Authors: Jack Ludlow
Now he hoped to test him in battle and with Ohannes in his wake, holding the reins tight, he went in the direction taken by the imperial cohort, easy to see by the rising smoke from burning farms now high
in the sky. Outside the city they came across one of those farmers and his family, trundling along as fast as they could go, a cart bearing their possessions, having abandoned their home to head for what would now be a very crowded fortress.
Being mounted and wearing Roman armour they asked him for information he did not possess; his assurances that they had little about which to worry when it came to survival failed to gain much traction.
‘Fighting men will have gathered all over the district. Once all available forces are gathered the barbarians will have a choice to flee or be slaughtered.’
‘Rumour is they are in their thousands.’
Tempted to scoff – the Sklaveni could not muster such numbers – Flavius had to rein that in as much as he was needing to do with his skittish horse. ‘At worst we must hold them until aid comes. You should be safe to return to your farm.’
The answer was a glare, before the farmer smacked the rump of his plough horse to move it and his family on, the children taking their cue from their sire to add their own baleful look. There was a moment when he considered telling them who he was and to whom he was related but that died as he recalled his age; that would be against him, even if he did feel his advice to be sound.
Armed men would now be rushing to his father’s aid from all over the district, the
limitanei
– those able-bodied men who could be quickly mustered to fight alongside him – necessary given he led a unit under-strength for the length of border he was tasked to maintain when serious trouble threatened. If imperial taxation was high, none of the proceeds seemed to be employed in paying for the soldiers needed to secure the borders, which left many of
the men who had served in the armies of the empire to seek private employment.
It was from these that support would come; a decent-sized local farm would run to a quartet of fighters, some bigger landowners to as many as ten. If it sounded good in theory it was less so in practice; Decimus Belisarius had to rely heavily, despite his reluctance to do so, on the men mustered by the greatest local magnate, a senator whose landholdings and wealth dwarfed those of anyone else in the borderlands.
If Flavius had not been at his studies he would have heard his father cursing the very name of Senuthius Vicinus as soon as he was informed of the raid; not that the son was unaware of the antagonism between them or the reasons for it, their differences – from religious dogma to conduct – being a frequent parental refrain.
Given his numerical weakness Belisarius senior was adamant that only by peaceful cooperation could he hope to effectively fulfil his duties. He worked assiduously to maintain relations with the tribal chieftains across the Danube and by doing so he hoped not only that they would restrain their more excitable young bloods, but that he would also be forewarned of any incursions into their lands by the tribes to the north.
Senuthius was the exact opposite; too often he acted like a man poking a hornet’s nest with a stick and with no regard for the consequences. He provoked the Sklaveni by sending raiders across the river: livestock his men would merely butcher, crops they would burn; it was slaves Senuthius sought, fit young men, women and children who could be sent on to the markets where such unfortunates were sold, all the way to the rich buyers in Constantinople if the younger ones of either sex were fair of hair and comely enough.
Nor did he respect anything of a religious nature; if the men who carried out his bidding came across a temple or a sacred burial site, pagan or Christian, it would be razed to the ground or desecrated, further antagonising the Sklaveni elders, while at the same time firing the desire for revenge among the younger tribesmen.
Decimus Belisarius was convinced that most of the Sklaveni, certainly the older members, were content to live in peace, and given they had as much to fear from Alans and Huns as did the citizens of the empire, they should be counted as potential allies, not as enemies or a source of ill-gotten profit.
‘Who can blame them if they respond in like manner?’
His father would always splutter this protest when the subject came up, which it too frequently did, usually following on from some rapid vengeful response that, coming in reprisal, he was called upon to contain.
‘Taking good citizens from farms I struggle to protect, using those they kidnap as a means to bargain?’
Not that Senuthius was willing to trade those slaves he had acquired; able, given the number of fighting men he could muster, to protect his own property, it mattered not to him that others suffered from small and revenge-driven raiding parties, citizens taken from their destroyed dwellings to a life of servitude well north of the Danube, for the Sklaveni would not keep them in an area from which they might escape; they passed them on to the Huns or Alans.
Pleas for mercy were left to Decimus Belisarius, who had only insufficient coin and his own honesty to offer in exchange. His coffers were far from full and not every tribal elder trusted his protestations of non-collusion. Too few of those taken ever came home, while
attempts to curtail these activities fell on the stony ground of private support.
Senuthius was a senator, and if that was a moribund body that met rarely, if at all, he was still a leading citizen of the empire with well-placed friends and one high-ranking relative at court. It was doubly a problem that he had an ally in Conatus, the too willing to be bribed
magister militum per Thracias
, based in Marcianopolis. When Decimus complained to his military and gubernatorial superior, Conatus did not even deign to respond.
His cousin Pentheus was likewise a senator, a sly courtier in the imperial household, so even bypassing Conatus produced no results, the functionary being well placed to dismiss or rubbish any written submissions from Decimus Belisarius detailing the Senuthius misdeeds, while praising him as an upright citizen, a man who paid substantial taxes without complaint into the imperial treasury and was continually rated as honourable by the military governor closest to him.
Nor, unlike many of the citizens of the Thracian diocese – and this counted as much as any other factor – did he question the emperor’s right to set the codes of Christian belief that his subjects should follow. These factors had made it impossible to either chastise the swine or to have him indicted for his blatant transgressions.
The person of Gregory Blastos, the local bishop and a close associate of Senuthius, compounded such difficulties, the cleric being a blatant pederast and corrupt priest who was held in the Belisarius household to be a disgrace to his calling. Blastos was a man who saw his Christian duty, which stood above that of looking after his flock, as lining his purse and slaking his carnal desires. Worse, he was a trimmer, a man willing to bend to any prevailing wind to maintain his position.
The empire had been locked for decades in discussions over two competing dogmas concerning the human and divine nature of Jesus, a matter supposedly resolved at a convocation called the Council of Chalcedon. It was not: the dispute simmered on despite the passing of much time, in excess of sixty years, given the bishops of Armenia, Syria and Egypt fought hard to overturn the conclusion. They held on fiercely to a different set of beliefs to that which had been agreed.
Blastos had come to the Diocese of Dorostorum preaching the doctrine as decided at Chalcedon, only to switch when Emperor Anastasius announced his personal endorsement of the Monophysite interpretation and took forcible steps to see it implemented throughout his domains. It was not hard to fathom his reasons, even if many wondered at his principles. Bishops who stuck to the Chalcedonian interpretation and defied Anastasius were, by imperial decree, being dismissed from their diocese and the thought of that Blastos clearly could not abide.
Such suppleness gave him, too, a sympathetic ear in Constantinople; a patriarch who seemed either blind or indifferent to his faults as reported, as long as the revenues he anticipated were forthcoming and the doctrine the emperor insisted upon and he preached was being spread. Any attempt to blacken the Blastos name tended to rebound on the complainant and had done so more than once; the Church, of whatever persuasion in dogma, did not take kindly to accusations that its priests were anything less than saintly!
The citizenry were not blind; if a man of the rank of Senuthius could do as he pleased and their bishop could flaunt his catamites as well as his peculations with impunity, while trimming his principles to suit himself, then why should they too not behave as they wished?
The transgressions this caused led, with the wealthier citizens, to furious confrontations and threats of legal redress rarely taken to a satisfying conclusion. With the poorer folk it manifested itself as many a severe whipping, none of which were imposed with any great pleasure, for crimes, many of which were misdemeanours.
The public peace had to be maintained and Decimus Belisarius, even after six years in post still an outsider to this part of the imperial lands, was the man tasked to maintain order – the result being that he was not loved in the first instance as the agent of a state seen to be tax greedy as well as over-intrusive, and he was also resented for his palpable probity, as well as for being the overseer of any physical chastisement of wrongdoing.
R
ising 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.