Authors: Jack Ludlow
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.’
‘
T
wo days there, maybe, no more, and we will be outside Constantinople,’ said Forbas. ‘I have that on the authority of the Tribune Vigilius.’
‘Is he as rich as he looks?’
‘Richer, father a senator and was something at court till this brewed up. Seems he has retired to his estates till it all blows over.’ Which was as good a way as any of saying that he was Chalcedonian. ‘Anyway, what do you want?’
Flavius outlined his problem with Ohannes as well as the solution he had come to, which the centurion took surprisingly well.
‘As it happens I am about to break up what remains of one unit and distribute them throughout the century, too many are a man or two short.’
Sensing the enquiry Flavius was about to make Forbas just added the rate of desertions.
‘Hard to keep an eye on everyone, be better when we have a settled camp. The centuries we can watch, but the peasants are a nightmare, what with no real discipline or marching formation, and we have lost a rate of them. Caught a few and strung them up as examples, though they got a priestly blessing first. We’re not barbarians.’
‘What happened to the
decanus
who lost his men?’
‘What usually happens, Flavius, a bout at the wheel and no skin on his back, a lesson to all that if you lose a man, you pay the price. He lost three and bled for it.’
Flavius was thankful Forbas was not looking at him, for he went white. He was also thinking, if this is what happens with volunteers, what was it like in a proper army?
‘So Ohannes can be shifted?’
‘Why not, if it sorts a problem? Can’t see him being much use in a fight at his age and he’s no good as a
decanus
, though there’s not many soft stations, that’s for certain.’
Not much use at his age, Flavius thought: that’s all you know, Centurion Forbas; he could probably give you a good bout.
The centurion was deep in thought, tilting his head to consider the options. ‘The
forestarii
are light on numbers and you can get him put with them.’
‘They ride in carts?’
‘They do, with their timber.’ Forbas then barked a laugh. ‘Arse full of splinters, I shouldn’t wonder.’
His visitor was not laughing, he was considering, that being far from an undemanding area of labour. The woodcutters had to hew and gather enough timber for the nightly fires lit by a whole camp of what Flavius had roughly reckoned to be around six thousand
men, from the great blaze that burnt before General Vitalian’s tent down to the cooking pot of the meanest peasant volunteer. It was a blessing they were not in anything like enemy territory; that made it a doubly heavy task involving the fighting troops as well: the host needed to throw up a nightly stockade. Did it serve his deeper purpose?
‘Permission to speak to the
curator
in charge?’
‘You don’t need it from me.’
Another salute. ‘I am obliged, Centurion.’
He was halfway out of the tent when the question was thrown at him. ‘What’s this “master” joke that seems to be attached to your name?’ It forced Flavius to turn and compose his face into a look of confusion, added to an exaggerated shrug.
‘No idea.’
‘It’s all over the camp,’ Forbas growled, ‘and if it is set to take you down a peg I need to know so I can nip it off.’
‘If I find out I will tell you.’
It was all over the camp; any man he passed who recognised him called out ‘Master’, and gave him a thumped chest salute accompanied by a grin. In other circumstances it would have been harmless, just gentle ribbing. Had it been wise to deny any knowledge of the reason to Forbas? He was not a man who would take kindly to being lied to, but that was for the future.
The
curator
who led the timber parties was likely as strong as an ox; he certainly looked like one, nearly as broad as he was long, with forearms as thick as a normal man’s thighs – they were like the trunks he was required to saw through. He had a wide body and a square head, completely bald, lacked teeth and that lent his talk a whistling quality at odds with his stocky appearance. If
his eyes looked dull to begin with they soon lit up when Flavius offered him one of the coins bequeathed to him by his father to ensure the new recruit to his gang was not overburdened with work.
‘A half
follis
,’ he said, his eyebrows rising as he took, with his gums, what had to be a useless bite of the twenty-nummi bronze piece. ‘What am I taking on, your mother?’
‘A good friend, an old fighter, whose knees are not up to a seven-league march each day.’
‘What about his arms?’
‘Good,’ Flavius replied, looking meaningfully at the coin, ‘if they are not overtaxed.’
The coin was examined once more. ‘Might be able to let him just gather and carry if this comes regular.’
‘How regular?’
‘Each Sabbath day?’ Flavius had only one thing in mind so he nodded in agreement. ‘Where’d a youngster like you get this kind of money?’
‘That’s none of your concern, the only thing you have to worry about is anyone asking where you got it.’
‘Something tells me you’re no soft touch even if you’re short on years?’
‘Never was and never will be. I will bring my friend to you and if you look after him right, I will do the same for you.’
Did he take that as a threat? He might have, for his reply was a growl. ‘I can take care of myself, young ’un.’
Flavius nodded and left, his route taking him past the line of the officer’s tents and being a warm night the flaps were open so he could see in. One belonged to Vigilius and within he saw what was carried
in that covered wagon from which he had been given a cup of wine: fine furniture and hangings to make the interior luxurious, as well as carpets to line the floor. There was a low campaign cot made from well-fashioned and polished wood, with hangings on the sides to keep out prying eyes.
The tribune was at a table, his back to the flap, so Flavius was afforded time to stand and envy the tribune’s comfort, which included an obsequious fellow who appeared to pour him wine, only it was no stone cup this time but glass, established when Vigilius lifted it to drink and it reflected the light from numerous lanterns. If anything established that he was rich, it was that. Not only that he could afford such an object but that he must be unconcerned about the loss or damage to it on campaign.
‘What you hanging about for?’
Flavius spun round to face one of the barbarian mercenaries, who at least spoke comprehensible Latin. Like his compatriots his face was framed in pigtails that might be blond, but could also in the light of the torches be grey, for the face was deeply lined. The man had a spear and shield so was obviously part of the men guarding this part of the camp; only the
foederati
were trusted to bear arms so close to the senior officers, wary as they were of assassination by agents of Anastasius.
‘I was thinking I might have such a tent one day.’
That got a derisive grunt, not that the person in receipt really noticed. The conversation made Vigilius look round, Flavius wondering if he could see and identify him. There was no sign that he had; the tribune merely turned once more and went back to whatever it was he was engaged in, so the dreaming youngster moved off as he was commanded to, egged on by the barbarian’s jabbing spear.
Back at the tent he found the old man alone, asleep and needing to be shaken into wakefulness.
‘Pack up your belongings, Ohannes, you look destined to be a Gideon.’
That did not register at first; Ohannes needed to be reminded that the saint was the feller of trees. ‘He was a mighty warrior, as well, so that fits you like a well-cut smock.’
He moaned of course; it was not fitting, and someone who owed him much was taking him down a proper peg. The youngster made it plain, yet again, there was no choice.
‘I’m sure they are friendly,’ Flavius said as they made their way through the camp. ‘Or at least better than what you have shared with so far.’
‘Master Flavius …’ The youngster sucked in his teeth to hear that word from Ohannes within earshot of anyone they might be passing, which got him another quick apology. ‘I have found myself with strange companions many times in my years and if it is stiff at first it ever settles, it just takes a bit of time. The sods you now command are no different and had they seen me fight, well happen they would have changed their refrain.’
‘When we get to Constantinople, maybe they’ll get the chance.’
‘And you might get sight of the folk you are so keen to talk with?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘What about your mother?’
That got Ohannes a sharp glance, but he was looking away. ‘She will be expecting me any day, I should think, given the time that has passed.’
‘You should send her word.’
The response was so terse it was wounding. ‘If you can find a way
for me to do that, then tell me. If not, do not mention it!’
‘Seems to me you have taken to your new rank very well,’ Ohannes growled, putting Flavius on the back foot, something he was well able to do.
‘I had hoped at one time to be destined for higher things, remember.’
Was it the tone of that Ohannes picked up, or was it that he felt the need to take the sting out of his previous remark? Certainly his tone was emollient. ‘Got to start somewhere, unless you’re a patrician, but you will make your way, which I have said before.’
‘Why are we in dispute?’
That got a humourless laugh. ‘Nature makes us so.’
‘Before I hand you on, Ohannes, know I will come by tomorrow to see how you are faring.’
‘For which I thank you.’
The introductions to the
curator
passed off without trouble and Ohannes was shown to their shared accommodation and he and Flavius said their farewells. Stood outside the tent, wondering if he was doing his friend right, he heard Ohannes introducing himself to those he would work with and he seemed easy with it, bringing home again that he had lived, since probably he was Flavius’s own age, a transient life. Was that now his lot?
His next port of call was to seek out Apollonia, sure he caught a sight of Timon disappearing at his approach. If she was glad to see him it did not show, which he put down to shyness, and when he asked if she could walk with him it seemed that she was reluctant to oblige. While he could think of many reasons why that might be, the one that did not occur was that she did not like him and with much effort he slowly broke down her resolve and she finally spoke a little.
Flavius feared he was interrogating her, but without him posing questions there was only silence. She came from a village he had never heard of, and asked about the province it was in she had no idea. Prior to this campaign, in which Timon hoped to make money from the army by washing and mending clothes – not that he toiled himself – she had never been more than five hundred paces from their hut.
Age? She had no idea and if he put her near his own, then Flavius could not be sure so unrevealing was her clothing. When she began to seek to count on her fingers, Flavius noticed how raw were her hands, reddened from the work Timon had her along to do, washing for small payments. In normal circumstances he might have told her all about himself, but the residual reserve he had formed around his identity he kept to, for it made no difference to her who he was.
In the end they just sat for a while, he feeling as tongue-tied as she, which had never been the case with girls at home, where he and his friends had moved on from taunting them to seeking to impress them; it had not, in his case, gone as far as any kind of intimate physical contact, though others had boasted of matters he could only imagine.
‘Timon has left you be?’ he asked and she nodded. ‘Your mama too?’
That suddenly animated Apollonia; she looked right at him, clear fear in her open-wide blue eyes. ‘She is terrified of what he will do.’
‘But I have let it be known what he will face if he harms you.’
‘And how long will you be present to protect us?’
‘As long as is needed,’ he lied.
Flavius realised, with a sinking feeling, that armies form and armies disband, with the elements dispersing, and that would apply as much
to camp followers as soldiers. Unless he was present permanently, Timon would have his way.
‘You must not worry,’ he added, lifting her unresisting hand and kissing it, aware that the touch of her skin was affecting more than his fingertips, which had him shift uncomfortably. ‘I will take care of you.’
That was a statement he later lived to deeply regret.
The man from the disbanded
contubernium
joined at dawn and the words used about new comrades being stiff was borne out by his cold reception. Named Baccuda he was a fellow with no real jaw and protruding upper teeth who proved, on further acquaintance, to be a real dimwit. Any question posed to him took an age to elicit an answer so Flavius gave up seeking to establish from where he had come and what was his fighting background, given there was no time for lengthy interrogation.
They were on the move again, now marching through a string of hamlets edged by tilled fields, or those given over to pasture and full of sheep and oxen, produce that fed the great beast of Constantinople. Halfway through the day the blue of the Sea of Marmara became visible to their right, sparkling in the sunshine with many a sail, some red, most a dull brown, dotting the ocean, either beating up to the port city or sailing away on a firm breeze.
The barbarian
foederati
were, as usual, to the fore of the host, ready to do battle, even if those scouting ahead could espy no enemies waiting to contest the ground before them, news that rippled through the marching columns. The emperor was, it seemed, content to rely on his walls, for if he had any soldiers they had been withdrawn into the city, which sent a plain sign that God was on their side.
There was, it was assumed, one more temporary camp to make, the last, everyone hoped, before they could settle into something more permanent, which would see those with an eye for a bit of coin setting up shops and taverns at which the troops could take their ease and also their pleasures, be they alimentary or carnal – another fact of campaigning never mentioned in the histories and one Flavius only knew because it was being discussed and anticipated.