Vengeance (17 page)

‘I got to the back of that tree without being seen, young fellow,’ Bassus said, patting his ample stomach to indicate that the width of the multiple growths had hidden even him from view. ‘That heretic I killed was too busy with his wineskin to keep a proper watch, and the rest, well he took their eye with his bellowing.’

‘Heretic?’

‘Your companion Ohannes told me he was that and are we not on our way to put such vipers in their place? If only we could have done the same for the apostate who sent them.’

‘I told him of the nature of our bishop,’ Ohannes added quickly.

‘They will not be reasoned out of their foolishness,’ Bassus boomed, ‘and that leaves only one way to damn their creed. They are no better than pagans.’

‘You would kill them too?’ Flavius asked.

‘I would give them a chance to come to God, but if they refused his blessing, well …’

Dardanies had the good sense to cross himself when he heard those words, though if his expression looked pious to the likes of Bassus, Flavius knew better. In time he managed to sidle over to Ohannes while also distancing himself from Bassus, the point to be made in whispers that it was dangerous for the Sklaveni to stay with them: it was time for him to depart.

Separating from Bassus and his band would be impossible now and for Dardanies to remain in company was to risk his true beliefs
being discovered, Flavius sure that even facing death he would not accept the Eucharist. Expecting an argument, he and Ohannes were pleased when, having got enough distance away from prying ears and stopped for what should be the last night before joining Vitalian’s host, Dardanies concurred.

‘Though I was tempted to stay with you all the way to Constantinople, which must be a sight to see. Perhaps one day …’

‘You would not believe the evidence of your own eyes if you gazed upon it,’ Ohannes replied.

‘How will you depart?’ Flavius asked.

‘Easy in such a crowd, which will grow greater the closer we get to the camp of your
foederati
. I will get lost among them, then slip away and do what that fellow Nepo intended, stay hidden in the woods until the road returns to normal and a man can go north without being questioned as to his faith.’

‘Then I should give you my thanks now.’

‘Mine also,’ said Ohannes.

‘And I should give you back your second purse.’

‘You may need it, so keep it.’

Dardanies shook his head and pressed the small skin sack into the hand of Flavius. ‘You will need it more.’

‘You’re a good man, Dardanies, hard as you try to come across as being not so.’

‘The gods forbid we should meet north of the Danube – I might give you cause to change your mind.’

‘You still have not told us why you accepted such a task as this.’

That got Flavius a jaundiced look. ‘Does it matter?’

‘To me, yes.’

As he sat on the other side of a fire, the flames caught the Sklaveni’s eyes and there was in them a sort of sadness. Given he stayed silent so did the others, for it seemed to speak would not get him to open up, quite the reverse, so they waited while he considered his response, Flavius wondering if he was considering giving one at all.

‘It was a punishment,’ Dardanies said finally.

‘For what?’ Flavius demanded, which got a glare from Ohannes, a clear indication to shut up and let the man take his own time, which he did, not speaking again for what seemed like an age, the light from the fire reddening his cheeks.

‘It was I who encouraged members of my tribe to join in with the Huns, I who led them across the river.’ The eyes were focused on the fire now, the expression fixed, as if the memories were unpleasant. ‘When your father got between us and the river, I thought we were doomed, thought of the family I would never see again …’

‘But you were not.’

‘I could not fathom the way the Hun leaders behaved, for they did not panic when they could see plainly they were trapped. Instead they went about their task of killing the imperial cohort as if there were no militia within ten leagues to threaten them.’

Ohannes interjected, clearly confused. ‘If they did not panic, why did they kill those they had taken captive too?’

The eyes lifted and looked right at Flavius. ‘The Huns were not there to take slaves, they had no need of them and they had always intended to just kill rather than capture.’

‘In the name of God, why?’

Dardanies paused for a long time and when he spoke it was
slowly, deliberately and with a sense of discomfiture. ‘They had been well rewarded beforehand.’

Flavius experienced a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach as Dardanies spoke on, describing the way they had prepared for the raid and executed it, for he knew that if the Huns had been paid to undertake it there was only one person with the means and the need.

‘Senuthius bribed them, in many pounds of gold I suspect, to come through our lands and cross the river. The Huns knew we would be unable to prevent it without much loss of life, so they asked for passage and gave us solemn promises not to trouble any of our people. They even handed over hostages who would forfeit their lives as a sign of good faith, so it was agreed to let them pass. A troubled Rome is better for our safety than one susceptible to raid themselves.’

‘It seems they came only to kill my father!’

‘If I know that now, we, the Sklaveni, did not beforehand.’

‘When did you guess the truth?’ asked a damp-eyed Flavius.

‘Once back on our side of the river the Huns were eager to boast, if not to share any of the senator’s gold.’

‘That man is Lucifer,’ Ohannes moaned.

‘I asked you before if you took part in the killing of my family and I ask you again.’

‘And I said no, just as I told you if the opportunity had been put before me I would not have hesitated.’

‘What about this journey we are on?’

‘I found myself out of favour with the tribal elders for allying myself to the Huns, but what disturbed them more was what had happened to your father, the only man on the other bank in whom
they had any trust.’ The voice hardened. ‘Not that the trust was boundless, you understand, but they believe we cannot fight Rome, that to exist alongside the empire in a sort of peace is the best for which the tribe can hope.’

‘You do not?’

‘I did not,’ he sighed, ‘maybe now I do.’

A
s good as his word, Dardanies disappeared the following day, with no more words exchanged, even easier than Flavius had supposed, given the increasingly crowded nature of the road on which they were travelling. If there was only one major highway, it had a large number of less well-maintained tributaries,
viae rusticae
, and from these volunteers were filtering in to swell the numbers.

Abreast of another government
mansio
Flavius once more quizzed the man who guarded the gate, a fellow even less forthcoming than his predecessor, probably due to his irritation at the number of men begging him for either a bite of food or a drink, many of the volunteers now without any means of sustenance. Thus the bribe had to be larger, which was a waste given the response was just as negative; there was no sign of this F. Petrus Sabbatius!

The encounter left the youngster with his thoughts, even more troubled now than hitherto, the information that had been imparted
to him by Dardanies gnawing at his innards, his imaginings filled with punishments of increasing bloodiness to be visited upon Senuthius, none of which seemed to be enough to satisfy his anger.

The why was a point simple to conjecture with; the how, when he thought on it, eluded him for he was on the wing, letting circumstance carry him forward without any clear idea of where it would lead. The notion that they should find a way to detach themselves from this mass of believers and extract his vengeance foundered on one question: to where would he and Ohannes go that would advance his cause?

To seek to get back to Dorostorum without the presence of this Sabbatius and those with him was too dangerous to contemplate, and Flavius had no idea how far they had yet progressed from the capital − all he knew was that logic demanded they should be on this road. And there was another consideration: would they seek to continue on their task in the face of Vitalian’s declared rebellion? Ohannes doubted it.

‘If I was them an’ got a sniff of this, I would set my horses for the Bosphorus and use the whip too.’

‘General Vitalian might let them pass through.’

‘In a pig’s ear, Master Flavius − they come on the business of Anastasius so the least he would do is hold them, worst he might cut off their heads.’

Frustration made Flavius lash out. ‘Can you not think of anything to say that might bring me cheer?’

‘You’re alive, be grateful for that,’ came the gruff response, before the old man nodded and added, ‘Bit of a hold-up on the horizon.’

They were making a final approach to the encampment to which Vitalian had called for his co-religionists to assemble. Instead of
a flow of bodies it now became a sort of jostle, then a heaving near-stationary mass, the cause only established when they finally made it to the camp entrance.

There some of the general’s officers were trying to sort out and direct to the right place those arriving, particularly trying to assess who had the right kind of weapons, as well as single out any who might have previous soldiering experience, set against peasants fired by religious fervour and armed with every kind of farming tool that could double as something to fight with; such people had a purpose as numbers, but as soldiers they would be a military asset of questionable value.

‘Do we want this, Master Flavius?’ Ohannes asked. ‘For there is little time to decide.’

Flavius had gnawed on that problem every time they passed a
milus
stone; now he was being forced into a decision: the source of his hopes and his only chance of justice for his family lay in either Constantinople or those who had been sent from there to undertake an enquiry. If Vitalian was going to force the emperor to change his religious edict that could only be done by force, which meant marching on the capital.

‘So it is in that direction we must go, Ohannes, and hope that somewhere we will meet up with those we need to aid us.’

‘Hard to get clear once you join an army and painful if you’re caught.’

‘Then tell me how we can get past this point and carry on ourselves?’

That got a shake of the head. ‘Even less safe, happen.’

‘Then we are, as we have been for a time now, in the lap of God’s mercy.’

‘Amen to that.’

Even with his years and thanks to his very obvious sword and spear – Flavius was sure his bad haircut had an effect too – Ohannes was spotted as a potential warrior. Questioned, he was quick to relate his military service and since he would not be parted from Flavius and he was equally armed, both were directed to the area set aside to form up proper units, centuries in the old Roman pattern that the leaders hoped might be able to perform like a proper army.

The shouting and the swishing of the short
flagellum
reminded Flavius of the vine saplings employed like whips by the men who had sought to train him and his friends in arms. But now he was under a breed of a different stripe; those issuing orders were tall and muscular, very fair of hair, with striking blue eyes and light skin that tended to peel, or at least go very red, in the sun, added to various adornments about their person of gold and silver.

‘Gautoi, I reckon,’ Ohannes informed his young charge, when he had examined them closely, adding that they had come down from the north in the last few years, providing a new source of mercenaries for the empire. ‘Worse than Germans, I hear.’

The Gautoi claimed kinship to that race, but came from a land separated from Germania proper by a large inland sea. Flavius was thrown back on his histories, to recall from his studies that all the tribes north of the Rhine tended to be numerous and formidable as enemies. The fate of Varus in the Teutoburger Wald was still told to frighten children. In that deep forest, during the reign of the Emperor Augustus, three of his legions had completely disappeared along with their eagles, every legionary assumed to be horribly mutilated or burnt alive in wicker baskets.

Since those far-off days the Rhine had been breached time and
again and Gaul overrun, though each barbarian incursion eventually led to settlement. The Ostrogoths, another Germanic tribe, had, halfway through the last century, overrun the old Roman provinces of Italy, which Constantinople had feared lost to the empire for good.

After much bloodletting, a chieftain called Theodoric had taken power. He proved to be an admirer of the Roman way of life and, independent merely because of distance and a lack of any desire for reconquest, he had taken up residence in the imperial palace in Ravenna. Then he sent to the previous Emperor Zeno a message to acknowledge that he acted only as an imperial subject; in short, he did not claim the title of Western Emperor.

‘Don’t like ’em much, whatever German band they come from,’ Ohannes added, when this was recounted to him, the fate of parts of the empire not something to hitherto trouble his thoughts. ‘But, by the Lord, can they fight!’

‘Which we might see evidence of,’ Flavius crowed happily, receiving from his companion a jaundiced look when he added, ‘Maybe we’ll get a chance to test our skills against them.’

He then found himself looking into the face of one who had come close and it was not friendly. The blond hair under the man’s helmet was plaited and hanging either side of a face dominated by a huge moustache of the same colour, while the glare he was emitting left the youngster in no doubt that he would happily employ his whip. He barked something in what presumably passed for Latin amongst these mercenaries, but it made no sense to the people at whom it was aimed, which made the fellow, already red-faced, go puce and start bellowing and gesturing with flailing arms.

‘Think he wants us to form up,’ snorted Ohannes, making no attempt to hide his amusement.

This led to a great deal of shuffling as the group of which they were part sought to get themselves into some form of order. Partly achieving this task, revealed to them a person of higher rank, evidenced by the nature of his good-quality apparel, his fine helmet and, most of all, his chest armour, a breastplate decorated in much the same fashion as that of Flavius, though the devices were different. He also had a thin, leather-covered baton, edged with gold top and bottom.

A strong arm took hold of Flavius and pushed him to and fro until he was level with the man on his left, the Scythian getting an appreciative nod as he got himself in line on his own and helped others to do likewise. That occasioned a call to the finely clad fellow who had to be in command and he stepped over to stand before Ohannes, asking him where he was from and, if he was an ex-soldier, with whom he had served.

Flavius listened to a list of campaigns and generals under whom the old soldier had fought until finally Ohannes mouthed the name of his father. The sound of that, rarely mentioned in these last days, had the youngster hanging his head and working hard to hold back the tears, while at the same time wishing that his companion had kept that information to himself.

Then he heard Ohannes say, ‘As fine an officer as I ever served under, sadly no longer with us.’

‘I am minded to elevate certain people to the rank of
decanus
,’ the officer said in clear and good Latin. ‘You are clearly a man of experience …’

‘And years, Your Honour, happen too many to be leading others.’

‘Let us see how this century forms up, but I have marked you.’

The tip of the baton was used to lift Flavius’s chin and when his
head came up he found himself looking into the unblinking glare of someone who probably matched his late brother Cassius in age, with smooth features and penetrating blue eyes, the question that followed a demand to be told the youngster’s background.

‘I am the son of a soldier,’ he replied, in what he hoped was a less elevated argot than that he had been taught to speak by his pedagogue Beppolenus, holding his breath until that got a nod. ‘Dead now.’

Expecting to be asked to explain further, Flavius was grateful when no enquiry followed; he did not want his identity to be known. He had half turned away when another question occurred and he spun back. ‘Can you ride?’

‘No,’ Flavius replied.

‘Pity, we are in dire need of cavalry.’

‘Why do you lie?’ Ohannes asked in a whisper, when the officer had moved off and was far enough away to not hear.

‘I want to stay close to you.’

That required no explanation and nor did the
flagellum
that struck Flavius’s arm, followed by the barely comprehensible instruction to stop talking. The blow delivered, the moustached face was thrust forward to gloat over the reaction caused by the pain, only to look confused by what came back from a pair of eyes nearly free from the blemishes that had disfigured them. Flavius gave him a stare of total blankness, which he held as the sapling was lifted again – his attitude was clearly being seen as defiance – but no blow followed, for the intended recipient did not flinch.

In an established military encampment the units of ex-soldiers and those who had their own weapons were allotted proper huts in which to sleep and to store their possessions. The rest were put into tents, which was less of a problem than it might have been given the
weather was dry, as was the ground after a day of sun.

Most important of all they were fed, Vitalian having lopped off the head of the
magister militum
– the man who had delivered the message from Anastasius cutting off his rations – and purloined his treasury in order to buy food to supply his putative army as well as pay them. An added tax on landowners in Moesia was imposed so he could continue to do so, as well as distribute small sums to his new recruits: if many might have come for religious reasons others had not, and they would not stay without some kind of reward.

To say the camp was in chaos was an understatement; for every man present who was aware of the basics there were ten
rustica
who had no idea. As the head of an established fighting force Vitalian had good men capable of issuing instructions but pitifully few able to obey them, added to which, fired only by religious fervour, these farm and field labourers were not of the type to respond to the harsh discipline necessary to make them truly effective.

‘Such numbers will look good at a distance.’

‘Not, Ohannes,’ came the mordant reply from Flavius, ‘if the men examining us have good eyesight.’

They too had been drilled, but with a tenth of their century having served before, old habits came back and others had at least the wit to follow their lead, so if they were bellowed at it was with instructions to march this way or that, to wheel as a body, to form various combinations in which they would be deployed to fight, added to the method by which, should they be forced to retire, they could do so in good order.

There was no training in actual fighting, mock combat, which came as a severe disappointment to Flavius, added to which he was
beginning to get frustrated at the time it was taking for Vitalian to move; he needed to be on the road. Halfway through the several days this drilling took, Ohannes was given the rank of
decanus
, responsible for seven plus himself.

If what he commanded was less than perfect, Vitalian knew how to inspire even the rabble, this evidenced when all were called before the oration platform, in front of which he had lined up his formidable-looking
foederati
, to be told that soon they would march on the capital and give the emperor a choice of two outcomes: either he would have to reverse his position on Chalcedon or face being deposed and thrown to the mob in the Hippodrome. The cheer this received was loud enough to chase every bird in the region away from nest and perch.

It was instructive to observe the reality of a military organisation as opposed to that of which Flavius had so copiously read. In recounting the nature of successful campaigns, historians, even when they were in personal command, never referred to the toil visited upon the common soldier. They wrote of manoeuvres and battles as if those involved were mere fodder to their ambition, nothing more than an asset to be employed.