The guards there were Khazars, which probably saved my life. Had they been Khersonites, I daresay they would have refused to allow me and my companions to leave the town. As it was, they shrugged and stood aside. Out of Kherson we rode, heading north.
My first intention had been to ride straight for the court of the khagan of the Khazars, out there on the immense plain from which the peninsula containing Kherson depends like the little ball of flesh hanging at the back of a man's throat. Having just escaped one danger, though, I wondered whether I ought to thrust myself at once into another, for I would be utterly at the khagan's mercy if I arrived at his barbaric court without any sort of invitation on his part.
When I spoke my doubts aloud, the others agreed with them. "Here, I know what let's do," Barisbakourios said. "Let's hole up in Doros. The people in Doros, they don't care what anyone else thinks or does."
Before coming to Kherson, I had never heard of Doros. By then, however, I had been in exile for a quarter of my life. "The town up by the neck of the peninsula?" I said, and then nodded. "Yes, that's a good idea. We'll do it."
Like Kherson, Doros is formally under the control of the Khazars. In Kherson, that formal control has a basis in reality, the khagan making a profit from the port. The folk of Doros formerly derived their income from tolls on trade going into and out of the peninsula. The khagans of the Khazars have for some years been strong enough to forbid them that. Such income as they have these days, as best I can tell, they derive from taking in one another's washing. Having impoverished them, the Khazars no longer bother taking an interest in their affairs.
They are a comely people, the folk of Doros: tall and straight and some of them fairer of hair and of skin than I. That much I had known, from meeting in taverns their traders who came down to Kherson. What I had not known was how nervous being around many of them would make me: those of them who spoke Greek did so with an accent almost identical to that of Apsimaros.
On reflection, that was not surprising. He was of German blood of some sort, and the folk of Doros, it turns out, are Goths. The Emperor for whom I was named, the first Justinian, conquered the Ostrogoths a century and a half ago. We Romans have had few dealings with the Visigoths of the western Iberia, also called Spain, since they ousted us from it while my great-great-grandfather was distracted with more urgent wars against the Persians and Avars and Arabs. (It is said, though- whispered, actually- that he had more intimate dealings with them than those of war, siring a bastard on a woman of their people: a truth the women of my family no doubt wish the men would forget.)
MYAKES
See, Brother Elpidios? I already told you about that, long time gone. I know what's what, I do.
JUSTINIAN
In ancient days, the Goths ruled much of the plain over which the Khazars now roam. The folk of Doros are a remnant of those who did not accompany the rest on their journey to the richer lands of the Roman Empire. They have improved over their ancestors in that they are now orthodox Christians rather than cleaving to the vile and abominable heresy of the Arians.
Barisbakourios had brought money enough to secure us lodgings in a tavern dirtier, smellier, and far more expensive than the xenodokheion where I had stayed so long. How galling it was that I, who had formerly commanded the resources of the Roman Empire, should again have been reduced to living off the generosity of my followers. Barisbakourios now being general of the military district of the Opsikion, though, I can truthfully say I have requited generosity with generosity, as I have also requited treason with vengeance.
More of Barisbakourios's money and, I think, some of Myakes' as well, went into persuading Totilas, the leader of the Goths of Doros, not to yield me up to the Khersonites if they asked that of him. The risk there, of course, was that they might pay him more to surrender me, but our bribe did at least raise the stake in the game.
Totilas said, "I do not want trouble from Kherson. I do not want trouble from the Romans. I do not want trouble from the Khazars. I do not want trouble of any kind. I want to stay here undisturbed."
Like a turnip in the ground, I thought. Totilas's nose resembled a turnip, being large and purple and bulbous. Well, not all of us are turnips. Some deserve the imperial eagle as emblem. But I had to speak him fair, lest he use his petty power to harm me. "Noble Totilas, I want no trouble, either, but I take it as trouble when evil men band together to kill me or send me in chains to another man who would surely do that. All I want is the chance to live in freedom." And to take back what is mine. "God willing, I shall not be in your city long."
God willing, indeed. Acting on the belief that the khagan of the Khazars was at the moment not unfavorably inclined toward me, the first thing I had done after having arrived at Doros was to send Stephen- otherwise known as Salibas- to Ibouzeros Gliabanos, entreating him to accept me at his court. Being of half-Khazar blood, Stephen could speak to the khagan in his own tongue.
If Stephen brought back word that Ibouzeros Gliabanos would accept me, I purposed leaving Doros at once and repairing to his capital on the plain. If, on the other hand, Stephen brought word of a refusala160… I did not know what I should do then. The best plan I had was to board ship, sail back to Constantinople, and try to raise a revolution. Against Leontios, such a plan might well have succeeded. But Apsimaros had shown himself more alert than the usurper he had usurped.
Totilas scratched that great root of a nose; I do believe I preferred my own, as Auriabedas had repaired it, to the one with which nature had endowed him. "If you do not stay long, maybe there will be no trouble." Avoiding trouble appeared to be his alpha and omega in life. A turnip indeed, I thought.
Sure enough, the Khersonite leaders did send a delegation to Doros seeking me. Sure enough, they did offer Totilas a bribe to yield me up to them. But, being most of them tight-fisted merchants, they offered only a tiny bit more than I had paid. I told him, "If you try to take me, I will make as much trouble as I can. I will not go quietly. In fact, I will set fires in my room and all over that building. With any kind of wind, they will cause you all sorts of trouble." Having heard him speak, I bore down on the word as if I were a magician casting a spell.
And so I might have been. He turned so pale even that nose became for a moment the color of ordinary flesh. "Don't do that!" he exclaimed. "Christ have mercy, don't do that." Any leader in any town would have had goo d cause to fear incendiarism. Put that next to Totilas's fear of trouble, and the game was mine. "I'll send those Khersonites away with a flea in their ear, see if I don't."
He did. They left Doros grumbling. By all appearances, they were unused to having Totilas stand up for the independence of his town. Actually, he was not standing up but being propped up, but the Khersonites did not know that. I breathed easier when they rode away.
Bread in Doros was as rare as it had been down in Kherson. As at the latter place, salt fish formed the bulk of the diet. The Goths of Doros had their own way of preparing it, though, mixing it with cabbage half-pickled in sharp vinegar. I cannot decide to this day whether that was better or worse than the fish stews of Kherson. It was, however, different from them, which at first gave the mixture an appeal the stew had long since lost. Before long, though, fish and sour cabbage also began to pall.
Kherson made better wine than Doros. That did not keep me from drinking a good deal of the wine of Doros while waiting for Stephen to return. Like my great-great-grandfather before me, I became infatuated with a big, yellow-haired Gothic woman, a servant at the tavern. Though not thinking of herself as a prostitute, she proved more mercenary than the whores at the brothel I had patronized in Kherson. Since I had little to give her, she gave me little. All things considered, that may well have been for the best, even if I would not have said so at the time.
I fretted and fumed as the days went by and Stephen remained out on the plain. "I want him here," I told Myakes. "I don't care if he tells me Ibouzeros Gliabanos won't even spit on me. I just want to know, curse it. Not knowing is what d
rives you mad."
"Not me," Myakes said. "Sooner or later, it'll happen. You can't do anything about it till then, so what's the point of getting in an uproar?"
To Myakes, who was not in the habit of looking ahead, the future seemed small and distant, unworthy of special heed. I had done nothing but look ahead since the day I came out of my delirium at the xenodokheion in Kherson: Constantinople and the throne beckoned me. The khagan's response either eased my way toward what I saw or cast a great shadow across it. I burned to know which.
Burn as I would, God revealed things in the time He desired, not the time I desired. His will be done, but it nearly led to disaster for me. After leaving me severely alone once I threatened to do my best to burn down his small, ugly, fish-stinking town, Totilas summoned me to his house: Doros was too insignificant to boast any more significant residence for its leader than a hovel somewhat larger than most of the hovels around it.
"Uh, the Khersonites have been here again," he said, nervously cracking his knuckles. "This time, they say they'll give me twice as much as the last time they were here."
This was a thinly veiled- indeed, an unveiled- invitation for me to match their offer. I would have, if I could. I knew how much money my followers had: not enough. I sighed. "What a pity," I said, adding, "This was such a nice little town."
The last sentence was a great whacking lie, but Totilas, as I had hoped he would, caught the past tense contained therein. "What do you mean, was?" he said, his nose going a couple of shades darker.
"What I said," I answered. "You don't think I haven't made myself ready for a day like this, do you? My friends and I have been here for weeks now, and made more friends in Doros. About every other building here has a little jug or barrel of oil hidden away in it. Try to seize me, try to do anything to harm me, and my friends- and you don't know who all of them are, I promise you- will go running through the town, tipping over those jars and throwing torches into them."
I have only rarely heard lies so big that did not come from the mouth of a follower of the false prophet. I had recruited one, count him, one follower in Doros, a certain Theophilos, who, while more clever than Foolish Paul, was not much more clever. Nor had my henchmen secreted fuel for incendiaries throughout the town.
But things like the vengeance I had taken on the Sklavenoi and my surviving a mutilation that might well have killed me had given me a reputation for single-minded determination and ferocity. Regardless of whether I had actually done what I claimed, Totilas knew all too well it was the sort of thing I might do. Did he have the nerve to call my bluff?
One glance at him proved he did not. His ruddy face went a dirty yellow. His dusky nose went pink. "You are a devil," he exclaimed. "You would not." But he thought I would. Thinking that, he was meat for the roasting.
"Leave me alone, and I shall leave you alone," I said. "Seek to betray me to my enemies and you become my enemy." That was true. If I helped him exaggerate in his mind my capacity to harm my enemiesa160… good.
I rose and went back to my lodgings. None of the Goths of Doros tried to stop me. For the next several days, though, men searched frantically through the town. Every container of oil they found was no doubt added to my account. For good measure, I sent Barisbakourios out to buy more fish oil. For some reason, no one in Doros would sell him any.
Totilas, now, was not the man to start precipitate action. In fact, had I not had the misfortune of knowing Leontios, I might have reckoned Totilas the most lethargic man charged with administering any sort of public affairs I had ever met. Nonetheless, he would conclude, sooner or later, that I was running a bluff. When he did, his likeliest action- averse to taking action as he was- would be to sell me to the Khersonites. Did he find the will, he could do it. I knew that better than he.
"Where is Stephen?" The question had been important before. Now, all at once, it was vital, and on our lips all the time, the only variation being Barisbakourios's occasional, "Where is Salibas?"
I was beginning to fear he had suffered misfortune either on the way to the court of Ibouzeros Gliabanos at distant Atil or, perhaps more likely, on the way back from that court: if Ibouzeros Gliabanos was not so well disposed to me as I had hoped, he might well deem it expedient to expunge from the landscape my envoy to him.
My landlord grew visibly more distressed at my presence under his leaky roof; if his distress did not grow voluble as well as visible, this was no doubt because my followers and I made sure to display ourselves, well armed, before him at frequent intervals.
But other armed men began displaying themselves, too, around the tavern where we were staying. For the time being, they fought shy of doing anything more than displaying themselves, that being certain to have caused the trouble Totilas dreaded. But these matters could not be indefinitely delayed.
Three or four days after beginning to muster his force, Totilas approached the tavern where I was for all practical purposes besieged. I expected this would be a demand for my surrender, his coming in person showing more spirit than I had looked for from him.
Myakes said, "He hasn't got a sword in his hand, Emperor, nor one on his belt, either."
He was right. Totilas advanced with both his hands held out before him so I could see they were empty, and carried not only no sword but no knife, either. "Parley!" he called loudly. "I want to parley with Justinian."
"Come ahead," I answered, not showing myself at a window lest he have a concealed archer awaiting the chance to puncture me.
Cyrus opened the door to admit the leader of Doros. Once inside, Totilas said, "Justinian, my men and I are holding a certain Salibas who also goes by the name of Stephen. He's one of your followers, not so?"
"Yes, he's mine," I said, as steadily as I could. Barisbakourios looked as if an arrow from a hidden archer had just pierced him. If Totilas had seized Stephen, he was indeed showing more initiative than the amount with which I had credited him.
Totilas licked his lips. "He says- he says he is coming back from seeing the khagan of the Khazars."
"That's true," I told him, and so it was.
"He also saysa160…" Totilas licked his lips. "He also says the khagan of the Khazars, who is my overlord, wants you to go to his court as fast as you can. Will you go?" He sounded pathetically eager, bringing his next words out all in a rush: "Will you please go? That way, I can tell the Khersonites the truth when I say you are not here any more, and they will go away and leave me in peace, and there will be, thank God, no trouble in Kherson. So, will you go?"
How strange, to hear him begging me to do that which I most wanted to do in all the world! Theophilos let out a whoop half the town must have heard- not that that is anything remarkable, considering what a miserable little town Doros is. Barisbakourios no longer looked wounded. By that time, however, I had learned better than to take anything this side of God's holy truths on faith. I said, "Let Stephen come here. If I hear this from his lips, I will go."
"Thank you, Justinian! God bless you, Justinian!" To my surprise, Totilas embraced me before lumbering out of the tavern. He shouted to his men something in which I heard Stephen's name, but I followed no more than that, the rest being in the Gothic tongue.
But he soon proved to have been telling the truth, for Stephen came running in with us. After embracing his brother, he turned to me and spoke in great excitement: "Emperor, Ibouzeros Gliabanos wants you with him. He can't wait to have you there. He says you're the perfect counterweight to Apsimaros."
"Does he?" To Stephen, that was good news unalloyed. To me, it meant the Khazar intended using me as a piece on a game board. I laughed. I intended using him the same way. "I think Ibouzeros Gliabanos and I shall get on very well indeed," I said. "Let's go find out whether I'm righ t."
***
Of the journey to the khagan's court I shall say little, little having occurred worthy of mention. I shall note, however, that, while riding up the narrow isthmus of land joining the peninsula on which Kherson lies to the plains
north of it, I was able to see the Black Sea on my left and and the Maiotic Bay on my right, which strikes me as interesting enough to record here.
Those plains themselves are also noteworthy: endless undulating grass, as far as the eye can reach in any direction. In Europe, in Anatolia, land has limits and variety: forests and mountains and meadows and cultivated fields. Not there. The plains are vast past any possible imagining, and reach far beyond the relatively small stretch of them I traveled. I did not know whether to be awed or afraid of such unbounded immensity.
Every now and then, as we traveled east toward Atil, the town in which the khagan kept his court, we would pass a band of Khazars. When I first saw such a band, I marveled that the nomads had not overrun the entire world, for it overspread an enormous area with herds of cattle, sheep, and horses; with men riding round those herds and from one of them to another, and with the felt tents in which dwelt those riders and their women and children.
But there were, as I discovered, surprisingly few of those tents in each band of Khazars, and each band required an enormous stretch of territory on which to pasture the animals by which it lived. Constantly dealing with the herd trains the nomads for martial struggle in a way a farmer's life cannot match: they are ever in the saddle, and accustomed since childhood to riding through gaps in the herds and cutting out groups from among them, tactics they also apply in war. In war, though, their forces, while fierce, are also small, which allows their neighbors to survive.
Barisbakourios and Stephen speaking their language, we were able to ask for food and shelter in the Khazars' tents. The food was of the simplest sort, meat both roasted and sun-dried, curds, and little flat wheatcakes in place of bread, a proper bake oven being too heavy to transport on their constant travels.
For drink, they made a liquor not from grapes as we do or even from barley like the barbarous Sklavenoi, but from the milk of their own mares. To a man used to wine, the stuff is thin and sour, but it has the same virtue as does wine. And when, having drunk to excess in the evening, one wakes the next morning, it makes one regret such overindulgence even more vigorously than does wine.
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