Burning Shadows (5 page)

Ave to the most esteemed Priam of the Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit monastery; this is to inform you that there has been a flood on the road to Viminacium, and the crossing is much damaged as the result of the unusually heavy rainstorms that have marked this summer. In my capacity of Tribune, I have assigned men from the small garrison of Ulpia Traiana to participate in rebuilding the wooden portions of the bridge. We will need many more hands to make the repairs in a timely way, and for that reason I approach you, most reverend Priam, and ask you to consider sending us some of your workmen to join in our efforts to restore this important crossing on the Danuvius. All of us need to be able to reach Roman territory without having to cover mountains without roads and then to boat across the river. Deus salva!

I would also hope that we may discuss plans for securing the region from attack before snowfall this year. It has been a troubling summer, and all of us living in this region would do well to maintain contact with one another for the purpose of defense and shared dangers. We have more alarming reports of the Huns coming into the mountains and seizing camps for the winter, and this does not augur well for the year to come. Preparations must be made to protect our people. Volens preparatus.

Inform my messenger of your thoughts on these matters, or entrust a note to him. He is utterly reliable in regard to such communications, since he cannot read. His memory is excellent, and anything entrusted to him will be reported accurately.

May the God you adore show you favor and preserve you, body and soul, from peril.

Rotlandus Bernardius

Tribune of the garrison of Ulpia Traiana In Dacia Superior

on the fourth day of the month of Augustus

2

Sergios of Drobetae was drunk. His eyes were shiny with it, and his thoughts roamed about in a way that made him pleased to be at the estate of Verus Flautens, three leagues from his guard-camp at the town of his birth, for there were inspectors coming from Constantinople to Moesia and the former Dacian border-towns to assess how well the old Roman treaties were being enforced now that Roman rule was diminishing; Sergios, who had no wish to be reported for insobriety—such an account of him would damage his chance of advancement to Praetor—had accepted with unseemly haste Flautens’ invitation to spend three days at his country estate.

He had arrived at mid-morning, accompanied by four Gothic soldiers and six personal slaves, and now, a short time after mid-day, he was enjoying wine and appetizers in the reception-room, Verus Flautens showing him generous hospitality while Sergios did his best to concentrate through the wine-fumes on the problems that were burgeoning throughout old Dacia, and how many of those problems were being foisted on what was left of the courts. He was twenty-six, turning stout, with large, deceptively soulful eyes and a twice-broken nose. “Half the officers operate on bribes, and many of the remaining Praetors are as corrupt as tax collectors. An honest man is not safe, even from his staff and slaves.” At this remark, his thoughts wandered to the men who had come with him and were now in the staff’s dining room, having porridge and chopped vegetables.

“Have you received any direct threats, then?” Flautens inquired, clapping his hands to summon his slave. He resembled his Roman father—rangy, even-hewn featured, but with fair, wavy hair from his Ostrogothic mother—and kept to Roman manners when entertaining.

“Not from the Huns, but by implications from the Ostrogoths— no disrespect intended. There have been reports all along the Danuvius, both on the Moesian and the Dacian side of the river. The Ostrogoths are determined to hold on to their territory. You must be aware of this.” Sergios nodded several times. “The Roman settlements are all up in arms, or would like to be. For now they lack the soldiers and fortresses to be sure of their prevailing. The Gepidae are—”

“I’ve been told that there will be battles before winter,” Flautens said, determined to direct their conversation in order to learn as much as possible before Sergios became incoherent.

“Who has told you that? Is our predicament so bad as that?” Sergios asked, the words not coming out quite right. As one of Flautens’ slaves refilled his cup, he muttered a thanks and sat back to listen to all that his host was telling him, his linen lacerna hanging open over his cotton tunica, both garments feeling too heavy and hot for this sultry afternoon.

“It is bad enough. The reports from the north are growing troublesome, what with the Huns raiding well into Gothic territory,” Flautens said, not quite as bibulous as Sergios was, but no longer as lucid as he had been when they sat down together, “and yet we have to continue to pay off the Gepidae in order to keep the lands left to us by our parents and their parents, or lose all. Yet it is far from clear that the Gepidae are in any position to preserve our holdings for us. And now the remaining Romans are demanding that we all contribute to building and reinforcing defenses throughout the region, bearing the expense of our own protection. Yet there is no assurance of those defenses being extended to our lands, which is a dreadful imposition, what with paying taxes to Constantinople as well as the Gepidae.”

“True enough,” Sergios rumbled, reaching for a wedge of cheese set out upon the central table on a tray with flat-breads. He had a little difficulty putting the wedge on a slice of bread, and leaned toward the table to keep from spilling his food.

“Have you been in contact with Gnaccus Tortulla?” Flautens asked with little sign of interest.

Sergios chewed energetically, gulped the cheese and bread down with more wine, then said, his face turning ruddy from the wine and the heat, “The Praetor Custodis of Viminacium? I am awaiting an answer from him in regard to our worsening predicament. I’ve received a brief note from Rotlandus Bernardius, the Tribune of Ulpia Traiana, who’s as worried about our situation as I am. He has been attempting to gain support from all the towns in his region, but he is having little success.”

“Do you suppose the Roman garrison will be allowed to remain in Ulpia Traiana? Will the Gepidae permit them to remain with the garrison?” Flautens asked. “Half the troops are barbarian of one stripe or another: can they be counted upon to remain faithful?”

“I don’t know,” said Sergios, abashed that he did not have such vital information. “If they’re Dacians, I think they might.”

“Sarmizegutusa, that’s the Dacian name for Ulpia Traiana, isn’t it?” Flautens said a bit absently, finishing the wine in his cup and signaling for more.

“Yes, it is. There’re standing stones there, and some other religious structures. The Christians don’t like it,” said Sergios. “Impressive stoneworks, quite ancient.” He had more wine. “This is very good. Local, is it?”

“From Drobetae, truly.” Flautens drank less eagerly than Sergios. “One of the heartier grapes.”

“Not from your land, though—according to the records, you don’t have vineyards.” Sergios felt a rush of pride that he was alert enough to recollect this. “You grow oats and barley, and some wheat, and beans and lentils.” He was a bit surprised that, given his state of mind, he could remember something so specific. Perhaps he was beginning to lose the undercurrent of dread that inspired his coming to Flautens’ villa. “You raise hogs, sheep, horses, and donkeys. And mules, of course.”

Flautens nodded. “Also timber: oak, larch, and pine. In addition, the hogs eat the acorns, and we get nuts from the pine. And I have two stands of hives.” He drank again. “All in all, this land produces well for me. I would not like to lose it.”

“Are you making any plans to defend it on your own?” He reached for more cheese. “Do you think you might hire fighting men to guard your stock and crops?”

“It may come to that, I fear.” He snorted in dissatisfaction and drank more deeply. “I am sending my wife and children to Aquileia with a Roman noblewoman bound there from Porolissum. I met with her two days ago, at the Triceum Fortress, to make our arrangements. No doubt you will enjoy meeting her. She has a company of forty- seven servants and household with her, including armed men, and in exchange for six mules, she has agreed to include my family in her company.” He smiled lopsidedly. “I will be pleased to know they’re safe.”

“Aquileia,” said Sergios. “A fine place. I hope your family will be happy there.”

“They will be gone for some months, I fear.”

“But they won’t be alone, will they?” Sergios asked.

“I have a cousin whom I am asking to receive them,” said Flautens. “He has dealt with many of our relatives and we are all grateful to him. He can arrange for my family to establish themselves in a villa until I can join them.”

“Very good,” said Sergios, and signaled for more wine. “I will do my utmost to keep you informed of anything having to do with Aquileia.”

“I will appreciate that,” said Flautens, and leaned back on his couch. “How long do you think the Constantinopolitans will be in Drobetae?”

“Three or four days—t hat’s as long as they’ve stayed in the past.”

“Do you intend to meet with them at all?” Flautens watched his slave fill Sergios’ cup again.

“On the last day, so I may offer them a report that will be useful to them; I will be able to say that I have been gathering more immediate information for them.” He made a gesture that might have been intended to show how clever his intention was. “If I had more rank, I would have a clerk present the report. Since I’m a freeman, I need to be as accommodating as possible, and to put myself at the service of the Byzantines in the most obvious way possible.”

“So you’ll stay out of the town while the Byzantines are gathering their information, will you?”

“Until the last day.” He drank again, his manner more at ease. “They will have less opportunity to judge me, and that is a wise precaution for me to take, given how much we have to contend with. I want to give them little occasion to find fault with what I have done. For all I know, they’ll want to put one of their own in my place. It has happened in other towns.”

“Do you know the inspectors?” Flautens did not change his posture or his demeanor, but his eyes grew brighter as he slipped a small plate from under his couch and felt for what it held.

“Possibly,” said Sergios. “They usually send one man who has made the journey before, so that there will be someone who can compare the present circumstances to past conditions.”

“Do you think this person will remember you?” He took a preserved fruit, popped it into his mouth, then held out a shallow bowl of the delicacies to Sergios. “Have some. They’re preserved in honey.” To emphasize how tasty the fruit was, he smacked his lips as he finished eating one of the dark fruits.

“Thank you,” said Sergios, helping himself to two of the fruits, and drinking more wine. “Very good—more tart than sweet.” His face flushed to a mottled red, and he gave a little flurry of dry, hacking coughs. “Very good. In fact, delicious.”

Flautens watched Sergios with mild concern. “Are you all right?”

“Just a touch of the heat and dust, nothing to bother about,” Sergios said, and coughed again a bit more energetically.

“You are quite roseate,” said Flautens with a suggestion of a laugh. “Shall I have my slave fetch you some cheesed-cream? We keep it quite cool.”

Sergios shook his head even as he whooped out more strained coughs, his face growing livid. He tried to speak, but managed only a wheeze, then doubled over and vomited suddenly, his face and neck empurpling.

“Are you ill?” Flautens asked.

For an answer, Sergios jerked off the couch onto the floor, where he thrashed and convulsed, his body voiding spasmodically; the room began to reek. His eyes grew huge and seemed to start out of his head. For an instant he went rigid, then Sergios gave a short, ragged howl and lay still.

Flautens rose from his couch and clapped for his slave. “See this is disposed of without notice. No one is to know he’s dead. Say only that after the afternoon nap, he wanted the tepidarium so he could be relieved from the heat.” He was wiping his hands on the linen cloth the slave handed him. “Take his freeman’s ring from his finger, so I have something to show to Gnaccus Tortulla’s messenger. He will want proof that Sergios is dead.”

“That I will,” said the slave, who was the custodian of the house. He bent to work the ring off the first finger of his right hand.

“And tell the household slaves, when they clean this room, that Sergios suffered a violent attack of indigestion and has gone to lie down.”

“They might not believe it,” the slave warned as he gave the ring to Flautens. “Slaves sometimes gossip.”

“No matter; they will not learn of his misfortune,” said Flautens, moving away from the body. “And get rid of the honied fruit. Make sure none of the livestock or poultry can get to it. There’s enough poison in that bowl to bring down a horse.” He handed a small dish to the slave. “And wash this yourself, so that no one will suspect that I didn’t share everything he ate. Use one of the troughs.”

“I’ll seal the remaining fruit in a jar and put it in the back of the wood-room behind the bath.”