Vengeance

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The night was a nervous one for Flavius, who should have slept but dared not. The method of ivory tallies used to ensure the sentinels were at their post and awake kept him on tenterhooks, for if any of the men he was now nominally in command of fell into a slumber it might not only be the miscreant who paid a price. The centurion on duty, a man unknown to the youngster, made his rounds and handed out his tokens to all who were alert; woe betide any man who could not return the requisite number come daybreak.

He had to see them changed at intervals, so that each man had four full glasses of sand with his head down and only two split shifts of duty on the section of the outer encampment ring for which they were responsible. Such was his worry, and his fear that he would not be woken by a disgruntled inferior, that he kept himself awake by seeking to recall how his father had handled his role as a commander and how he could apply it now, thoughts that were as daunting as they were enlightening.

Dawn brought little relief, though the night had passed off without alarms; the men, Ohannes aside, were in a foul mood and it was moot as to the cause. Lack of rest or the notion of being ordered about by a lad just turned fifteen and a voice that occasionally cracked to prove his adolescence; he suspected the latter but what kept at bay outright and vocal complaint was the proximity of Forbas, who was never far off and obviously willing, a message sent by many a glare, to intervene if anyone was insubordinate.

They breakfasted, struck their tents, loaded their personal possessions and the tent onto the cart that served the whole century and once they were blessed at Mass it was time to be back on the road, marching four abreast. Flavius was in the front of the two files and on the right, Ohannes beside him, and had a chance to quietly put to them what he could not do in the hearing of anyone of higher rank: that if they were so disgruntled by his elevation and annoyed by having to obey his commands he would happily step aside for anyone they proposed, albeit such a person would have to be approved by Centurion Forbas.

‘Suits me,’ Ohannes declared, somewhat restored after his slumbers and marching with seeming brio. ‘Who would want to care for this lot?’

‘You took pleasure in it,’ came a loud reply, from a fellow called Helias, the Greek name for watchman, which was backed up by a loud ‘Aye!’ from two of the others. ‘Not that I saw much care.’

‘So you might think,’ the Scythian shouted, clearly stung, ‘but if I took it, it was to get out from being under the likes of you.’

‘Must have slept well,’ came the call from another. ‘Let’s hope his legs are as strong as his voice.’

‘That’s past now,’ Flavius declared, looking behind to see if anyone in the ranks to the rear had heard the Scythian bellow, only to find he was staring at a row of blank eyes; if they had heard, and they must, all were pretending not to. ‘And Ohannes, keep your voice down. Helias, if you want the position of decanus speak up, the rest too for I will not put it to you again.’

‘Only fit for those that grovel,’ cawed Tzitas to some suppressed laughter.

‘You’ll eat those words, mark me.’

Flavius caught Ohannes by the arm and growled at him. ‘Be silent, for the love of God, or you’ll see us all at the wheel.’

That his old friend was hurt was clear, his expression left no doubt, but Flavius was not willing to soften the look that went with his admonishment. In truth he was conflicted, aware that his new rank would cause him many problems and not least in his relationship with a man to whom he owed so much. But if he was to be a decanus then he must act like one and the first rule was no favouritism.

It was not a very elevated rank, to be sure, but just to be lifted from the mass of ordinary footsloggers and have some status, even if he sought to disguise it, was pleasing, especially to a young man who had dreamt, not so very long ago, as he read the histories of successful campaigns, how he would one day command armies and win great battles. His next words were a whisper.

‘I need you to aid me.’

‘Which I will,’ came the reply, though not in a tone that eased the mind of the person at whom it was aimed.

‘A mite less talking will be welcome.’ The gravelly voice of Forbas, who had come back from his position at the head of the century to see what was going on, stiffened every back and had eyes rigidly looking ahead. ‘Save your puff to move your feet.’

At the first rest break Flavius made a point of sitting slightly away from Ohannes, so as to establish to the others that he was not going to be over-partial to his interests. Whether it worked or not was hard to tell, given there was none of the relaxed talk that might have been exchanged in a contubernium at ease; what it did do was leave him with no one to talk to and a period of time to think.

Almost one of the first lessons Flavius had ever received on fighting had been when he overheard his father lecturing his brothers. Decimus sought to drum into his boys that if you fought for the empire or for the legion of which you were part, such notions evaporated when it came to actual combat. He could hear him now driving home his point, that you fight for only two people, the man on your right and the other on your left.

‘Keep them alive and they will do likewise for you.’

Listening, Flavius, if he had not actually dismissed it, could not see himself as a mere soldier in a line of the same; he was, in his imaginings, a commander, a person directing the fight as much as taking part in it, albeit he was out in front inspiring those who followed him by his martial prowess. When he dreamt of such engagements, all of them were furious, all of them successful, every one, when it ended, with Flavius Belisarius standing in amongst a slew of dead enemy bodies, just before he was cheered to the heavens by his soldiers.

This was reality; seven men alongside whom he must go into battle and not in some grand position. Now he was recalling the truths Ohannes had sought to impart, that at this level you would see little and know less, so what mattered was the spirit that animated them as a group. Calculation, the number of leagues covered multiplied by the days they had been marching, told him they could not be far from Constantinople now and what would happen then? Would they be thrown straight into a desperate fight and if they were-

‘Decanus!’

He shot to his feet and slammed a fist into his plain leather breastplate, looking over the heads of both Forbas and the well-dressed officer who had lifted his head with his baton that first day; it did not do in the Roman army to look a superior in the eye.

‘Come with me.’

Both spun round and walked away, obliging Flavius to move swiftly to get on their heels as they headed towards a covered wagon with a good-looking and well-caparisoned horse tied to the wheel, his drawn to the elaborate saddle, edged with adornments in silver, the accoutrements of a rich individual.

He had known just from his dress that this officer was of the equestrian class at least; indeed, by his smooth cheeks, calm look and easy air of authority he might be a born patrician. The tailgate of the wagon was down and on it sat a stone flagon and some beakers, to which the officer pointed with a lazy finger.

‘Help yourself to some wine, Decanus.’

Forbas had already picked up and poured himself some, smacking his lips after a swallow, which produced on the officer’s face a fleeting look of aversion and one that amused Flavius. Not that he showed it, indeed he was wondering if he should decline the offer of wine, sensing this might be a test of some kind, unaware that his hesitation was noted.

‘Don’t hold back, it will wash the dust out of your throat.’

‘A fine pressing, Tribune Vigilius,’ Forbas said, after another deep swallow.

A thin smile: was it genuine? Vigilius removed his helmet to reveal short-cropped fair hair. ‘From my father’s own vineyard, Forbas.’

‘An ancient one, sir?’

‘Planted in the reign of Constantine.’

Definitely a patrician and from an old family, Flavius thought, an easier assumption to make given he could observe the easy manner and the innate confidence while not himself under scrutiny. Vigilius picked up a goblet, poured some wine into it and handed it to him, the stone of the cup cold in his hand, the wine it contained made more pleasant, and it was of good quality, by being served in such a material.

‘Centurion Forbas informed me last night of his action in promoting you.’ The raised eyebrows – the eyes were startling and blue – seemed to indicate that Ohannes and his demotion were not to be mentioned. ‘I make it my business to know all of my inferiors who have responsibilities, so I am bound to ask if you are comfortable being in charge of the men in your contubernium.’

He had to disguise his voice again as he replied. ‘It is too soon to say, Your Honour.’

Another fleeting smile. ‘An honest response, I like that.’

‘How much time do I have to gain their trust, sir?’

‘A good question,’ came the response, followed by a pause in which Vigilius was working out if the person asking was worthy of an answer. ‘We are two days’ march from the capital. What happens when we get there is as yet not known.’

‘If we are still long enough, Tribune,’ Forbas insisted, ‘we might be able to beat some discipline into them.’

‘Beat?’

‘Beast, I meant, work them till they drop. Some hard training and mock fighting with sword and spear, which time has not allowed us to work on. I have not seen any of your lot do more than march. That tells you little of how they will behave in combat.’

‘Perhaps the emperor will throw open the gates of Constantinople and abase himself at our feet.’

Flavius looked at Vigilius, only to realise that he was mocking the very notion, before he poured himself some wine and addressed him. ‘What are you like in mock combat, Decanus?’

‘I expect to hold my own, Your Honour.’

Tempted to boast, for he had shown genuine prowess in such activities, Flavius held back. Let his superiors find out from observation rather than his own lips.

‘You must do more than that,’ Vigilius replied, for the first time in a voice that was firm. ‘You will need to ensure the men you lead can hold not only their own, but the enemies we face.’ Those blue eyes lost that lazy look and went hard. ‘I am no great lover of the whip, but I urge you to see it employed at any sign of insubordination.’

He looked at Forbas, as if to include him in what he was saying. ‘You are young, very much so, and the men you lead all older by many years. They will seek to exploit that, Decanus, and if they do you must report them to Centurion Forbas who will put them right. Do not seek to be popular, seek to be respected and then should we come to fight you might survive it. If you fail, then …’

Vigilius drained his cup and gave him a look that said the talking was over. Flavius fisted a salute and marched back to where his men sat.

It was easy for a man of the background of the tribune to say he must gain respect, something he would get from rankers, as long as he was competent, merely for his birth. It was not so for Flavius and at the root of the problem was Ohannes, who, as the day went by, began once more to show signs of serious fatigue: the previous night’s rest had restored him for the morning; that did not hold once the sun had passed the meridian.

Instead of looking ahead his chin was from time to time meeting his breast and his breath was increasingly laboured. He had to be nudged to keep his spear upright and his shield in the correct position and was prone to a very occasional stumble. To favour him in any way would be fatal and Flavius knew the rest were waiting to see what he would do, hoisting him on the horns of a real dilemma, not made easier by the knowledge that they still had a whole league of marching yet to do. Ohannes might well collapse!

‘I have never asked you, friend,’ Flavius whispered, ‘how many years you have?’

‘Lost count,’ Ohannes replied, which implied to Flavius he was no more skilled in numbers than he was in writing, ‘but I was full-grown when I enlisted.’

Twenty-five years of service, Flavius calculated, maybe twenty summers old when he joined the army and in three more he had served as the Belisarius domesticus. Coming up fifty, which was old, too old to still be soldiering. The last league before they made camp was spent in encouragement and the odd helping hand, every time he touched Ohannes bringing a snort from those to his rear.

They got to the chosen field and Flavius was quite brusque to Ohannes when it came to setting up the tent, only relenting when it came to tightening the ropes that would hold it down by passing over the food tally and sending him away to draw their supplies. The rest had to gather timber for their fire and get it ready to light before they buffed the dust off their equipment and stood to for an inspection by Forbas.

‘At least we have no guard duty tonight,’ Flavius said, once they had been dismissed.

‘Not that we’ll sleep,’ Helias moaned, to Flavius his natural mode of behaviour, ‘with our ancient goat snoring.’

Aimed at Ohannes it had the old man beginning to rise to his feet – he had been lighting the kindling and it was clear there was going to be a confrontation, which got a bark from Flavius that made everyone freeze.

‘Permission to take that piece of shit to some place quiet and teach him some manners,’ Ohannes growled.

The word ‘Denied’ from Flavius melded with the response from Helias, which was, ‘In your dreams, old man.’

‘Get the fire going, Ohannes, and let us eat. We will all be better placed after a meal.’

The reply was defiant. ‘I’m not goin’ to take much more from him, Master Flavius.’

‘Master?’ Tzitas demanded. ‘What’s that about?’

‘Slip of the tongue,’ Ohannes snarled.

It might have worked if Flavius had not looked away, avoiding any eye contact at all, for if Ohannes’s slip of the tongue had made them curious, his reaction only engendered suspicion, not that a word was said; it was all in the looks. But the mode of address had not gone away; as they ate it cropped up in all the most inappropriate places to tell the decanus that it had registered. The butcher who had cut their meat was a ‘master’ at his craft. Would they ‘master’ the enemy when they met them? Emperor Anastasius was far from a kindly ‘master’ to his subjects.

To get away from it and think, Flavius took a tour of the camp, something he had done many times, passing the eight-man contubernia, each round their own fire and seemingly at ease with each other, not the case with his. It could not last; Ohannes would not back down and if he struck any of the others Flavius would be obliged to punish him.

Moving out from the lines of properly pitched tents he wandered into an area populated by the numerous, non-combatant camp followers, some of them the ‘wives’ and children of the men who had joined Vitalian. In description they fitted any known type, from bent old crones to bustling and sprightly young women who busied themselves about the camp. Here they cooked for their rustica menfolk and washed their clothing, no doubt supplying comfort as well, Flavius supposing that with a wage earner on the move – so very few of those who had joined owned anything but their labour – the women had to move too.

It was probably a mistake to make his way right through the middle of the area where they had pitched their makeshift coverings, for this exposed him to sights he would rather have not seen; they did not conceal everything that happened within. If the men were allotted their own part of the camp that did not mean they stayed there and it was some time before the nummi dropped and Flavius realised that the term ‘wives’ covered more than connubial attachment.

As a result he was also exposed to many a ribald comment; that he was tall for his age and good-looking only increased the banter as he was invited to ‘dip his wick’ and have ‘a roll on the straw’. It was enough to have him quicken his step and in doing so he bumped right into a young girl carrying a bucket of water, the contents going flying.

‘If he won’t spill his seed,’ came the raucous cry, ‘he can tip out water.’

Through the laughter that engendered, emitted by a dozen harpies, he heard the follow-up comments. ‘Bet he’s got as much juice in his pouch as he has cast on the ground.’

‘Too mean to share it with us.’

‘Shame, with enough to go round.’

‘Please forgive me,’ he said to the girl, who was on her knees righting the bucket and did not see how much he was blushing.

‘Of no matter, sir,’ she replied just as a loud bellow sounded from a male throat.

‘What are you about, girl?’

Flavius turned to see a fat fellow approaching, unshaven and bearing a heavy black growth, a sweat-stained leather cap on his head, the garment he was wearing open so his belly hung out to droop over the top of his filthy culottes. He pushed past Flavius and raised his hand to strike the girl, now cowering.

‘Hold!’ Flavius cried, grabbing the hand. ‘This is my doing.’

The hand was pulled violently away, the other used to push Flavius in the chest and send him stepping backwards, coming with that a barking command to, ‘Stay out of things that ain’t your concern, brat.’

The slap then delivered only skipped past the girl’s tied-back golden hair, which did not satisfy her assailant as punishment since he raised his hand again. There it stayed as he looked down at the point of cold steel that had pushed against his flesh, so soft that the sword point could make an impression without making a cut.

‘Stay that hand.’ Flavius pressed gently to force a retreat, aware out of the corner of his eye that the intended victim was gazing up at him and that she had a fearful look on her face, so he said, ‘Hand me the bucket.’

The rope was put in his hand and as it was he realised those who had been ribbing him had gone very quiet. Not so the fat one.

‘That’s my girl an’ I can do to her what I like.’

‘She did nothing wrong, I did,’ Flavius replied, looking at the face; the fat man was still looking at the sword point and Flavius was sure he detected a tremble. Certainly the tone changed; now he was pleading.

‘Respectfully, Your Honour, you do not know her. She is ever clumsy.’

‘Stand up,’ Flavius said, with a sideways glance, ‘there is no need to cower there.’

Looking at her, he missed most of what the fat man was saying, only afterwards recalling that he claimed to be her father, that she was a trial to him, forever rebellious and always had been, while only his hand, oft used, was of any service in controlling her. The reason he was distracted occurred immediately; she was beyond pretty even in a shapeless smock, had rosy cheeks in fair skin, if not entirely clean, and a pair of striking blue eyes.

‘Where is the well?’ he asked in Latin, and when she looked confused he repeated it in Greek.

‘Right by the road, sir.’

‘I am no sir,’ he grinned, taking her hand and lifting her up, before withdrawing his sword and leading her away.

Freed from the fear of instant death, the fat fellow started to bellow at him as an interfering arse of a jumped-up nobody who might learn better if he was not careful, the litany of abuse killed off the instant Flavius spun round, though once he carried on again he could hear the father telling anyone around who would listen what he was going to do to the barely-out-of-his-soil-cloths sod who had insulted him.

‘Did you understand that I said sorry?’ They were by the well, so Flavius put in the rock used to make it sink, hooked on the leather bucket and began to lower it. ‘You have no Latin?’

All it got was a shy nod and a reply so soft it was impossible to hear.

‘I have got you into trouble, have I not?’

Another nod and this time she did speak, yet still without looking up. ‘I thank you for staying his hand, sir.’

‘It was only right,’ he said as he felt the way the water slightly checked the bucket, ‘just as it is fitting that I make amends.’

He began to pull, raising the now weighty bucket out of the well, and once it was above the rim he hauled it over to the parapet and unhooked it, retrieving the rock. ‘Why do we not take it back together?’

With each having a hand of the rope they made slow progress, actually stopping when Flavius asked her name, which he was pleased to hear was Apollonia, seeing her rosy cheeks go bright red when he added that it suited her.

‘If I tell you my name is Flavius, will you remember it?’

The ‘Yes’ was emphatic and for the first time she looked directly at him, right in the eyes, and Flavius felt a need to take an extra breath.

‘Is he your father, as he claimed it?’

‘Timon took me in, and my mama.’

‘Not blood, then. Does he treat her as badly as he seems to treat you?’

‘Worse, sir.’

‘Worse, Flavius,’ he corrected her gently, which caused her to smile, that requiring another deep inhalation.

There was no need to ask what would happen once he was out of sight. Whatever punishment this Timon had intended would be multiplied by a dozen to cover his shame at his own cowardice. Flavius allowed her to lead him to where the water was required, disappointed that there was no sign of that fat belly, but the women who had ribbed him were still around so he spoke to them, for they must know Timon.

‘A message for Timon,’ he cried out, in a voice now turning rich and deep, ‘that I will come by each night we are camped, and if I see so much as a blemish on Apollonia’s skin, I will use my sword to remove from him what he no doubt considers his jewels, in short I will make a eunuch of him, and a hand on Apollonia’s mother will earn him the same fate. Have a care to pass that on for I will not warn twice and should he think to overcome me by numbers, I am a decanus, so he will need many and armed.’

Despite the distractions to his thoughts, he knew he needed to concentrate on the problem that had brought him to tour the camp in the first place. Walking had ever aided his thinking and as he went on his way he passed the various people that supported the army by their employment, the butchers, the armourers with their lit forge, the storekeepers with their wagons of grain, peas and pulses, men who required to be rewarded in coin for what they did.

An idea began to form in his head, a possible solution that would kill two birds with one stone. It would also leave him free to act with only consideration for his own needs. By the time he got back to the tent it was a resolution, not a notion. His fire was nearly out and he needed to stoke it, the old soldier emerging from the tent as he was throwing on the logs, coming close to talk.

‘I humbly beg-’

Ohannes was not allowed to finish his whispered apology, Flavius physically stopping him by putting his fingers to his lips.

‘It matters not, old friend, and what is done is done. If the others are curious that is all they are. I have no intention of satisfying their noses and they will not ask anything of you, so it will be forgotten in a day or two.’

‘Happen,’ came the unconvinced reply.

‘More important than that, I am going to ask that you be shifted to a duty with which you can cope.’

‘I have that now.’

‘No, Ohannes, you do not. I daresay you will be sprightly in the morning but it will not last and you know it. What happens if you collapse?’

‘I won’t!’

‘And I cannot take the chance that you will. I would strap myself to the wheel rather than hand you over to Forbas for punishment, which I must do in my rank.’

‘I’ve felt the lash before.’

‘Not by my reporting you.’

Ohannes was still defiant, but now he was sounding like a petulant child. ‘I can take it.’

‘But I cannot hand it out,’ Flavius said in a weary tone, rising to tower over his still-seated friend. ‘So I either have to put you out of harm’s way or ask Forbas to find another decanus.’

‘Don’t take it amiss, Master Flavius, but if he had to promote you, there cannot be a rate of folk he thinks fit of the rank.’

Flavius grinned. ‘I don’t, which is why I want you somewhere in which you can have it easier. All you will do if you stay is show me up as useless.’

‘You’re not that an’ never will be.’

‘You can see into the future?’ Flavius joked, still grinning.

‘I knew your family, all of them. I served with your papa and watched the way your brothers grew to manhood. If there is a God in heaven, then everything they had which was to be admired is now within you.’

‘What a burden that is, now they are gone.’

‘No escaping it, is there, more’s the pity.’

‘If you have so much faith in me Ohannes, then trust me in what I am about to do, which is plead with Forbas to put you in a place where you can ride one of the carts.’

‘Not a fighter?’

‘I did not say that, did I, but you are for certain no good at marching.’ Flavius adopted a deliberately hard tone; he was resolved to act and there was no going back. ‘No more argument, I have decided and you will obey.’