Vengeance

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Of all the glories of the Roman Empire their system of roads was the most enduring, as well as being a prime asset in times of trouble, there always being strife somewhere. If Emperor Anastasius was known to be tight-fisted with imperial income – he had raised massive sums in taxes in his years in office and spent as little as possible – he never stinted on the prime means of communication throughout his domains.

By this method he kept in touch with the Ostrogoth Theodoric in Ravenna. He could be told within days what was happening from the coast of Illyria or the deserts of Egypt and all points in between. Most vital was the threatened frontier shared with Persia, an enemy with whom he had just concluded an unsatisfactory peace after a less than conclusive war, which on balance had not favoured the empire.

Likewise he was made swiftly aware of the results of the agreed policy towards Vitalian and the omens were far from good: the champion of Chalcedon, which is how the general increasingly saw himself, had reacted with fury to the cutting off of supplies and money and in this he had only reflected the stance of the foederati he led, barbarian mercenaries from every far-flung imperial border. Conatus, the magister militum per Thracias, had been immediately deposed; it was rumoured he had been executed, while those officers who had served him and had not defected to the rebels were subject to the same fate.

That same system of roads and messengers had brought news that the mission to Dorostorum was no longer a viable one, which rendered its recall fortuitous and any future enquiry unlikely. Justinus certainly did not doubt that the list of crimes against the local magnate warranted investigation, but the despatch stating that Decimus Belisarius had foolishly engaged a vastly superior enemy without waiting for support and had died for his folly, along with all his men in the process, rendered it near to pointless.

The story as related did not ring true to a man who had known the victim since childhood; it was not the action an experienced old soldier like Decimus would risk – if anything he was prone throughout his career to caution – and that made it suspect. Added to those reservations was the nature of the person who had sent and vouchsafed the information. Bishop Gregory Blastos was one of the twin villains listed in the original exchange of complaints. Whatever the truth, Decimus must most certainly be dead and with his demise went any chance of bringing meaningful charges against his enemies.

When the council gathered once more it was to debate the outcome of General Vitalian’s reaction – the fate of a centurion and his cohort on a distant border would not rate a mention. If the reports were far from good, no one present would have sensed any alarm in the imperial breast; Anastasius was calmness personified, going through the ceremony of arrival and enthronement as if nothing had occurred to disturb his equilibrium.

Watching him, Flavius Justinus was impressed, even if he suspected it was all a performance, a point he made to his nephew, Flavius Petrus Sabbatius, recalled and swiftly returned to Constantinople.

‘The tiger he has by the tail is one of his own devising, Uncle,’ Petrus murmured. ‘Perhaps someone should remind him of that.’

Petrus had been halfway to Marcianopolis when he received the cancellation of his commission and was able to report just how little there was, militarily, between Vitalian and the capital, though only to his uncle, not to the court.

‘Telling him so would be a swift way to forfeit your head.’

‘I doubt he needs me to inform him. You, perhaps?’

Justinus acknowledged that with a nod but no response, this as the emperor’s nephew Hypatius took a step forward and began to speak. Having been the progenitor of the policy now causing alarm he was in no position to withdraw his previous advice, so he was strong in his opinion that an army should be immediately raised to counter any threat.

‘From where?’ Petrus whispered.

‘The Persian border, there’s nowhere else.’

There was no need to continue the exchange, neither uncle nor nephew needing to allude to the risks attendant upon that. Move troops from the east and the enemy might be encouraged to take advantage of a peace known to be very fragile.

‘And if you, Highness, will permit,’ Hypatius was saying, ‘I will undertake the duty of leading it.’

‘But is he capable?’ Petrus asked.

Justinus replied to him in a caustic tone. ‘Of the three nephews, he is the only one who might be.’

‘How much time will that take?’ demanded nephew Probus, following on from a very flowery and self-abasing paean to his uncle’s sagacity. ‘If Vitalian marches swiftly he will be outside the walls long before my cousin can bring forth a host to confront him.’

‘Not perhaps as dim as I supposed,’ Justinus muttered.

‘No great ability of thought is required to draw that conclusion.’

Justinus smiled, the tone used by Petrus being full of disdain, an attitude he applied to all three of the imperial nephews, indeed to a majority of the functionaries who made up the emperor’s council. Few, he thought, had any brains at all but they did have desires and he was adept at sniffing out the wellsprings of their actions. What did they stand to gain from their advice to the emperor? Who were they secretly allied to, set against others with whom they were locked in concealed conflict? A natural intriguer himself, Petrus had the nose to sniff that out in others.

A glance sideways showed Justinus that his nephew’s expression matched his thoughts and reminded the uncle that the youngster of whom he had become fond was, if clever, far from skilled yet in dissimulation, which he had many times sought to remind him was a necessity in the bear pit of the imperial palace. They were so unalike in many respects, Justinus a soldier with a friendly manner when circumstances allowed, Petrus utterly unmilitary, indeed scholarly by inclination. It was that which had brought him into his uncle’s service until he now acted as his confidant.

Their differences extended just as much to their physical appearance; where the older man was broad and muscular, made more imposing by his armour, with an open countenance and a ready smile – many would have said he was bluff and hearty – Petrus, if of the same height, was slight of frame with narrow shoulders and an awkward gait that gave the impression of a man sidling, not walking. He seemed to wear too often a pinched expression, as if he was ever crossed in his thoughts, inclined to bend his head and tug at his untidy reddish hair, inherited from his patrician father, as well as bite his tongue when called upon to think.

‘I ask permission to challenge my cousin Hypatius for the leadership of any host gathered to counter the renegade Vitalian.’

‘God come to their aid if Pompeius is their commander. You could put yourself forward, Uncle. Anastasius trusts you.’

‘To lead a failed enterprise? I think not.’

‘You do not fear Vitalian, do you?’ Petrus asked, a degree of surprise in his murmured tone, to which he hastily added, ‘Not that I think you fear anyone.’

Macedonius, the Patriarch of Constantinople, gorgeous in his ecclesiastical robes, was speaking now and what he was saying brought a grunt from Justinus, he being a pliant individual, entirely subservient to the imperial whim. He was insisting that no concession be made in dogma to any rebellion, be it by Vitalian or any other malefactor, which finally brought from Justinus an angry if quiet rebuttal, one for his nephew’s ears only.

‘The way to deal with Vitalian is to modify the stance on dogma, accept that each man has the right to worship in his own fashion. That is what animates those who follow him; take away that and you remove the threat.’

‘And that, Uncle, is where you are wise and our esteemed emperor is not.’

If the atmosphere while marching south was now slightly strained within the group as a whole that ceased to matter when they came to the via publica from Marcianopolis to Dorostorum, block-paved, well drained and kept in decent repair by a local levy on the surrounding landowners. There they joined with other bands heading for the same rendezvous, called forth on the same purpose, which allowed the trio of Flavius, Ohannes and Dardanies to detach themselves from the others by increasing their pace to meld into the increasing throng, Flavius especially eager for news of the imperial commission, who would have been bound to travel this route.

He knew just where to enquire: every via publica had, at five-league intervals, government funded mansios, places of accommodation reserved for non-military officials or imperial messengers. If they were sparsely spread, at least for anyone on foot, and not open to all and sundry – to get in required official endorsement stating your name and business – the first villa they encountered was fortuitously close to the point at which they had joined the highway.

Flavius quizzed the watchmen at the gates, asking for news regarding any substantial official body that had come north recently and used the accommodation, or merely stopped to refresh themselves, change mounts and eat. With no need for discretion he was able to describe what that of which he was seeking news might look like: a number of court officials perhaps, of high calibre and bearing and most certainly a priest, travelling in some style.

Slipping the man at the gate a copper coin, not that it produced anything positive, eased the habitual reserve of all watchmen; no body fitting the description Flavius gave had passed this way in recent times and further gentle interrogation produced nothing that might even remotely point to that which he sought, while the name F. Petrus Sabbatius was met with a shrug.

Carrying on he tried the public houses in which a common traveller could get sustenance and even a bed, now crowded out with the men sharing the route – raucous and uninviting places to Flavius, but entered to make the same enquiry and met every time with universal and blank incomprehension. The owners made their living by selling food and wine, an excess of the latter, judging by the sounds of singing coming through the open doorways of every one they approached, what words that could be understood far from spiritual in their composition and rendition.

‘No point in getting distressed by it, is there,’ Ohannes opined, as they passed another crowded establishment where lyrics being sung were particularly blasphemous. ‘It’s as I said to you prior, not all who are on this road with us are assembling for God’s purpose.’

‘Neither are all of we,’ growled Dardanies.

If the majority aiming to join Vitalian were farmers or labourers, such volunteers were leavened by a small number of men bearing proper arms, who by their bearing and swagger, as well as their easy camaraderie, gave the impression of being ex-soldiers. Ohannes, who sought to see from various bits of their apparel where they might have served, sized them up quickly and approvingly.

‘Stuck for a crust after the end of the Persian War, many were, and took to serving the wealthy as watchmen. Now they are happy to up sticks and come to join the uprising. Once you have soldiered proper it’s in your blood.’

Such admiration did not extend to more numerous armed individuals, men who had taken up positions of employment in which guarding property required that they possess swords, spears or both. Ohannes would manoeuvre close enough to get to talk to them too, happy to report back that first impressions were accurate: they would struggle to make true soldiers.

‘Might be fit to stand guard over a farm, but not up to a real fight.’

‘And all from north of where we now are. I should be home now, given it would be a good time to pillage, with so much protection missing.’

Flavius looked at Dardanies as he said this, realising he was jesting, albeit the comment had within it a strong element of truth. What might happen on the Danube border now, especially now; following on from the massacre of the imperial cohort, there was no organised force to oppose raiding and no support could be expected from Vitalian’s army, now wholly intent on another objective.

‘Serve them right,’ was his sharp opinion, when he outlined the risks to the citizenry of Dorostorum. ‘They should have held to their bond.’

‘Trouble is, Master Flavius,’ Ohannes responded, ‘it is not the guilty who will pay.’

Dardanies cut across what looked about to become a lament. ‘If I have not said it before, Ohannes, I say it now. It is time to drop the tag of master and start addressing our young friend as Flavius. You put him at risk every time you address him so.’

‘Habit,’ the Scythian replied, in a grumpy tone.

‘A bad one can get you killed.’

‘What will do for me is all this marching,’ the old man said, rubbing at his shoulders, then easing his knees. ‘Every bone I possess aches.’

Flavius laid a concerned hand on the man’s back, his voice carrying the same tone. ‘Then, since we are under no one’s command, let us rest awhile.’

Leaving the road was not immediate; they waited until they spied a fallen tree trunk big enough to use as a communal seat, Ohannes being strong in his belief that if he was to sit on the ground they would struggle to raise him up again. Before they ate some of their provisions the old man disappeared into the woods at their rear to relieve himself, leaving Dardanies and Flavius alone.

‘You are fond of him, are you not?’

‘As was my father, and he saved my life, so why would I not be?’

‘Odd that,’ Dardanies smiled, ‘he told me you saved his.’

‘He exaggerates, I acted by instinct and if it aided him it was by chance.’

‘I have observed you are much given to modesty.’

‘Honesty is the word I would prefer.’

The return of Ohannes did for that conversation and after he joined them the three sat eating, which curtailed much in the way of talking, this as a stream of men passed them by, few with any interest. On a hot day and feeling far enough away from recognition Flavius fretted at still wearing the cowl, which he eased back as much as he dared, while tending to gaze at the ground before his feet, constantly checking himself for that which he could not help, looking up as some fellow on the road called out to another.

To say Flavius was troubled was well off the mark, for he had a whole cart of worries, and not just his present preoccupations. Would his mother, once she received the news of the death of her husband and sons, do as he had asked and await his arrival, or would she rush back to the family home? He felt the need to prevent her, given the strong possibility her welcome and treatment wouldn’t be any different from that envisaged for him, though Senuthius would need to be careful how he treated her.

If his father had been less than wholly popular through the needs of his responsibilities, she had been the reverse and was held, particularly by the poor of the city, in high regard, due to her selfless consideration for their welfare. To accuse her of sorcery would surely not be believed by folk whose illnesses she had medicated and whose poverty she had worked tirelessly to relieve.

That thought checked him; who would believe that anyone in his household had indulged in pagan rites? No one with eyes to see or a brain to think, but a mob fired up by lies and fed with free wine was of a different nature. Senuthius would expend gold to damn anyone named Belisarius, and Blastos would use his office to aid him!

If that was not an immediate dilemma, it would become that once they reached Marcianopolis, where there was another via publica that joined that city to the main road west, the Via Egnatia, which would take him to Illyricum and in doing so impose a choice. What would his mother want him to do, seek out the imperial commission and go with them to Dorostorum or look to her security? He was looking at his own feet once more, thinking that she would insist on the former, when another pair appeared.

‘Can you spare a bite, friends?’

To avoid looking up was impossible. The man before them, with a spear in his hand, a sword at his waist and a plain leather breastplate on his chest, was clearly a one-time soldier, covered in dust, as were the trio he was addressing. With the butt of the spear shaft resting on the ground he was leaning on it in a way that indicated he was as weary as Ohannes, who was the one who replied.

‘Been on the march long, brother?’

There was a pause, as if he found the question obtrusive. ‘All the way from Axiupolis.’

It seemed the name of that city made no sense to Dardanies, but Flavius knew it lay well to the east of Dorostorum, it being the nearest fortified town in that direction, as would Ohannes. Many times his father had gone there to confer with his opposite and equally under-strength counterpart and mull over their difficulties.

‘That’s many a league,’ Flavius replied.

‘And many more to go, I think.’

‘Not as many as you have behind you, friend; Marcianopolis will be not much more than another day’s march.’

Flavius was wondering why Ohannes was growling, but he was in no position to enquire as the fellow spoke again, the expression implying he was impressed. ‘You know the road well?’

‘Well enough,’ Flavius responded. He looked around, to the sound of the old man growling even louder. ‘Are you on your own?’

‘I was with a party, but I seem to have got separated.’ He smiled, showing broken teeth. ‘Too much time spent talking to others on the path to salvation, but I can catch up with them if I have the strength to put my best foot forward.’

‘Have some bread and wine, then,’ Dardanies said.

He held out a torn piece of his own round of bread. Ohannes immediately proffered his wine flask and the man drank from it with the requisite constraint, not consuming too much. Still chewing he wiped his sleeve across his face before speaking again.

‘Why, that is kind of you, I feel right restored.’

‘Glad to provide for a fellow Christian.’

‘And where have you come from?’

Flavius was about to reply when Ohannes spoke to cut him off. ‘What matters where we all hail from, friend? It is the cause in which we make our way that matters.’

‘True enough, brother, true enough.’ A hand went to the soft cap on his head in a sort of salute. ‘Well, I say God’s blessings upon you and I will be heading on – with luck and your kindly sustenance I will come upon my comrades.’

‘You should not have spoken so freely,’ Ohannes hissed, as soon as the man was out of earshot. ‘And happen you should not have spoken at all!’

‘In what way do you mean?’

‘What lad your age, and at best a labourer, speaks educated as you do, has knowledge of the roads of the province, as well as how far it is to Axiupolis and can tell how far we still have to go to the general’s meeting place?’

‘Any number of folk know that, and you must have gone there with my father!’

‘I take leave to say they do not,’ the old man insisted, before addressing Dardanies, sat on the other side of Flavius. ‘You heard of Axiupolis?’

That got a shake of the head and a shrugged reply from the Sklaveni. ‘What’s done is done. Can you be certain talking to that fellow is a risk of any sort?’

‘Likely not,’ Ohannes replied, though he seemed far from mollified. ‘But best not to take a chance, best to keep a tight lip.’

‘You worry too much,’ Flavius murmured, his resentment at being checked obvious.

‘Thank the Lord someone has the sense to!’

As they had sat eating the air had grown heavy, as clouds rolled in from the north-west to first cover the sun, trapping the summer heat, then to thicken and darken, which was enough to let all know they were in for a downpour, and soon the first roll of thunder came rumbling to their ears and that meant lightning. With every post house full to bursting and likely to get even busier there was scant chance of shelter.

If it was known to be unsafe to shelter under a tree in such circumstances there was mutual agreement that it was better than standing out in the open and being lashed with rain. The clouds were turning black now and the thunder was regular, soon followed by the first visible flash of lightning cracking brightly across the sky.

‘Oh, for a shield,’ Ohannes called, ‘best thing going to keep your head dry.’

‘I have heard men being struck on the boss by lightning and killed,’ Flavius said, as the first drops of rain began to fall, large enough to bounce off the paving blocks from which the road was constructed.

‘Who’s to say it would not have done for them anyway.’

Dardanies had his sword out and was heading for the trees. ‘Time to build a shelter.’

Once into the woods, he began to slash at the thinner branches of the trees, soon aided by the others, who knew what he was about, just as they knew they had left it late to act. It was not long before they had a frame of sorts as well as the evergreen foliage with which to cover it, under which they could take shelter even if they were damp by the time it was up.

They sat huddled within this as the rain beat down, much of it caught in the trees above, yet enough falling to drip through their canopy and all the while the heavens rumbled and spat. To peer out was to see bolts of heavenly fire striking the ground, while all around the noise of thunder assailed them and the wind the storm whipped up had those under cover grabbing parts of their makeshift shelter to keep it in place.

‘Those are my gods speaking,’ Dardanies said. ‘It might do you well to listen.’

‘Never did much take to anyone shouting, divine or otherwise,’ Ohannes hooted, ‘an’ who would want to bow their head to such a temper?’

Flavius thought it politic to say nothing, especially when he saw the way the Sklaveni took the old man’s jest; it was not well received. So there they sat in silence until the sounds began to fade as the storm moved on, the rain easing until it eventually stopped. They stepped out to find steam rising from the paving, water dripping from the trees and the air still heavy and damp, with grey clouds filling the sky.

Others, who had taken similar shelter, began to emerge and if they were to a man far from dry, neither were they too concerned; it was summertime in a part of the world where clothing could dry out quickly, the only concern Flavius expressed being that the delay made it unlikely they would make the military camp near Marcianopolis before darkness.

‘Though we should keep going as long as we can, even after dark.’

‘Not with all that cloud,’ Dardanies contended. ‘Won’t be able to see hand before our face when the light goes.’

All around them parties of men were settling down for the night, disappearing into the deeper woods looking for timber still dry enough to make a fire, kindling being no problem. Flints were being plied to the small mound of still-dry leaf mould that would be the first to flame, they carried on as the light faded and the road emptied.

‘Can’t go much further than this,’ Ohannes said, holding up a hand to show that it was barely visible. ‘Let’s make camp.’