barely relented until they were woken by the crowing of the cock.
Those who needed to used the back of the barn to relieve themselves then joined the rest at the horse trough to duck their heads and get the sleep out of their eyes. Their host, a well-fed fellow of a hearty mien, arrived in person to wish them well on their way and to pass on food for the journey, which had Flavius haul on his cowl, hiding as much as he could, using others to shield him from view.
If he did not recognise the farmer that did not mean he would not be spotted in turn. They were no more than a day’s ride from Dorostorum and here was the kind of citizen who might well turn up there to the local assembly, a talking shop naturally dominated by Senuthius as well as Gregory Blastos and, according to his father, utterly useless when it came to reining in either the senator or the bishop. Even so, it was held to be instructive to his sons as an example of the Roman way of conducting politics and many times Flavius had sat with his friends in the old Greek amphitheatre to watch the debates.
In the event he got away without being seen and he stuck close to Ohannes and Dardanies, one shielding him on either side, as they continued on their way south, the old soldier, whose aches brought on by marching he was vocal about, slowing the pace so that a gap opened up between them and the rest of the band. This allowed him to begin to lecture the youngster.
‘What you did last night was noble but foolish.’
‘It was not. Tell him, Dardanies, you were reaching for your spear, were you not?’ A nod followed, given with a look of renewed fury at the memory. ‘So you see, Ohannes, I stopped that fool from being killed. What would have happened if I had not?’
‘Well, that’s as maybe,’ came the reply, from a companion very reluctant to concede, even after a decent pause, that he might be mistaken, ‘but you don’t get w
hat I’m driving at.’
‘Which is?’
‘You seem to have it in your head that all these men marching to join General Vitalian are fired by a love of God.’
‘If not that, what?’
‘Plunder,’ Dardanies suggested.
‘That’s the right of it,’ the old man agreed. ‘Oh, they’ll spout their faith at every turn, and I daresay amongst the gathering host there will be those that truly believe in the cause as it is stated, Bassus, I would say, being one and maybe, too, those he leads. But just as many sense the chance in this to get their hands on the kind of riches they can only dream of.’
‘You cannot be sure of that.’
‘If the comes foederatorum raises his standard where is he going to take it to?’
‘Constantinople, to face down the emperor.’
‘And what’s in the city?’
‘I have said – Anastasius.’
‘As well as his palaces, along with those of the patrician class and rich traders, citizens who eat off gold plate. There are rich churches, too, and best to not mention the women. There’s no good asking that fellow you challenged last night about what his purpose is, ’cause he will only respond with a load of pious blether. But it’s my guess, judging by the way he got hold of that lass, his faith is closer to his gonads than his soul.’
Dardanies had started to laugh, a low chuckle to begin with, growing heartier as he thought on what was being said.
‘It’s not a matter at which to laugh,’ Flavius cried, the certainties with which he had been raised sorely dented.
‘It is,’ came the reply, the laughter stopping abruptly. ‘At least we pagans are honest in our intentions. We fight for treasure, slaves and to make free with enemy women. We do not cloak our acts in false godliness.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Of all the glories of the Roman Empire their system of roads was the most enduring, as well as being a prime asset in times of trouble, there always being strife somewhere. If Emperor Anastasius was known to be tight-fisted with imperial income – he had raised massive sums in taxes in his years in office and spent as little as possible – he never stinted on the prime means of communication throughout his domains.
By this method he kept in touch with the Ostrogoth Theodoric in Ravenna. He could be told within days what was happening from the coast of Illyria or the deserts of Egypt and all points in between. Most vital was the threatened frontier shared with Persia, an enemy with whom he had just concluded an unsatisfactory peace after a less than conclusive war, which on balance had not favoured the empire.
Likewise he was made swiftly aware of the results of the agreed policy towards Vitalian and the omens were far from good: the champion of Chalcedon, which is how the general increasingly saw himself, had reacted with fury to the cutting off of supplies and money and in this he had only reflected the stance of the foederati he led, barbarian mercenaries from every far-flung imperial border. Conatus, the magister militum per Thracias, had been immediately deposed; it was rumoured he had been executed, while those officers who had served him and had not defected to the rebels were subject to the same fate.
That same system of roads and messengers had brought news that the mission to Dorostorum was no longer a viable one, which rendered its recall fortuitous and any future enquiry unlikely. Justinus certainly did not doubt that the list of crimes against the local magnate warranted investigation, but the despatch stating that Decimus Belisarius had foolishly engaged a vastly superior enemy without waiting for support and had died for his folly, along with all his men in the process, rendered it near to pointless.
The story as related did not ring true to a man who had known the victim since childhood; it was not the action an experienced old soldier like Decimus would risk – if anything he was prone throughout his career to caution – and that made it suspect. Added to those reservations was the nature of the person who had sent and vouchsafed the information. Bishop Gregory Blastos was one of the twin villains listed in the original exchange of complaints. Whatever the truth, Decimus must most certainly be dead and with his demise went any chance of bringing meaningful charges against his enemies.
When the council gathered once more it was to debate the outcome of General Vitalian’s reaction – the fate of a centurion and his cohort on a distant border would not rate a mention. If the reports were far from good, no one present would have sensed any alarm in the imperial breast; Anastasius was calmness personified, going through the ceremony of arrival and enthronement as if nothing had occurred to disturb his equilibrium.
Watching him, Flavius Justinus was impressed, even if he suspected it was all a performance, a point he made to his nephew, Flavius Petrus Sabbatius, recalled and swiftly returned to Constantinople.
‘The tiger he has by the tail is one of his own devising, Uncle,’ Petrus murmured. ‘Perhaps someone should remind him of that.’
Petrus had been halfway to Marcianopolis when he received the cancellation of his commission and was able to report just how little there was, militarily, between Vitalian and the capital, though only to his uncle, not to the court.
‘Telling him so would be a swift way to forfeit your head.’
‘I doubt he needs me to inform him. You, perhaps?’
Justinus acknowledged that with a nod but no response, this as the emperor’s nephew Hypatius took a step forward and began to speak. Having been the progenitor of the policy now causing alarm he was in no position to withdraw his previous advice, so he was strong in his opinion that an army should be immediately raised to counter any threat.
‘From where?’ Petrus whispered.
‘The Persian border, there’s nowhere else.’
There was no need to continue the exchange, neither uncle nor nephew needing to allude to the risks attendant upon that. Move troops from the east and the enemy might be encouraged to take advantage of a peace known to be very fragile.
‘And if you, Highness, will permit,’ Hypatius was saying, ‘I will undertake the duty of leading it.’
‘But is he capable?’ Petrus asked.
Justinus replied to him in a caustic tone. ‘Of the three nephews, he is the only one who might be.’
‘How much time will that take?’ demanded nephew Probus, following on from a very flowery and self-abasing paean to his uncle’s sagacity. ‘If Vitalian marches swiftly he will be outside the walls long before my cousin can bring forth a host to confront him.’
‘Not perhaps as dim as I supposed,’ Justinus muttered.
‘No great ability of thought is required to draw that conclusion.’
Justinus smiled, the tone used by Petrus being full of disdain, an attitude he applied to all three of the imperial nephews, indeed to a majority of the functionaries who made up the emperor’s council. Few, he thought, had any brains at all but they did have desires and he was adept at sniffing out the wellsprings of their actions. What did they stand to gain from their advice to the emperor? Who were they secretly allied to, set against others with whom they were locked in concealed conflict? A natural intriguer himself, Petrus had the nose to sniff that out in others.
A glance sideways showed Justinus that his nephew’s expression matched his thoughts and reminded the uncle that the youngster of whom he had become fond was, if clever, far from skilled yet in dissimulation, which he had many times sought to remind him was a necessity in the bear pit of the imperial palace. They were so unalike in many respects, Justinus a soldier with a friendly manner when circumstances allowed, Petrus utterly unmilitary, indeed scholarly by inclination. It was that which had brought him into his uncle’s service until he now acted as his confidant.
Their differences extended just as much to their physical appearance; where the older man was broad and muscular, made more imposing by his armour, with an open countenance and a ready smile – many would have said he was bluff and hearty – Petrus, if of the same height, was slight of frame with narrow shoulders and an awkward gait that
gave the impression of a man sidling, not walking. He seemed to wear too often a pinched expression, as if he was ever crossed in his thoughts, inclined to bend his head and tug at his untidy reddish hair, inherited from his patrician father, as well as bite his tongue when called upon to think.
‘I ask permission to challenge my cousin Hypatius for the leadership of any host gathered to counter the renegade Vitalian.’
‘God come to their aid if Pompeius is their commander. You could put yourself forward, Uncle. Anastasius trusts you.’
‘To lead a failed enterprise? I think not.’
‘You do not fear Vitalian, do you?’ Petrus asked, a degree of surprise in his murmured tone, to which he hastily added, ‘Not that I think you fear anyone.’
Macedonius, the Patriarch of Constantinople, gorgeous in his ecclesiastical robes, was speaking now and what he was saying brought a grunt from Justinus, he being a pliant individual, entirely subservient to the imperial whim. He was insisting that no concession be made in dogma to any rebellion, be it by Vitalian or any other malefactor, which finally brought from Justinus an angry if quiet rebuttal, one for his nephew’s ears only.
‘The way to deal with Vitalian is to modify the stance on dogma, accept that each man has the right to worship in his own fashion. That is what animates those who follow him; take away that and you remove the threat.’
‘And that, Uncle, is where you are wise and our esteemed emperor is not.’
If the atmosphere while marching south was now slightly strained within the group as a whole that ceased to matter when they came to the via publica from Marcianopolis to Dorostorum, block-paved, well drained and kept in decent repair by a local levy on the surrounding landowners. There they joined with other bands heading for the same rendezvous, called forth on the same purpose, which allowed the trio of Flavius, Ohannes and Dardanies to detach themselves from the others by increasing their pace to meld into the increasing throng, Flavius especially eager for news of the imperial commission, who would have been bound to travel this route.
