Vengeance

CHAPTER THREE

Rising ground overlooked the Danube as well as the flat, sometimes flooded plain bordering its waters, land that produced abundant crops, wealth for a few, a good living for many and labour for droves – in all a tempting prosperity. In cresting the ridge Flavius was presented with a panorama of an unfolding military engagement and one that seemed to favour the Roman side, as well as elicit admiration from the observer. Instead of riding to drive back the raiders his father, as indicated by the position of his distant banner, had succeeded in getting between them and the riverbank, thus cutting them off from their boats.

It was a deadly manoeuvre and very obviously a surprising one: the youngster could see the enemy milling around in apparent confusion, noting they were exceedingly numerous, several hundred in number, he reckoned, which made what was already unusual truly exceptional, for in such numbers they could not all be Sklaveni. By closer examination they looked, judging by their distinctive helmets and armour, to be not Sklaveni, but mainly Huns.

‘How did they get to here without anyone knowing?’ Ohannes asked, when Flavius made the identification.

‘Why would the Sklaveni stop them if in doing so they put their own folk and farms at risk? Best to stand aside and let them do their worst to us.’

‘They won’t all be Huns.’

‘No,’ Flavius acknowledged; too many of their close neighbours, seeing a chance of both plunder and revenge, would have joined in. ‘Though from what I can see they are all in a bind, from wherever they hail.’

Between the barbarians and a city full of fearful citizenry stood the local militia, now seemingly fully assembled, and they would match their enemy in strength. They were under the authority of Senuthius, who with his senatorial rank was deferred to and acted as the militia commander. Added to that, he could muster more fighting men than the imperial cohort.

Flavius imagined him to be salivating at the prospect of how many prisoners he could take to sell, for these raiders were likely to be the fittest of their race and he would have a good chance of mass captures. Present too was the Bishop of Dorostorum, his ecclesiastical banner, bearing a golden cross on a white background, raised high to inspire the faithful to deeds of valour that would elevate them in the eyes of God.

For the youngster the problem was obvious: between him and his family, for all three of his brothers were with his father, stood not only the forces of Senuthius but also the raiding barbarians, now no longer burning homesteads and stealing what they could but working out, he surmised, a way to extricate themselves from what had become a trap.

‘I could ride round them, Ohannes.’

‘Take too long,’ came the gruff response.

‘Only if I had to abide by your pace.’

That got a Scythian glare, for in getting this far Ohannes had enjoyed little comfort. Nor was he unaware of what the youngster was implying, that he could ride much faster on his own and perhaps be able to join his sire before battle was commenced.

‘And who’s to say those swine from over the river will let you pass?’

‘They have more to concern them than one lone rider.’

‘One lone rider who happens to be the son of the imperial commander.’

‘That they do not know.’

‘How can you be sure, young sir? There’s bound to be Sklaveni hotheads in that lot. It may be that you will be recognised even with your swollen snout. Even if they are Huns to a man, you’re well mounted and wearing the clothing and armour of a Roman, so they will seek to kill you anyway.’

Ohannes then proved that although he had been a mere footslogger, he could still see plainly what was what. ‘And if you’re recognised by the Sklaveni they will use you to bargain. A good way to get by your papa, don’t you think, and back to their boats, offering your head for their freedom.’

‘They won’t capture me, Ohannes,’ Flavius responded with a false laugh.

‘They’re not going to get the chance, for I will be forced to stand in your way.’

Whatever good humour or kindly feeling Flavius had towards this old man disappeared quickly, to be replaced by a growl made more telling by the state of the boy’s pubescent throat.

‘You do not have the right.’

The spear came up slowly until it was couched on his shoulder and ready to throw. ‘It is a right I will take, as well as what comes of it.’

‘You would harm me?’

Ohannes actually grinned, or was it a grimace? ‘No need, young sir, but this spear will do for your horse and even you are not mad enough to seek to join your father on foot.’

The pair stared at each other, Flavius seeking and failing to impose his silent will on the older man, whose lined and weather-beaten face had settled into a bland and calm look that was somehow more telling than belligerence. The spear was still held in the cup of Ohannes’s hand and Flavius knew he could use it, just as he knew there was no need for his horse to be killed; a wound to its breast would suffice. The stand-off was broken by the sound of blowing horns from the riverside, a sign that Flavius’s father was about to advance.

‘Too late now,’ Ohannes said, lowering the spear.

‘My father will hear of this,’ Flavius snapped.

For all the force with which that was delivered, in his heart he knew he would say nothing. Angry as he was there were two reasons not to, the first being it was unbecoming for a Roman to go telling tales, but it was the other truth that was more unsettling: the fact that Ohannes was more likely to be praised in the Belisarius villa for his restraint of a headstrong youth than chastised. In an endeavor to regain his lost dignity, Flavius made a very obvious attempt to concentrate on what was unfolding below.

On a wooded plain, broken by a maze of small plots of farmland interspersed with hedgerows and woodland, it was far from easy to see every part of what was happening, but there was no doubt the imperial cohort was pushing forward; the urgent blowing of horns Flavius took to be a signal for the forces of the local landowners to likewise advance so as to squeeze their enemies between the two. Soon came the sound of distant battle, of screeching men and the occasional clash of metal on metal loud enough to carry in the clear early summer air.

‘They’re not moving,’ Flavius exclaimed, pointing to the static banners of local limitanei, by far the more numerous of the two Roman forces. ‘Why are they not moving?’

Ohannes did not reply; there was nothing he could say. Both he and his young charge, from such an elevated position, could see as plain as day the way the battle was unfolding. The raiders needed to get back to their boats and cast them off so they would live to fight another day, therefore they had to attack the imperial troops standing in their way, men who could hold them at bay so the local militia could come up on their rear and destroy them. But if they did not engage …

‘They must advance,’ Flavius cried, when the inactivity continued, spurring his mount and heading off the crest of the hill.

Wild thoughts filled his mind as he hunched over the withers, having no need to urge on his stallion, rarely using the reins and giving the animal very much its head, trusting it to look out for them both. There was no time to worry about obstacles, be they holes in the ground, ploughed loam or rush fences, as well as hedges enclosing the fields of wheat, which the steed, in combination with a rider who knew how to let him leap, cleared with ease.

He was soon within the rear ranks of the militiamen, some of whom were required to move aside sharply to avoid being mown down. As he made for the banner of the bishop, under which stood both Blastos and Senuthius, his ears were assailed by many an angry curse.

The way he brought his mount to a halt, the manner in which he kept his seat as it reared up, hooves flying, would have excited admiration in an arena. All it produced in the most prominent citizens of this part of the province, the men gathered round that banner, was the kind of alarm that made them scatter too, their ears filled with a rasping demand as to why they were not advancing.

Unlike his shocked companions Senuthius had not moved, his corpulent frame, encased in expensive armour over garments of silk, remaining stock-still as he looked with disdain at the youngest of the Belisarius clan. He only deigned to respond as the boy made a repeated shout that the men he led should advance immediately, the reply, delivered to the very obvious sounds of battle in the fields to the fore, rendered odd by the nature of his voice, high-pitched and utterly unsuited to his imposing physical appearance or his rank.

‘Am I to be commanded by a child?’

‘You must support my father.’

‘I must do that which I think wise,’ Senuthius replied, as the men who had scattered for fear of Flavius’s hooves reconvened to gather around him and glare.

‘He cannot fight the barbarians without support. You will not be able to see from here but they are Huns and too numerous for my father to contain alone.’

‘Huns!’ was an alarmed cry that issued from several throats, though it had less effect on Senuthius, who replied with what was almost a scoff in the piping voice. ‘Then it is a pity the emperor does not see fit to provide us with more men.’

‘But-’

That changed the tone; Senuthius snapped at him. ‘If they are indeed Huns then I and my fellow landowners will advance when we consider it prudent, for there will be no recompense from Constantinople if we lay down our lives for a few peasants of little worth.’

It had taken Ohannes a great deal longer to get to the same point, but it was just as well he arrived. Flavius had drawn his sword and was loudly threatening Senuthius with the removal of his head if he did not go forward with his men. Some of his retainers moved to protect their master, just as the mare Ohannes was riding waddled in between the boy and those who might harm him.

The youngster had no eyes for them or the threat they represented; he was glaring at Senuthius and beside him again the bishop, who was as ever eying the youngster, flowering yellowing bruises and distended nose notwithstanding, as if he were a tasty meal waiting to be consumed, his lips wet from the salivating.

‘Put up that sword, boy, or I will order my men to kill you.’

‘Do as he says, young sir,’ Ohannes said in a low growl. ‘You cannot overcome such numbers.’

The turmoil on the face of Flavius was a mirror of his tumbling thoughts; was this an accident, an act of caution for fear of the consequences, or was Senuthius deliberately leaving his family exposed? If he was doing so he was being aided and abetted by every man who had brought a sword to this fight, as well as the cleric who brought no more than his crucifix.

Why that should be he was struggling to comprehend, for if he knew there was no love lost between his father and these two men, and a residual dislike of authority in the rest, he could not fathom the depths of the politics involved.

The sounds of fighting, which had filled the air, much louder now he was close to the action, had begun to seriously diminish; the battle was moving away from this position and that could only mean one thing. He spurred his horse once more and aimed it straight at Senuthius, ignoring those who stood in his path, his dark-brown eyes boring into the pale green of the older man, orbs set in a fat, round face topped by thin strands of hair.

The men Senuthius employed tended to be ex-soldiers and so they knew how to deal with such an assault. As a terrified Blastos jumped away for a second time, one grabbed the bridle and hauled hard while a second shoved his spear shaft between the horse’s forelegs, to set Flavius shooting forward as the mount stumbled.

Having fallen off ponies and horses many times the youngster was quick to clear his feet out of his stirrups. He also knew that to fall under the horse would lead to him being crushed, so rather than fight the motion he enhanced it, throwing his weight outwards and launching his body into the air.

If he could save himself from harm in that fashion there was no way to avoid the pain that came from landing on rock-hard ground and he felt the shock as his left shoulder made contact, as well as the immediate pain of a joint that had possibly been dislocated. His mount was over on its side, legs kicking in the air as several men sought by holding its head to keep it still. He did not see Ohannes slip off his mare to come to his aid but he did hear Senuthius order his men to leave Flavius be, his voice ringing out as he said to all assembled:

‘Never let it be said that a man of my standing makes war on children.’

The hands that began to lift him were gentle and Ohannes’s solicitous voice was in his ear asking him how badly he was injured.

‘Not hurt, not hurt,’ came the reply, which had about it a snuffling sob that gave a lie to the words, made more so by the fact that his nose was once more bleeding copiously.

‘You,’ Senuthius called. ‘I take it you are a servant of the family Belisarius?’

‘I am, sir.’

‘Then take this young miscreant away from here before I find I cannot restrain men he has so insolently insulted from slicing his gizzard.’

Helped to his feet, one hand holding a right arm now feeling numb and useless, Flavius lifted his head and glared at Senuthius. If the fleshy senator saw the look of pure hate it did nothing to affect his demeanour and his voice was steady as he spoke to those who now surrounded him.

‘Time for us to sound the advance, I think.’

It was a much-chastened Flavius Belisarius, needing one good arm to support the other and with the taste of blood still in his mouth, who eventually followed in the wake of the advancing militia, men who did so without the need to raise or employ a weapon. The raiders had made it to their boats and were now out on the river, there to jeer and bare their arses as the first of their enemies came to the bank or to hold up as trophies the shields and armour they had taken from their soldier victims.

In moving forward the militia had passed the mutilated bodies of the men of the imperial cohort, few of whom had survived. If they had they were now on the water, destined to be thrown out midstream to drown or to be taken north as slaves. Flavius and Ohannes found the bodies of the centurion and his three sons in a tight cluster not far from the riverbank and it was only later, in a visualisation that would come back to haunt him throughout his life, that Flavius realised how his siblings had sought to protect their father, putting their persons before him in a bid to keep him alive and in control of his cohort and the battle.

It was a dream that would recur often at night, but also a vision that would come to him unbidden during many a day as he recreated time and again the scene, without ever being sure he had the right of it. He would remember with clarity that all four were covered in blood and had multiple wounds, deep cuts to arms and body, so that it was impossible to know which blow was the one to prove fatal, while around them, in ground made soggy by so much gore, lay a dozen corpses of the men they had slain, evidence that they had not been cheaply overcome; the barbarians who had escaped would be jubilant but on this spot they had paid a heavy price to kill the men of the Belisarius family.

Flavius fell weeping to his knees and if he had suffered mental turmoil before this moment it was as nothing to what he was going through now, that jumbled up with the seeking of a reason why this should have happened. Being alive for fourteen summers did not prepare anyone for this, the sudden realisation that all the pillars that supported his life, barring his absent mother, were gone.

‘We must get a cart, young sir, and take their bodies home to be laid out for burial.’

Ohannes’s soft injunction took time to penetrate the troubled mind of the kneeling youth and when it did that brought forth an image of the slimy, pederast bishop Gregory Blastos overseeing the funeral rites, a thought at which Flavius rebelled.

If Senuthius had betrayed his family then he had done so with the blessing of a man who did not deserve the ecclesiastical title he wore. Added to that, Blastos would say Mass according to the Monophysite creed, an interpretation of gospel and the nature of God to which his father had never subscribed.

Decimus Belisarius had worn his Christian faith as a badge of honour and that permeated his family. That said, he had been sure that if salvation existed there were more routes to grace than the one solely provided by a church that was so often corrupt, with prelates and priests who seemed to care more for their own comfort than that of God’s flock. It had also become more Eastern and mystical, less the pure faith into which he had happily been subsumed as a young man.

Proud to call himself a Roman he had allowed himself no truck with the way the empire leant towards the Greek in both language and behaviour, refusing to allow anyone to address him as kentarchos instead of centurion, quick to remind any person unwise enough to use that military title of the nature of the domain of which they were part. It was not a Greek polity even if a high proportion of the population were of that race; it was Roman and had been, whether pagan or Christian, before the dawning of the Augustan age!

Descended from barbarian stock himself and raised outside the Christian faith – he had first taken the Eucharist as a soldier – Decimus had embraced the empire and its doctrines with a full heart and mind, to become more Roman than the citizens of the ancient city itself. It had become a creed, if not an obsession, to be seen so, to show those over whom he held sway that there was a better way to act, a true Roman way.

It was that which coloured the bereaved youngster’s thinking as he finally replied to Ohannes, his voice a hiss. ‘I wish them to be left here.’

‘What!’ Ohannes replied, clearly shocked that the boy could consider such a thing for his loved ones. ‘So the crows can peck their eyes out?’

With some effort and still on his knees Flavius scrabbled forward to ensure their eyes were closed and to kiss each blood-coated cheek in turn, his father the last and longest, mouthing as he did so a quiet prayer, before whispering a wish based on many intimate moments he had shared with the object of his supplications.

Decimus Belisarius had never ceased to remind his offspring of their birthright as full Roman citizens, a gift, to his thinking, beyond price and that included the rituals of what had been a pagan society, one he had refused to condemn as worse than its Christian successor. Added to that was an oft-expressed wish to die like one.

‘I want them to have a proper Roman funeral, it is for that my father would have wished, something of which he spoke many times.’ Ohannes was confused as Flavius continued, a fact made obvious by his silence. ‘I will remain with them and pray for their souls. You I would ask to return to the villa – the servants will come back as soon as they know the threat has receded. Fetch the males to this place and bring with them saws and axes.’

‘In God’s name, why?’

The reply was firm for the first time since the boy had fallen to his knees, forced through his troubled larynx. ‘So they can be given the funeral rites of Romans. Fetch pitch too, and oil as well as terebinthus. I intend that a pyre should be built and that they should be laid upon it and cremated.’

‘Am I allowed to say, young sir, that such a thing is blasphemous and is forbidden?’

‘Say nothing to anyone!’ Flavius rasped. ‘Bring what I ask here for this is where I want their ashes to remain. As for blasphemy, is not the bishop who resides in his basilica the very living expression of that sin? I would not have that swine say a single word over their bodies, for any prayer from him is a profanity.’

‘Sir, I-’

The youngster cut across Ohannes and he did so looking him hard in the eye, though his voice lacked any note of censure, being gentle.

‘You must do as I ask, for I am master of the house now and though you are a freeman, you’re still a family retainer. I cannot command you as I would a slave to obey but I can ask you, as one who was loyal to my father and his sons, to do for him what I insist he would have wished.’

‘You could be consigning them to hell.’

‘God, I am sure, will forgive me, and how can he place against their salvation an act of which they have no part? Better he be entreated over by those who esteemed him than a man he thought an apostate.’

All around them the militiamen were moving enemy bodies, having first searched them for booty, before carrying them to the riverbank and throwing them into the flowing waters, which would take them downriver to rest on some sandbank as carrion, perhaps even to be carried all the way into the Euxine Sea as food for the fish. The soldiers Decimus had led were being piled up like slaughtered cattle. One group approached Flavius to remove those killed by members of his family and, that completed, hinted they would help with the four bodies over which he was mourning, only to recoil at his glare, as well as his grating command to get out of his sight.

There he knelt praying quietly as the sun began a slow, shadow-making descent. He was obliged to take from his relatives anything of value they had carried into battle, rings and personal talismans, most tellingly his father’s keys. Even without any of the twelve books to hand, the oft-memorised reflections of Marcus Aurelius came forth, to remind him of the transience of existence, that death comes to us all and what comes from nature will return to it.

Normally a source of consolation, even such a wise voice failed to ease his feelings now and he wept until no more tears would come.