by Jack Ludlow
In terms of fighting strength, Vitalian had the numbers but Anastasius had the quality. To protect his person he had several four-hundred-men-strong numeri in his palace guard, commanded by Justinus, a man he trusted. To secure the city and its walls there were twenty more, formed into two numerus brigades and commanded by tribunes that would each man one of the seven landward gates, the three others set to protect the long sea defences that ran along the Bosphorus to the Golden Horn.
Justinus, carrying out his daily ritual of reportage, was able to say that according to the praefectus urbanus the populace seemed sanguine and not in the least restive; there was no evidence, even if many of them were strong for Chalcedon, of any move to support, by untimely rioting and threats to the imperial person, the aims of Vitalian.
Justinus had naturally been asked for a private opinion on what should be done to counter the rebellion. Unable to say what he really thought, that the imperial religious policy was misguided, he stuck to matters purely military. The number of troops in the capital he insisted, not including those he commanded, which numbered five full divisions, could hold the walls. How to counter Vitalian? As far as anyone knew he lacked any kind of shipping so the units allotted to the defence of the sea wall were spare. They should be sent out to disrupt his progress, retreating in front of him, though stopping to present occasional battle, so as to break the spirit of what must be a hastily assembled host.
That delivered, Justinus could not help but wonder from what other sources the emperor was receiving advice; his own had been acknowledged and from subsequent imperial reactions he assumed had been ignored. Anastasius was gifted with any number of people to tell him what he should do and by reputation he listened to them all. One was his wife and then there were his personal valets or his barber and the thirty courtiers who formed the silentiarius, tasked to ensure that no untoward noise disturbed the imperial repose.
Petrus Sabbatius, who was busy writing out orders for his uncle, came out with a sneering aside when this was relayed to him. ‘I would not be surprised to find the man employed to sponge his arse after an evacuation is his most important counsellor.’
‘Then it would be a patrician,’ Justinus replied, the person designated to attend upon imperial ablutions being a much sought-after role. ‘Not that such is always a good thing, high birth does not always come with brains.’
Petrus passed him a completed Order of the Day, which the uncle wrote on using his signature stencil, his reply acid. ‘Half of them struggle to wipe their own backside.’
That got a laugh; if they were equally unimpressed by the standard of the patricians of the Roman Empire, it was ever Petrus who came up with the diminishing invective. Not that those who had risen to high office through long imperial service were much better – all were self-serving – which made the task of the ruler a balancing act.
When the common people complained that Anastasius was a weathervane on policy, they did so without knowing of the competing interests he was required to deal with. He might be an autokrator in Greek but few could rule in any way they wished without facing the risk of being bloodily toppled and the most fearful enemy was within the city walls, not without.
‘I dined with a good number of your officers last night, Uncle.’
‘I can imagine where.’
Petrus shrugged; he had a well-known taste for seeking entertainment in the less salubrious parts of the city and in that he had much in common with the inferior officers of Justinus. The whole excubitorum corps was in receipt of better pay than common soldiers of the empire, as well as better rations, but in terms of officers it had become, under Emperor Zeno, a sinecure for those with means of their own and with money never a consideration they were liberal in their spending.
Like every port in the world, the area around the Constantinople docks was full of brothels and places of entertainment where morality was not on offer. Justinus was no prude; he had visited such taverns and coarse establishments himself but Petrus was drawn to them like a moth to a flame. Polite dinner, of which he was obliged to be a part as the son of a wealthy patrician noble, bored him rigid and so did court formality. To many an observer he was an unsuitable helpmeet to a man seen as upright but that took no account of his very telling suitability in one vital regard: the trust engendered by blood.
‘I wonder when they speak highly of you, if it is only because they are in my presence.’
‘Very likely not the case, for in all my years I have learnt to have faith in soldiers who are not afraid to tell me they are discontented, while those who remain silent and husband their grievances are not the ones on whom it is wise to turn your back.’
Training schedules were handed over for each company and the stencil was employed once more. ‘How happy you must be in the field compared to in the palace.’
‘Why?’
‘There is not a soul here on whom I would turn my back,’ Petrus replied, with some venom.
‘Not even me?’ Justinus asked, grinning.
‘That is not a question deserving of an answer. All I will say is, that if your inferiors were telling me their true feelings, I am humbled by being related to a paragon.’
‘Humility does not suit you, Petrus.’
Said humorously it was not entirely taken that way, causing the nephew to hunch his shoulders and begin to tug at his hair. Justinus knew Petrus to be by nature an intriguer, which he was not. He was not a fool and had the means to survive in the hothouse of imperial politics, but there was no notion to become deeply involved in that quicksand, with its shifting alliances and deep feuds.
Petrus loved it; he was a mine of information on everyone who mattered and a great number of those who probably counted for nothing at all. Every thought he had passed on to Justinus, who was grateful, given it saved him from expending too much energy on the subject himself. In a place where no one person seemed to trust another, these two, very different in age, outlook and personal habits, through ties of blood as well as affection, had an unbreakable bond, which if it had started as an older man educating a young aspirant, had moved on from there to a point of near equality.
‘And what do you take from all these paeans to my character?’
Petrus stopped pulling his hair and looked directly at his uncle. ‘I take it they are deeply loyal to you.’
‘Good,’ Justinus replied, having a good inkling of what lay beneath that statement. ‘Then Anastasius is safe.’
‘It is as well to add to that, Uncle,’ came the cooed response, ‘that he is also very old.’
‘As a refrain, Petrus, that is tending towards the tiresome.’
‘Forgive me for bringing it to the fore again, and I will cease to mention the emperor’s age or his declining health if I have a necessary aim to lean on. Just tell me under which one of his nephews you think you will be able to survive and prosper and I will bend all my wiles to help secure his elevation.’
‘I wish you to pen me a letter, Petrus,’ Justinus said, in an abrupt change from what was an uncomfortable subject on which to speculate, for he distrusted them all. ‘It is to be one of condolence to be sent to the widow of my old comrade, Decimus Belisarius. She has lost much.’
‘Do you wish to mention you are distrustful of the report on the engagement in which he perished?’
‘Does it matter? He is dead. All his sons died too, Petrus, one of whom Decimus named after me. Four of them, is that not a tragedy?’
Petrus shrugged, he being less affected by what had happened, having no personal connection to the family. When he had penned the replies to Belisarius, he had seen it as his duty to point out to his uncle that the main subject of the complaints had a powerful relative at court, a man whom it might not be politic to upset.
Justinus had waved such considerations aside; the senator and ex-consul Pentheus Vicinus, now holder of the title of magister praesentalis – the palace had as many designations of rank as people – would never know how the commission had come into be
ing, it being a secret between his comes excubitorum and the emperor. Petrus had felt constrained to argue that in a palace where secrets were rarely kept for long, no matter how hard they tried to keep it so originally, the truth would emerge as soon as the commission took effect and that there would be repercussions.
‘If only a half of what Decimus has accused this Senuthius Vicinus of is true,’ had been the reply of Justinus, ‘then he would be better advised to pull a cowl over his head to hide his disgrace at sharing blood with such a villain.’
Tempted to tell his uncle he was being naïve, Petrus had kept his counsel.
On the last day of the march, Flavius had an odd feeling of freedom, added to the waking sensation of triumph, for which he chastised himself. Yet it could not be gainsaid that having only himself to be concerned about induced a feeling of relief, rapidly countered by conscience: he had to set against the emotion what he owed to Ohannes and, after him, Dardanies. Then there was Apollonia, to be looked forward to when they made their next camp.
The sun shone on the army of Vitalian, while a cool breeze came in off the sea to make pleasant what could have been sweltering and the whole host seemed in good spirits, which held until they espied what it was they would have to overcome, the walls of Constantinople being enough to chasten the most fevered pilgrim. The host was called to Mass, as they were daily, but this time to show anyone watching from the battlements that this was a pious army marching in God’s cause.
For those who had never seen the walls, and Flavius was one who had only heard of them, their size and magnitude was both astounding and sobering and that was at a distance. He knew from his father there were more defences behind these great multi-gated and turreted edifices, walls built by a string of emperors to protect an ever-expanding city that had been Roman long before Constantine named it his eastern capital.
Once they had fanned out and made camp, with no sign that anything of a warlike nature was about to occur, Flavius took the first opportunity he could to examine them more closely, trailed by a couple of his men, who listened as he explained that what they saw before them presented, to an attacker, no more than a fraction of the problem.
These were the walls of the Emperor Theodoric, with forward battlements twenty cubits in height protecting an intervening moat overlooked by another set of even higher defences, great blocks of stone capped by arched red and smooth tiles that made getting over the very tops impossible; the only way onto the parapet behind was through the crenellations and each one would have at least one defender to hold it.
Massive square towers butted out at each great gate to create a zone of death before the heavily studded and massive oak doors, while behind them lay a narrow bottleneck entrance sealed off by a protective portcullis. Along the seaward side of the city the curtain wall was too high and continuous to be overcome from ships.
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Helias, the question accompanied by a look of suspicion.
‘My father served here and he told me.’
‘Did he tell you how to overcome them?’
Flavius produced a wry smile. ‘No, he reckoned it impossible.’
The next question, querulously posed, came from Tzitas. ‘Then how are we to manage it?’
He nearly said they should pray for an earthquake, which if strong enough would bring the walls down, or, as he had been told, forty days of rain, for if the River Lycus, which fed the teeming city, flooded, that too could undermine the foundations. Instead he invoked Joshua.
‘He succeeded at Jericho, we must do likewise here.’
Blowing horns sounded just then, and for the first time Flavius shared a genuine and fulsome laugh with these two at the coincidence. Not that there was too much time for mirth, for that was a call to assemble and had them rushing back to their lines, to find Forbas in no mood for their dallying. A training field had been prepared, as well as a raised platform from which what went on could be observed. His century was to be gifted first use, with short wooden staves to act as swords, longer ones with a blunt end to replicate spears.
‘Get your helmets and shields and let us see what use you are!’
The whole was split in two, thirty-two men each, for it was under-strength by two whole contubernia, and they were set the task of showing their prowess. First the centurion and his decani had to get their men into lines to oppose each other, which showed many had either never engaged in proper battle drill or had forgotten anything they had been taught.
Flavius’s first command was to instruct his lot to stay tight to each other, to advance or fall back as a complete unit and to always face the enemy. These were the same exercises in which he had participated in the sand-filled enclosure in Dorostorum, the same place where his father had regularly exercised his men.
If he knew what was required, it was not the case with all; too many men flew at each other with gusto and the air was loud with stick hitting stick, impressive in terms of zeal but actions that would be useless in real combat, and that was not confined to the ranks − several of the decani were equally inept.
It took all the strength Flavius could muster to restrain buck-toothed Baccuda, who was swinging his stave like a man possessed, in no way like he would employ a proper spear, his shield held away from his body, the fellow he had chosen to fight just as stupid; if either had faced a decent opponent they would have been battered to the ground. Worse, they were unaware that such behaviour in a real fight would endanger everyone on their own side; at all costs the line must be held!
Forbas should have been beside himself observing this, but when the horn blew to separate the competing factions he looked surprisingly calm, calling his junior leaders together.
‘Now we can see clearly what we must do and a start has to be made with you lot, who seem to have lost any skills you might have had. You cannot lead if you do not know how to fight yourselves, so fetch your spears, form up in a line and listen to what I say.’
For a man held to be short on temper, Forbas was surprisingly patient, arranging them in line and even personally adjusting their shields and spears to the correct position. When he came to Flavius their eyes locked, for there was no need to touch his equipment: it was where it should be, shield slightly angled to cover his neighbour on the left and once Forbas had sorted out the man to his right, a gap through which he could employ the weapon he carried.
‘Shield rims at eye level and look at me.’ He then called on them to advance one pace at a time, ordering that they keep a firm grip on both their weapons and their protection. ‘When you move forward stamp, get your lead foot down hard and brace yourself. Remember there will be an enemy trying to either kill you or force you back, so the move must be as one. Once it is safe to do so take another pace forward.’
They went through it several times until it was, if not perfect, enough to satisfy Forbas, who now had them do the same with swords, which required a different shield position so it was possible to properly use the weapon.
‘You need to be stabbing not swinging, for that will expose you. Get your weight right and your body behind the blow.’
It was all in the manuals and histories Flavius had studied, the classic fighting formation of the legion, whose success rested on tight discipline and total solidity and that had not changed even if the army had been reorganised in different-sized components with new names. Everything must be done as a unit and once Forbas was satisfied, the decani were sent to instruct their own men.
‘If they don’t do as you say, give them a swipe of your stick and if they are really bad you have my permission to stick your spear up their arse, the real one too.’
The training went on until, despite the cooling breeze, every mouth was dry and filled with dust and all were soaked with sweat. Forbas then called a halt and directed his charges to wooden vats of water, cool, fresh and fetched from a nearby spring. Flavius was enjoying his scuttle when a hand on his shoulder had him turn to face Forbas and a raised and crooked finger.<
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‘You, with me.’
There was no choice but to obey and throwing the scuttle to another he followed the centurion across to a spot just below the raised platform where there was some shade from the sun, now well past the zenith.
‘I think you are going to have to tell me who you are.’
‘Flavius.’
‘Which is the given name of half the folk in the whole empire and something tells me it is not all of yours, so out with it. And why are all and sundry now referring to you as “master”?’
That got a shrug. ‘A jest, no more.’
‘I watched you today, as I have watched you since we formed and you are not as the others around those water butts. You knew what to do without being told, which means you are fully trained and if that’s the case at your age …’
‘We used to practise at home.’
‘Home is where?’
‘North of here.’ That got raised eyebrows, being clearly insufficient. ‘North of Marcianopolis.’
‘That’s a lot of ground.’ Flavius nodded and Forbas growled. ‘Do I have to beat it out of you? For I will. You’ll wish you had never been born!’
‘Dorostorum,’ Flavius conceded after a long pause, mentally berating himself when he observed the way Forbas reacted, eyes narrowing and taking on a knowing look.
‘Where there was a fight not long ago, a bad one.’ When Flavius declined to take that up, Forbas added, ‘There was a big raid from over the Danube, one we were told the locals might struggle to hold. We were all set to march, to put aside thoughts on this place, when news came that the raiders, who turned out to be Huns, had run away, so we were stood down. The sad bit was the fate of the imperial cohort, who were led to their deaths by some fool who—’
