Justinian

JUSTINIAN

Our greatest advantage, as I have said, was that the barbarians, being ignorant of the liquid fire, did not fully grasp why this body of foot soldiers was approaching the wooden rampart from which they were conducting their defense. Like the Achaeans when the warriors of Troy reached their beached ships, they aimed to keep fighting against us as fiercely as they could.

But we Romans had rather better incendiary tools at our disposal than our Trojan ancestors had known in that earlier age. A trumpet blared a command. The excubitores in the front rank stepped hastily to one side or the other, exposing the tubes and bellows and the men who worked them.

Eager as a small boy, I watched events unfold. Truly, I felt swept back to my own boyhood, having last seen liquid fire employed against a foe in the final year of the Arabs' siege of the imperial city. "Now!" I shouted to the military engineers. "Burn them now!"

They could not have heard me, not from so far away through the din of battle. And the Sklavenoi were showering them with missiles of every sort. Without the protection of the excubitores' shields along with their own, several of them were struck down in quick succession. But, having prepared for that case as well as every other, they brought up replacements and went on with their work.

Torchbearers sprang out in front of the mouth of each of the half-dozen bronze tubes aimed at the enemy. A javelin knocked one of them down, but a brave military engineer snatched up his torch in the nick of time and held it to the tube's mouth. Thus all six streams of flame were projected together against the wagons of the Sklavenoi.

Great, thick clouds of stinking black smoke rose from the streams of flame. The barbarians' shrieks of horror were as sweet as honey, sweet as wine, in my ears. I shouted with glee to watch some of the heathen Sklavenoi, caught in the fire, twist and writhe and burn, gaining for themselves in this world a tiny foretaste of the eternal flames of hell they would assuredly know in the next.

They were brave. Some of them, careless of our soldiers, rushed out between burning wagons to pour buckets of water on the liquid fire to try to douse it. But their efforts led only to fresh cries of dismay, for the Sklavenoi discovered, as had the followers of the false prophet before them, that the liquid fire continued merrily burning even though soaked with water.

We had at first set four wagons ablaze. God, in His kindness to us Christians, then granted that the breeze from the west, which had been fitful, began to blow more strongly. It carried flames and burning embers not only to the wagons close by those we had ignited, but also to the thatched roofs of the huts in the village the wagon circle had been made to protect. Along with the guttural shouts of Sklavinian men, the high, shrill cries of women and children came to my ears.

The fire reaching the huts, the battle was as good as won. While some of the Sklavenoi did continue trying to withstand us, others turned instead to fighting the fires, and still others, abandoning fight and fire both, ran for the shelter of the woods. Our soldiers were hunting them like partridges, having great sport. I let that go on for a short time, but then sent forth a new order: "If the barbarians wish to surrender, let them. The more captives we take, the more we can resettle in the empty lands of Anatolia." After a moment, I had another thought: "A pound of gold to the man who brings me Neboulos, the so-called kinglet here."

Because the village was burning, the Roman soldiers herded the prisoners into the fields nearby. They had to keep some of the Sklavinian women from slaying themselves because their husbands had been killed; officers familiar with the character of the Sklavenoi told me their women were more tender in this regard than those of any other people we know. Our men threw the corpses of those husbands- and of the women and children who died in the village- into a large pit they made some captives dig.

No one brought me Neboulos. I hoped he had fallen in the fighting and been burned beyond recognition but, on questioning Sklavenoi through men who knew their tongue, discovered no one who admitted having seen him go down. Disappointed, I concluded he might well have escaped as Sklavinian resistance crumbled.

Commanders were busy rewarding Roman soldiers who had fought well: some with promotions, some with money, and some with their pick of the Sklavinian women among the prisoners. One of the barbarians tried to keep his attractive wife from going off with the soldier who had chosen her for his enjoyment, and was promptly speared to death. The woman shrieked and wailed; the soldier led her away anyhow. As someone- as I write these words, I cannot remember who- said in the early days of Rome, "Woe to the conquered."

One of the prisoners, a yellow-haired woman of outstanding beauty despite a large smudge of soot on her cheek, struck my fancy. Approaching an officer who was making sure the Romans did not quarrel over their rewards, I asked, "May I be considered to have fought well?"

He looked startled for a moment, then bowed and replied with a smile: "Emperor, without your orders, we would not have fought at all. Since we won, you must have given good orders, which is surely the same thing as fighting well."

He could hardly have said no, but I liked the way he said yes. Pointing to the woman I wanted, I said, "Have her brought to my pavilion."

When the Emperor of the Romans travels, even to war, he travels with as close a reproduction of the comforts of the grand palace as his servants can give him. At the time, never yet having traveled as a mutilated exile on the deck of a miserable little ship with only bandages and a loincloth to call my own, I took for granted such luxuries as a wide, soft bed, hanging lamps, and a tall, heavy wooden chest that held not only my robes but also a gilded suit of mail in case I wanted to join in the fighting myself.

I also traveled with a large retinue of palace servants, some eunuchs, some whole men. I ordered them to bring me a jar of good wine and two cups, and then to go away and stay away till morning: "I shall be entertaining tonight," I said grandly.

My servants retired, sniggering. "Entertaining, eh?" I heard one of them say to another. "He'll be entertained, is what he'll be." His friend laughed. I paced impatiently about the pavilion, waiting for the Sklavinian woman.

The soldiers did not take long to fetch her. They had scrubbed the soot from her face, but she still wore the same smoke-stained wool tunic, decorated at the bodice with flowers and fantastic birds embroidered in red and blue thread, she had had on when I first saw her.

She stared around the pavilion in dull wonder. Lamps of glass and silver, a bed that stood off the ground on legs, my own gorgeous raiment, perhaps even the tall chest- all these must have been strange and splendid to her. I had by then seen the inside of Sklavinian huts. Only the richest of the Sklavenoi were well enough off to be reckoned poor. The rest had less, much less, than that.

"Do you speak Greek?" I asked her. She shook her head. I shrugged. What we would be doing did not require much in the way of words.

I poured her wine with my own hands. Not even my generals enjoyed such an honor. She stared down into the cup. Except when they got it by trade or theft from the Romans, the Sklavenoi did not drink wine, having instead a barley brew of their own, so she may not have known what it was. After a taste, though, she gulped the cup dry. I drank a little more slowly. When I held out the jar to her, she nodded. I filled her cup again. She drained it as quickly as she had before.

I pointed to the bed. She looked at it, at me, at it again. She must have known why I had summoned her to my pavilion. She must have known, too, I was no man of ordinary or even of merely high rank; whether, in her barbarian ignorance, she realized I was the Emperor of the Romans, I cannot say.

She held out the wine cup to me. I poured for her once more, willingly enough; if that would make her tractable, all the better. I had been wondering if I would have to fight her or beat her into submission, and wondering also whether that would kill my enjoyment or spike it.

She drank down the cup, then said something in her own language. I knew none of that, but from the flat, resigned tone could guess what she meant: something on the order of Might as well get it over with. She pulled the long tunic off over her head, let it fall to the ground, walked over to the bed, and lay down.

I stared at her a moment before undressing myself; she was as well made as she was beautiful, which says a great deal. When I lay down next to her, she did not turn her head toward me, but kept looking straight up at the poles and ropes supporting the pavilion and the silk cloth stretched over them.

I bent my mouth to hers. She let me kiss her, but her lips did not respond in any way. She lay there, still, unmoving, expressionless, as I kissed and fondled that splendid body. Even when I brought my tongue down to her hidden parts, she did not stir. I thought she thought she might escape by not responding. That angered me.

Roughly, I pulled her legs apart and poised myself between them. Roughly, I thrust myself into her. She was wet enough, from my spittle if nothing else. I forced myself hilt-deep, drew back, rammed again. All the while, I watched her face. She might not have been there with me at all, but somewhere far, far away.

I took my pleasure, and did not withdraw afterwards. Being a young man, I knew I would soon rise again. And so I did, and began the act once more. Save that she was warm and breathing, it was like carnal congress with a corpse. Only after I spent myself a second time and pulled out of her did she move: she rolled onto one side and drew up her legs. I thought about taking her again, this time from behind, but before I could, I stretched out to rest a bit and let my spear regain its strength\a160… and I fell asleep.

It was, no doubt, one of the stupider things I ever did, but war and wine and venery had their way with me. Had she so chosen, the Sklavinian woman could have found a knife, could have smashed in my skull with the wine jar, could have done any of a multitude of deadly things. Murder is easy. I should know.

On waking, some time in the middle of the night, I realized how lucky I was to wake. I had twisted so that I lay on my side, facing away from the Sklavinian woman: a posture not far from the one she had assumed. Since she had not slain me, I decided I would enjoy her again. Before I rolled over to do just that, though, I took a deep breath.

My nose wrinkled. "Ignorant barbarian," I muttered to myself. By the odor, either she had not know enough to put the lid back onto the chamber pot after she used it or she had not known enough to use it at all, but had done her business on the ground like an animal.

I did roll over then- and discovered she was not in the bed. Confused, I wondered where she had gone: she could not have escaped the tent, not with guards and servants all around, and what point to hiding anywhere inside? I sat up, and I saw her.

While I slept, she had taken her linen tunic, twisted it into a rope, tied one end to the bronze handle of my clothes chest, and tied the other in a noose around her neck. The handles were about at chest height; she had had to lie out at full length to strangle herself, which was exactly what, in grim silence, she had done. She must have been determined to perish, for she could have saved herself by getting up on her knees before consciousness left her. Her eyes stared sightlessly in a face almost black. What I had smelled was the result of her bowels letting go as she died.

"Mother of God, help me," I whispered, and made the sign of the cross. I started to shout for my servants, but then checked myself. What could be a greater rebuke, a greater humiliation, than a woman who killed herself after I brought her to my bed? The servants might never have the nerve to bring it up in my presence, but that would not keep them from spreading the tale when we returned to Constantinople. A servant who does not gossip is a servant who has had his tongue cut out.

Abruptly realizing I was naked, I quickly put on the robes I had doffed to have the Sklavinian woman. Then I undid the knot attaching her makeshift rope to the wooden chest, and after that the knot around her neck. Touching the dead flesh I had caressed not long before made my own flesh creep but, mastering my revulsion, I dragged her body behind the chest, where it would not be seen if I opened the tent flap.

And I did open the tent flap. A couple of excubitores stood guard in front of the pavilion- not too close, for they knew better than to eavesdrop on the Emperor, or rather, to risk getting caught eavesdropping on the Emperor. The moon, shining through scattered clouds, showed the night to be more than half spent. The camp was quiet, almost everyone asleep, for which I thanked God. "Is anything wrong, Emperor?" one of the guards asked as they hurried up to me.

"What could be wrong?" I answered, doing my best to sound bluff and cheerful. "One of you go fetch me Myakes. Something I need to ask him."

The excubitores looked at each other. I could read their thought: won't it wait till morning? But I was the Emperor. One of them trotted away, shrugging as he went.

He came back with my faithful friend almost as soon as I had hoped. As Myakes drew near me, I smelled stale wine on his breath. Even torchlight made him blink and squint: he had been celebrating our triumph himself. "Go off to bed," I told the excubitores who had been guarding the pavilion. "I'm safe enough with Myakes here."

They looked at each other again. Obeying might get them in trouble with their superior. Disobeying would get them in trouble with me, the Emperor of the Romans. Sensibly, they obeyed. "Thank you, Emperor," one of them called over his shoulder as they left.

I went into the tent, holding the flap open for Myakes to follow. As soon as we were both inside, he asked, "What's gone wrong, Emperor?" Though never what a pedant would call a clever man, Myakes was no one's fool.

Wordlessly, I pointed around behind the clothes chest. H e walked over to see what I meant, and suddenly stopped dead. As I had, he made the sign of the cross. "She did it herself," I said quickly, not wanting him to think I had killed her for the mere sport of it. I have done a deal of killing since, but never for the mere sport of it- which is not to say I have taken no pleasure in the destruction of my foes. In a few words, I explained how I had discovered her body.

He nodded, clicking his tongue between his teeth a couple of times. "She probably watched her man get killed earlier today," he said. "These Sklavinian women, they're not like Romans- they don't want to live without their husbands."

Having heard that more than once before, I accepted it all the more eagerly now. "Even if the blame does rest with her, though," I said, "the embarrassment will be mine. Unless- Has the grave in which we flung the bodies of the barbarians been filled in?"

"No, Emperor," he answered, and then, without so much as a hesitation, "You want me to toss her into the pit?" No, Myakes was no one's fool.

"That's just what I want," I said. "She's a pagan, and damned, and a suicide and so doubly damned; it's not as if I'm depriving her of Christian burial."

Myakes only grunted. That aspect of things worried him not at all. He picked up the linen tunic, untwisted it and shook it out as a washerwoman might a towel, and then put it back on the corpse, which turned out to be a harder job than I had thought it would. But when I said as much, he replied, "Be thankful she hasn't been dead long, and started getting stiff. That would really make things tough." He paused, then added, "It would be the devil's own time carrying her that way, too."

Having dressed her, he stooped, slung her over his shoulder, and, grunting again, rose. I nodded in approval. Her face lay against his chest, and her fair fell down over it, obscuring it further. And it would be dark outside. "If anyone stops you-" I began.

He followed my thought perfectly, interrupting, "I'll say she's drunk herself blind. Everything should be all right, Emperor. Will you open the flap for me? I ought to be back pretty soon."

Open it I did, and out into the night he went.