Triumph

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Whatever concerns Flavius had travelled east with him, but the duty he found there put the problem of Photius into the background, to only surface when he received a coded message from Solomon to say that the first attempt at freeing him had failed. Lacking details that induced frustration, there was at least some reassurance that the men Flavius had engaged seemed determined to keep trying.

His first task was to reassert control over generals who had lost the habit of obedience over the months of winter. Thus he declined to agree to a request by Bouzes and his co-commander Justus, an imperial nephew, that he come to them, they having retired to Hierapolis well away from any possible zone of battle. They were quickly ordered to concentrate on the location he chose, one well placed to contest ground with the enemy.

The main problem, as before, lay with the intentions of Khusrow; his movements dictated those of the Byzantine army, which was not organised to invade Sassanid territory, this due to the continued prevalence of the plague, a situation which had deteriorated since the previous year. It now seemed to affect much of the area of his military responsibilities all the way to the Mediterranean shore, though his army seemed relatively healthy.

Even so, Flavius split his troops into small packets to contain the risk of the disease spreading – which once caught was too often fatal – his aim to bring them together only when he was sure he would face an enemy. This blight, equally visited upon the Sassanids, was in his favour and with Khusrow moving his army within areas of infection that must expose his soldiers to greater risk.

As well as manoeuvring, the Sassanid King was busy complaining, sending messages to Flavius that he had anticipated ambassadors with which to treat. If he hinted at peace he was really interested in the amount of gold he could extract for abandoning Byzantine possessions. Flavius wanted him out, but he had no desire to bribe him to depart.

Having extracted an agreement from Justinian that no ambassadors would be despatched, he had undertaken to deal with Khusrow at no charge on the overstretched imperial coffers, though he had no faith that the Emperor would not bow to pressure from those on his council who saw bribery as the only answer to border incursions, wherever they took place.

Khusrow was advancing along the Euphrates again, using the river, fast flowing during late spring, to protect his right flank. Then he swung south to invest the city of Sergiopolis. As reported to Flavius, it transpired that the priest of that city, a divine called Candidus, had the previous year agreed to pay ransom for Sergiopolis but had reneged, which was enough to enrage a king who loved nothing more than money.

Being in no position to satisfy the renewed demand, Candidus had gone to the Sassanid King to plead poverty, only to be much tortured for his transgressions. When, with hot irons applied, he finally offered to pay he was abruptly informed that the amount required was twice that originally promised, a sum he had finally promised to procure from the treasures of Sergiopolis.

‘If anyone should be able to hold out under torture it is a priest.’

This opinion advanced by Bouzes was one with which Flavius was disinclined to support: too many of the divines he had encountered would sell their soul to avoid discomfort, never mind pain. In any case, Candidus had promised more than the city could deliver and that led to a siege, one only lifted when the Sassanids’ supply of water became so depleted – all the wells were within the walls – they could no longer keep fit their horses and Khusrow was obliged to retire to the banks of the Euphrates.

He was now moving into the region of Commagene, on a southerly route that would eventually lead him to Jerusalem, a city so long at peace and so much a source of pilgrimage that it presented a fabulously rich prize. To counter this Flavius moved his army to a point that threatened the Sassanid road back to their own possessions, one they would be obliged to take even if their incursion was a success, though he made no attempt to follow them.

His deployment was enough to stop the Sassanid advance as Khusrow pondered how to counter this move, with the added problem, passed to Flavius by his spies, that plague was seriously affecting his forces. Flavius decided to ask him to send an envoy who would agree a way of getting his disease-ridden army home, a tactic not universally approved of, the compliant being aired by the imperial nephew when the senior commanders came together.

‘The best way to achieve such an aim is to defeat them.’

‘I promised your uncle to remove Khusrow from his domains. How I do that has been left to my judgement.’

Bouzes, equal in rank to Justus but much more experienced, spoke to back up Flavius. ‘Remember the plague, Justus. To fight we must concentrate our own forces and then do battle with foes who are racked with the disease. That brings with it the risk of contamination. We could lose half the army.’

‘A risk I am willing to accept.’

‘Generous of you to do so on behalf of those you lead,’ was the less than tactful response.

‘Glory is all very well, Justus,’ Flavius added in a more emollient tone. ‘But take it from one who knows, success is sweeter, however you come by it.’

Regardless of sickness, Khusrow had to be wary of moving deeper into Byzantine territory with an army across his line of retreat. A message came to announce an envoy was on his way and while that was happening he undertook not to move. The question troubling Flavius was simple: if he wanted to avoid a battle, what could he do to convince the Sassanid invader that he would be best back in the safety of his own domains?

In terms of force numbers the two armies were fairly evenly matched, but the problem of disease dominated his thinking and that same difficulty must prey on the mind of his opponent. However, if Khusrow could be convinced his enemies were fit and free from the plague he would be doubly cautious about meeting them.

‘I need the very best physical specimens you have. The tallest, the stockiest and the most martial-looking and none of them showing any signs of sickness.’

‘To fight?’ asked Justus hopefully.

‘No, we are going to hunt.’ There was pleasure to be had in the confusion this caused as Flavius added, ‘No armour is to be worn, just leathers for the chase. Make sure the horses they have are the fleetest of animals too, not heavy cavalry mounts.’

The pavilion Flavius had erected, bordering a forest and set of hills known to be full of game, was magnificent and decorated with numerous colourful standards. He filled the interior with tables at which the men hunting could consume that which they caught, the food prepared by a positive army of cooks, necessary since by the time all the men Flavius wanted had been gathered they numbered over a thousand – a risk, but one it seemed reasonable to take.

The proportion of barbarians was high: Flavius’s Goth levies from Italy, Vandals and Moors from North Africa, Heruls from the north Balkans, Gepids and Gautoi from across the Rhine, they the best of the physical specimens on show. There were large wooden tuns of wine and the assembled men were encouraged to drink it, though in quantities that would not affect their ability to ride. Their general wanted them cheerful!

Flavius had scouts out to alert him to the approach of the Sassanid envoy; this was a show and one that must be in progress as soon as the man came into view. What he would observe first would be the sheer quantity of tents. Closer to he would see parties of huntsmen coming and going, while from the scaffolds they had set up hung the carcasses of the most recent catch: deer, antelopes and the odd bear. He was lucky with the wind too, which blew into the face of the approaching party, carrying the smell of meat cooking over charcoal into their nostrils.

The man who greeted the envoy was himself in hunting clothes and full of good humour, speaking in Greek, not his favoured Latin, which was in sharp contrast to the man he addressed. He was named Abandanes, known to be a close advisor to Khusrow and a fellow in whose wisdom the King reposed great faith. Invited to enter the pavilion, Flavius led him to a private chamber shut off from the main space, a room filled with fine furniture and fabulous hangings depicting scenes of the chase from classical times.

‘Do you hunt, Abandanes?’

‘No,’ came the astonished response; that was not a question he was expecting and nor was he of a build that indicated he had ever been sporting. He had the look of an indoor man, with his pale skin, loose jowls and bulk.

‘Pity, I have rarely seen a forest so teeming with opportunities as the one close by.’

‘I have not come upon such a frivolous purpose.’

‘It is good that soldiers have pleasure as well as duties. They fight better when they are merry.’

Flavius invited the envoy to sit, which Abandanes, being older and clearly quite unsuited to the ride he had been obliged to make, sank into gratefully. He had hardly made contact with the chair before he was off on his king’s favourite mantra, which was how easy it would have been to avoid conflict if only Justinian had sent the men needed to negotiate.

‘I bear the rank of magister, Abandanes, and I am empowered to treat with you on behalf of the Emperor.’

‘With respect, Flavius Belisarius,’ came the smooth and condescending reply, ‘this is not a matter for the military. I mean no disrespect when I say that more subtle minds are required.’

‘But peace is easy, Abandanes. All your master has to do is to lead his armies back into his own domains.’

The older man produced one of those smiles that hinted at intricacies too obscure for a mere soldier. ‘You do not consider he has grounds to be where he is?’

‘Clearly you do.’

‘Promises have been made-’

It was not tactful to interrupt but given he was accused of being a mere soldier Flavius had no hesitation in doing so, added to which his voice was not as gentle as this fellow felt he had a right to expect.

‘Not promises, Abandanes! Proposals, at best.’

‘I fail to detect a difference. Or is it the intention of the Emperor to dangle mere carrots.’

‘We generally reserve those for our horses.’

That the older was offended by the jest pleased Flavius; he wanted him to be, though the impression of success was fleeting. The man was a diplomat and high in the counsels of his ruler, so he knew well how to respond with grace.

‘You are not known for being a player with words, Flavius Belisarius. It will please me to report back to my king that you have that gift.’

The thundering of horses’ hooves took the attention of both men, with Flavius abruptly standing. ‘Join me, Abandanes, let us see what the latest hunting party has brought in.’

‘I prefer to keep talking.’

‘I must insist. My men would want no less than my admiration for their exploits and yours will only add to their joy.’

Unhappily obliged to concede, Abandanes followed Flavius out to where a party of Vandals, sat astride foam-flecked horses, were proudly showing the carcass of a lion as well as the still bleeding wound by which it had been slain.

‘A single thrust by one hunter,’ Flavius explained when the event had been described to him. ‘A Vandal used to hunting the beasts in their own lands. I am blessed with so many good men but they may be the best.’

The envoy was near to surrounded and whichever way he looked he could see fit and strong soldiers, some dark-skinned like the Moors, others with the flaxen hair and reddened skin of the very far north, and added to that there was everything in between from within and beyond the bounds of empire.

‘You have travelled a great distance today, Abandanes. I suggest that you eat with me, then rest. The light will be gone soon and you will witness how my barbarians entertain themselves. As for parleying, that can wait until the morrow.’

The planting of the information had been prepared in advance. Flavius was sure that a man like Abandanes would despatch his attendants into the encampment to seek out a friendly eye in the hope that it was conjoined with a loose tongue. An eager retainer came back to the guest tents and soon Abandanes himself was on the move. No attempt was made to stop him and Flavius was gratified to observe that on his return he looked very unhappy indeed.

‘Time to invite him to dine, I think, Bouzes.’

‘He has heard?’

‘By his miserable face, I would say yes.’

‘Is he soldier enough to understand?’

‘There is no need for military knowledge to know that Khusrow’s options have been severely amended.’

The Sassanid King had only two routes back to safety and one of them he had already traversed, leaving it, as his army lived off the land, barren of supply. If the ploy had played out properly, Abandanes had been told that Flavius had put a strong force of cavalry across the only other path and at a place where, with the need to traverse a narrow ravine, superior numbers would count for nothing.

That left the choice of a full battle, always risky, doubly so against the only general that seemed able to beat the Sassanids. It was that or a negotiated way past a force that was sufficient to pin him in a bad place, one made precarious as Flavius could come upon his rear. It was telling that the subject of negotiation did not arise as they ate, yet despite his best efforts to hide it, Abandanes was clearly worried.

Flavius was the very opposite; he was jovial and a good host as he enquired of the family of the man he was entertaining, at the same time lamenting the problems Khusrow had with all the tribes that bordered his lands to the east and north, these being difficulties shared in many cases by Byzantium.

He felt he had every right to be merry; even if Khusrow chose battle he would do so on Byzantine soil, and outside a catastrophe Flavius could suffer a reverse and still retire on any number of fortresses. His opponent risked much more: if he was defeated or even obliged just to surrender the field he would have to retreat over many leagues at the head of a beaten army, short of morale, and with his enemy on his tail.

A whole day went by in fruitless talking as Abandanes and Flavius went through the motions of diplomatic exchange that both knew had no purpose. There was talk but no guarantees that Khusrow would retire in peace, merely suggestions, and should he do so the Sassanids could expect that Justinian might finally appoint ambassadors to talk of what price the empire would be willing to pay for an end to conflict.

Flavius agreed that this was possible but was adamant he could not commit Justinian to anything, for to do so would step on the imperial prerogative. It truth, both men knew matters would be decided when Khusrow was apprised of his situation and not before. Naturally Abandanes was sent home with gifts, fresh skins from every beast the forests nearby contained, as well as a valuable statue that had once been the property of Khusrow’s father, Kavadh. It was one of the spoils of the Battle of Dara.

‘Not very subtle,’ Bouzes observed as they watched the envoy’s caravan depart.

‘It’s not meant to be. It does no harm to remind our foes I once beat them.’

The scouts sent to observe the movements of the enemy reported that, after only a few days, they were heading east and their direction would bring them into conflict with Justus. Flavius issued orders to the imperial nephew to get out of Khusrow’s path, with an additional threat to send him back to Justinian in chains if he disobeyed. Then he brought together his own forces but made no move to advance and impede the enemy.

Those same watchers observed the Sassanids throw a bridge across the Euphrates and only then did Flavius move, to make his presence felt on their rear and chivvy them on. He too crossed the river to maintain the pressure. A message came from Khusrow claiming to have met his part of a bargain never agreed, to which Flavius responded by requesting he keep moving east.

Once out of Byzantine territory he then undertook to send the news to Justinian with a request that the ambassadorial demand be met, as long as no Byzantine property was damaged by the retiring army. To save face, Khusrow demanded a hostage; Flavius was happy to oblige for he had achieved his entire aim, and that long before the campaigning season was complete.

He had chased Justinian’s enemies out of the imperial lands and it had cost not a drop of blood or a speck of gold. Task complete, Flavius retired with his army to Edessa in Mesopotamia, central to his area of responsibility, sure that his enemy would retire to Persia.

Khusrow, no doubt to save face, took advantage of the lack of Byzantine pressure to sack the city of Callinicum, this before he announced his intention to observe the peace, which brought from his opponent a rare outburst of fulmination at the perfidy of the Sassanid dynasty.

The sight of Solomon approaching the gubernatorial palace of Edessa, a sorely missed man, had Flavius examining his expression long before they were close to each other. Not wanting to betray even a clue as to what had happened, his master was surrounded by high-ranking officers as well as his bodyguard, the domesticus merely nodded in a manner which was enough to tell his master that Photius was free, a whispered explanation later explaining it had taken four attempts before it had been successful.

‘His health?’ he asked once they were alone.

‘Damaged, Magister. The tormentors worked on him hard.’

The excuse of another more private hunt was contrived and both men set out with a small group of Flavius’s personal followers at dawn so their general could rendezvous with his stepson, not that they were given a chance to observe the meeting, being halted well away from the church in which he was hiding.

What Solomon had said did not do any justice to the truth. Photius was gaunt and if his face was much scarred it could only be guessed at how wracked had been his body, less fulsome than it had been, obvious when they embraced, indicating skin and bone. Even his voice was different, no longer strong but hoarse, that matched by a tearful Flavius who knew what he must say and had no joy in the delivery.

‘I cannot take you back into my service, Photius.’

That got a wan smile. ‘I would scarce be of use to you and know I must continue my journey, Father.’

‘To where?’

‘Jerusalem, where I will seek sanctuary in a monastery in the hope that my mother and her evil twin will leave me in peace.’

‘Never have I wanted to harm her more.’

‘Yet I know you. You will leave her punishment to God.’

‘I beg you write to me. No name but I will know it to be you.’

Solomon had removed himself and father and beloved stepson spent a full glass of sand quietly talking, recalling better times until finally it was time to pray for a better future. Photius would wait until Flavius and his party were well away from the tiny chapel before moving on, all his stepfather could do as a last gesture being to make sure he did not lack for funds.

‘My needs will be little now. No weapons or armour, or even a horse. A donkey at best, that and a plain garment.’

A final embrace, a parting without looking back and no doubt an escort wondering why their normally buoyant general was silent and seemingly cast down in despair, which lasted even when the sun went down and they made their way by the moon and stars. Flavius arrived back in Edessa well after midnight to find the palace a blaze of light and, given the varying guards assembled outside, full of his senior officers.

Bouzes was outside and he spoke as soon as Flavius dismounted before the stairway. ‘Word from Constantinople, Magister. The plague has reached the city and is raging.’

That did not surprise Flavius, but the concerned expression on the face of Bouzes hinted at more. ‘One of the afflicted is Justinian.’