The Last Roman: Vengeance

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘I have never asked you, friend,’ Flavius whispered, ‘how many years you have?’

  ‘Lost count,’ Ohannes replied, which implied to Flavius he was no more skilled in numbers than he was in writing, ‘but I was full-grown when I enlisted.’

  Twenty-five years of service, Flavius calculated, maybe twenty summers old when he joined the army and in three more he had served as the Belisarius domesticus. Coming up fifty, which was old, too old to still be soldiering. The last league before they made camp was spent in encouragement and the odd helping hand, every time he touched Ohannes bringing a snort from those to his rear.

  They got to the chosen field and Flavius was quite brusque to Ohannes when it came to setting up the tent, only relenting when it came to tightening the ropes that would hold it down by passing over the food tally and sending him away to draw their supplies. The rest had to gather timber for their fire and get it ready to light before they buffed the dust off their equipment and stood to for an inspection by Forbas.

  ‘At least we have no guard duty tonight,’ Flavius said, once they had been dismissed.

  ‘Not that we’ll sleep,’ Helias moaned, to Flavius his natural mode of behaviour, ‘with our ancient goat snoring.’

  Aimed at Ohannes it had the old man beginning to rise to his feet – he had been lighting the kindling and it was clear there was going to be a confrontation, which got a bark from Flavius that made everyone freeze.

  ‘Permission to take that piece of shit to some place quiet and teach him some manners,’ Ohannes growled.

  The word ‘Denied’ from Flavius melded with the response from Helias, which was, ‘In your dreams, old man.’

  ‘Get the fire going, Ohannes, and let us eat. We will all be better placed after a meal.’

  The reply was defiant. ‘I’m not goin’ to take much more from him, Master Flavius.’

  ‘Master?’ Tzitas demanded. ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘Slip of the tongue,’ Ohannes snarled.

  It might have worked if Flavius had not looked away, avoiding any eye contact at all, for if Ohannes’s slip of the tongue had made them curious, his reaction only engendered suspicion, not that a word was said; it was all in the looks. But the mode of address had not gone away; as they ate it cropped up in all the most inappropriate places to tell the decanus that it had registered. The butcher who had cut their meat was a ‘master’ at his craft. Would they ‘master’ the enemy when they met them? Emperor Anastasius was far from a kindly ‘master’ to his subjects.

  To get away from it and think, Flavius took a tour of the camp, something he had done many times, passing the eight-man contubernia, each round their own fire and seemingly at ease with each other, not the case with his. It could not last; Ohannes would not back down and if he struck any of the others Flavius would be obliged to punish him.

  Moving out from the lines of properly pitched tents he wandered into an area populated by the numerous, non-combatant camp followers, some of them the ‘wives’ and children of the men who had joined Vitalian. In description they fitted any known type, from bent old crones to bustling and sprightly young women who busied themselves about the camp. Here they cooked for their rustica menfolk and washed their clothing, no doubt supplying comfort as well, Flavius supposing that with a wage earner on the move – so very few of those who had joined owned anything but their labour – the women had to move too.

  It was probably a mistake to make his way right through the middle of the area where they had pitched their makeshift coverings, for this exposed him to sights he would rather have not seen; they did not conceal everything that happened within. If the men were allotted their own part of the camp that did not mean they stayed there and it was some time before the nummi dropped and Flavius realised that the term ‘wives’ covered more than connubial attachment.

  As a result he was also exposed to many a ribald comment; that he was tall for his age and good-looking only increased the banter as he was invited to ‘dip his wick’ and have ‘a roll on the straw’. It was enough to have him quicken his step and in doing so he bumped right into a young girl carrying a bucket of water, the contents going flying.

  ‘If he won’t spill his seed,’ came the raucous cry, ‘he can tip out water.’

  Through the laughter that engendered, emitted by a dozen harpies, he heard the follow-up comments. ‘Bet he’s got as much juice in his pouch as he has cast on the ground.’

  ‘Too mean to share it with us.’

  ‘Shame, with enough to go round.’

  ‘Please forgive me,’ he said to the girl, who was on her knees righting the bucket and did not see how much he was blushing.

  ‘Of no matter, sir,’ she replied just as a loud bellow sounded from a male throat.

  ‘What are you about, girl?’

  Flavius turned to see a fat fellow approaching, unshaven and bearing a heavy black growth, a sweat-stained leather cap on his head, the garment he was wearing open so his belly hung out to droop over the top of his filthy culottes. He pushed past Flavius and raised his hand to strike the girl, now cowering.

  ‘Hold!’ Flavius cried, grabbing the hand. ‘This is my doing.’

  The hand was pulled violently away, the other used to push Flavius in the chest and send him stepping backwards, coming with that a barking command to, ‘Stay out of things that ain’t your concern, brat.’

  The slap then delivered only skipped past the girl’s tied-back golden hair, which did not satisfy her assailant as punishment since he raised his hand again. There it stayed as he looked down at the point of cold steel that had pushed against his flesh, so soft that the sword point could make an impression without making a cut.

  ‘Stay that hand.’ Flavius pressed gently to force a retreat, aware out of the corner of his eye that the intended victim was gazing up at him and that she had a fearful look on her face, so he said, ‘Hand me the bucket.’

  The rope was put in his hand and as it was he realised those who had been ribbing him had gone very quiet. Not so the fat one.

  ‘That’s my girl an’ I can do to her what I like.’

  ‘She did nothing wrong, I did,’ Flavius replied, looking at the face; the fat man was still looking at the sword point and Flavius was sure he detected a tremble. Certainly the tone changed; now he was pleading.

  ‘Respectfully, Your Honour, you do not know her. She is ever clumsy.’

  ‘Stand up,’ Flavius said, with a sideways glance, ‘there is no need to cower there.’

  Looking at her, he missed most of what the fat man was saying, only afterwards recalling that he claimed to be her father, that she was a trial to him, forever rebellious and always had been, while only his hand, oft used, was of any service in controlling her. The reason he was distracted occurred immediately; she was beyond pretty even in a shapeless smock, had rosy cheeks in fair skin, if not entirely clean, and a pair of striking blue eyes.

  ‘Where is the well?’ he asked in Latin, and when she looked confused he repeated it in Greek.

  ‘Right by the road, sir.’

  ‘I am no sir,’ he grinned, taking her hand and lifting her up, before withdrawing his sword and leading her away.

  Freed from the fear of instant death, the fat fellow started to bellow at him as an interfering arse of a jumped-up nobody who might learn better if he was not careful, the litany of abuse killed off the instant Flavius spun round, though once he carried on again he could hear the father telling anyone around who would listen what he was going to do to the barely-out-of-his-soil-cloths sod who had insulted him.

  ‘Did you understand that I said sorry?’ They were by the well, so Flavius put in the rock used to make it sink, hooked on the leather bucket and began to lower it. ‘You have no Latin?’

  All it got was a shy nod and a reply so soft it was impossible to hear.

  ‘I have got you into trouble, have I not?’

  Another nod and this time she did speak, yet still without looking up. ‘I thank
you for staying his hand, sir.’

  ‘It was only right,’ he said as he felt the way the water slightly checked the bucket, ‘just as it is fitting that I make amends.’

  He began to pull, raising the now weighty bucket out of the well, and once it was above the rim he hauled it over to the parapet and unhooked it, retrieving the rock. ‘Why do we not take it back together?’

  With each having a hand of the rope they made slow progress, actually stopping when Flavius asked her name, which he was pleased to hear was Apollonia, seeing her rosy cheeks go bright red when he added that it suited her.

  ‘If I tell you my name is Flavius, will you remember it?’

  The ‘Yes’ was emphatic and for the first time she looked directly at him, right in the eyes, and Flavius felt a need to take an extra breath.

  ‘Is he your father, as he claimed it?’

  ‘Timon took me in, and my mama.’

  ‘Not blood, then. Does he treat her as badly as he seems to treat you?’

  ‘Worse, sir.’

  ‘Worse, Flavius,’ he corrected her gently, which caused her to smile, that requiring another deep inhalation.

  There was no need to ask what would happen once he was out of sight. Whatever punishment this Timon had intended would be multiplied by a dozen to cover his shame at his own cowardice. Flavius allowed her to lead him to where the water was required, disappointed that there was no sign of that fat belly, but the women who had ribbed him were still around so he spoke to them, for they must know Timon.

  ‘A message for Timon,’ he cried out, in a voice now turning rich and deep, ‘that I will come by each night we are camped, and if I see so much as a blemish on Apollonia’s skin, I will use my sword to remove from him what he no doubt considers his jewels, in short I will make a eunuch of him, and a hand on Apollonia’s mother will earn him the same fate. Have a care to pass that on for I will not warn twice and should he think to overcome me by numbers, I am a decanus, so he will need many and armed.’

  Despite the distractions to his thoughts, he knew he needed to concentrate on the problem that had brought him to tour the camp in the first place. Walking had ever aided his thinking and as he went on his way he passed the various people that supported the army by their employment, the butchers, the armourers with their lit forge, the storekeepers with their wagons of grain, peas and pulses, men who required to be rewarded in coin for what they did.

  An idea began to form in his head, a possible solution that would kill two birds with one stone. It would also leave him free to act with only consideration for his own needs. By the time he got back to the tent it was a resolution, not a notion. His fire was nearly out and he needed to stoke it, the old soldier emerging from the tent as he was throwing on the logs, coming close to talk.

  ‘I humbly beg—’

  Ohannes was not allowed to finish his whispered apology, Flavius physically stopping him by putting his fingers to his lips.

  ‘It matters not, old friend, and what is done is done. If the others are curious that is all they are. I have no intention of satisfying their noses and they will not ask anything of you, so it will be forgotten in a day or two.’

  ‘Happen,’ came the unconvinced reply.

  ‘More important than that, I am going to ask that you be shifted to a duty with which you can cope.’

  ‘I have that now.’

  ‘No, Ohannes, you do not. I daresay you will be sprightly in the morning but it will not last and you know it. What happens if you collapse?’

  ‘I won’t!’

  ‘And I cannot take the chance that you will. I would strap myself to the wheel rather than hand you over to Forbas for punishment, which I must do in my rank.’

  ‘I’ve felt the lash before.’

  ‘Not by my reporting you.’

  Ohannes was still defiant, but now he was sounding like a petulant child. ‘I can take it.’

  ‘But I cannot hand it out,’ Flavius said in a weary tone, rising to tower over his still-seated friend. ‘So I either have to put you out of harm’s way or ask Forbas to find another decanus.’

  ‘Don’t take it amiss, Master Flavius, but if he had to promote you, there cannot be a rate of folk he thinks fit of the rank.’

  Flavius grinned. ‘I don’t, which is why I want you somewhere in which you can have it easier. All you will do if you stay is show me up as useless.’

  ‘You’re not that an’ never will be.’

  ‘You can see into the future?’ Flavius joked, still grinning.

  ‘I knew your family, all of them. I served with your papa and watched the way your brothers grew to manhood. If there is a God in heaven, then everything they had which was to be admired is now within you.’

  ‘What a burden that is, now they are gone.’

  ‘No escaping it, is there, more’s the pity.’

  ‘If you have so much faith in me Ohannes, then trust me in what I am about to do, which is plead with Forbas to put you in a place where you can ride one of the carts.’

  ‘Not a fighter?’

  ‘I did not say that, did I, but you are for certain no good at marching.’ Flavius adopted a deliberately hard tone; he was resolved to act and there was no going back. ‘No more argument, I have decided and you will obey.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘Two days there, maybe, no more, and we will be outside Constantinople,’ said Forbas. ‘I have that on the authority of the Tribune Vigilius.’

  ‘Is he as rich as he looks?’

  ‘Richer, father a senator and was something at court till this brewed up. Seems he has retired to his estates till it all blows over.’ Which was as good a way as any of saying that he was Chalcedonian. ‘Anyway, what do you want?’

  Flavius outlined his problem with Ohannes as well as the solution he had come to, which the centurion took surprisingly well.

  ‘As it happens I am about to break up what remains of one unit and distribute them throughout the century, too many are a man or two short.’

  Sensing the enquiry Flavius was about to make Forbas just added the rate of desertions.

  ‘Hard to keep an eye on everyone, be better when we have a settled camp. The centuries we can watch, but the peasants are a nightmare, what with no real discipline or marching formation, and we have lost a rate of them. Caught a few and strung them up as examples, though they got a priestly blessing first. We’re not barbarians.’

  ‘What happened to the decanus who lost his men?’

  ‘What usually happens, Flavius, a bout at the wheel and no skin on his back, a lesson to all that if you lose a man, you pay the price. He lost three and bled for it.’

  Flavius was thankful Forbas was not looking at him, for he went white. He was also thinking, if this is what happens with volunteers, what was it like in a proper army?

  ‘So Ohannes can be shifted?’

  ‘Why not, if it sorts a problem? Can’t see him being much use in a fight at his age and he’s no good as a decanus, though there’s not many soft stations, that’s for certain.’

  Not much use at his age, Flavius thought: that’s all you know, Centurion Forbas; he could probably give you a good bout.

  The centurion was deep in thought, tilting his head to consider the options. ‘The forestarii are light on numbers and you can get him put with them.’

  ‘They ride in carts?’

  ‘They do, with their timber.’ Forbas then barked a laugh. ‘Arse full of splinters, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  His visitor was not laughing, he was considering, that being far from an undemanding area of labour. The woodcutters had to hew and gather enough timber for the nightly fires lit by a whole camp of what Flavius had roughly reckoned to be around six thousand men, from the great blaze that burnt before General Vitalian’s tent down to the cooking pot of the meanest peasant volunteer. It was a blessing they were not in anything like enemy territory; that made it a doubly heavy task involving the fighting troops as well: the host needed to throw
up a nightly stockade. Did it serve his deeper purpose?

  ‘Permission to speak to the curator in charge?’

  ‘You don’t need it from me.’

  Another salute. ‘I am obliged, Centurion.’

  He was halfway out of the tent when the question was thrown at him. ‘What’s this “master” joke that seems to be attached to your name?’ It forced Flavius to turn and compose his face into a look of confusion, added to an exaggerated shrug.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘It’s all over the camp,’ Forbas growled, ‘and if it is set to take you down a peg I need to know so I can nip it off.’

  ‘If I find out I will tell you.’

  It was all over the camp; any man he passed who recognised him called out ‘Master’, and gave him a thumped chest salute accompanied by a grin. In other circumstances it would have been harmless, just gentle ribbing. Had it been wise to deny any knowledge of the reason to Forbas? He was not a man who would take kindly to being lied to, but that was for the future.

  The curator who led the timber parties was likely as strong as an ox; he certainly looked like one, nearly as broad as he was long, with forearms as thick as a normal man’s thighs – they were like the trunks he was required to saw through. He had a wide body and a square head, completely bald, lacked teeth and that lent his talk a whistling quality at odds with his stocky appearance. If his eyes looked dull to begin with they soon lit up when Flavius offered him one of the coins bequeathed to him by his father to ensure the new recruit to his gang was not overburdened with work.

  ‘A half follis,’ he said, his eyebrows rising as he took, with his gums, what had to be a useless bite of the twenty-nummi bronze piece. ‘What am I taking on, your mother?’

  ‘A good friend, an old fighter, whose knees are not up to a seven-league march each day.’

  ‘What about his arms?’

  ‘Good,’ Flavius replied, looking meaningfully at the coin, ‘if they are not overtaxed.’