by Jack Ludlow
Added to that, just holding such a body together was far from straightforward and only possible because most of the harvest was in. The general only had such numbers until the spring, when the need to undertake planting would take most of his volunteers away, added to which there were those who would just break down from the sheer toil of being in any army.
While Ohannes was full of beans at the outset, Flavius became increasingly aware, even if the old man tried to hide it, of the toll endless days of marching was taking on him. Ohannes had done his twenty-five years already, bore battle scars and carried the recurring aches to go with his long service. The fact had been obvious long before they had joined Vitalian, but now the pain Ohannes was feeling began to manifest itself in an irascible and sometimes downright offensive manner, which did nothing to endear him to those he led, not a true soldier amongst them.
Flavius was not the only one to discern the cause but it was not something the others would discuss with him, he being seen as too close to the man driving them towards something approaching defiance. The words Ohannes had used about unpopular officers came to mind; if they got into a fight, some of these men might be tempted to spear him in the back.
So he began to take on as many of the duties as he could, using the excuse of youthful exuberance to cover for what he saw as a necessity. He would go round Ohannes’s charges every time they broke the march to ensure they were fit to continue, leaving the old soldier to take his ease; showed eagerness when anything had to be communicated to Forbas, the centurion who led them; was ever out in front once they had been directed as to where to camp, to take from the commissary the tally needed to draw their food and wine – acts which were seen in a far from flattering light.
‘Grovelling little shit.’
Flavius had just overseen the marking out and erection of the tent, one of the tasks Ohannes was duty-bound to perform; instead he had stood back and let the youngster get on with it. Was he meant to overhear what the speaker was calling him, was he meant to see the nods the insult received from several others?
Tent up, Ohannes lay himself down on the floor, the way he made it to his comatose position, with suppressed moans at the pains in his joints, evidence of the strain he was under, every groan getting from his soldiers lifted eyebrows or an under-the-breath curse. There was no harmony in this group and any fellow feeling, if it existed, did not include Flavius or Ohannes, made doubly obvious by the way their supposed comrades sought other company and separate campfires as soon as they could.
The centurion Forbas, a leathery veteran who, if not as old as Ohannes, had done nearly as much time, was no fool. He could see what was happening and was wise enough to also be aware how easily discontent could spread, it being a disease to an army as deadly as the plague. In doing his rounds he had seen Ohannes stretched out and early asleep too often and it was not a position anyone of his rank should be observed in.
Forbas was setting the camp guards and the contubernium of which Flavius was part were due to mount part of it, this while the man tasked with ensuring they stayed awake and at their posts was, having wolfed his food, flat out, fully dressed and snoring his head off. His equipment was clean, but only because Flavius had taken care of that.
‘You, outside,’ he barked. Obliged to comply Flavius left the tent to be confronted by a less than sanguine countenance. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’
‘Don’t fanny me, boy. I have been watching your friend the last few days.’
‘He’s my decanus—’
‘Don’t interrupt and more importantly don’t lie to me, or you’ll find yourself strapped to a wheel and hard leather stripping the skin off your back. I have eyes to see, so I know you are close. Question is, can he do the job he has been given and accepted?’
There are times when you look into another pair of eyes and know that a lie will not serve; in the case of Flavius it had always been those of his mother. But Forbas replicated that now, which obliged the youngster to respond with the truth.
‘Five leagues a day would tax any man.’
‘No excuses, boy,’ came the response; if the tone was softer it did not seem much less threatening. ‘Even if we struggle to manage the five and might be forced to do more.’
‘He is feeling his years.’
‘For which I can have some care, but my task …’
Forbas paused; he did not have to say that if he had sympathy for another old sweat he was in no position to indulge it. Being seen to be soft with anyone in the century would lead others to take advantage and that was made doubly so by the rapid assembly of a host in which discipline was fragile.
‘I can do what needs to be done, sir.’
‘Carry out his duties?’
‘Only those that do not diminish him in the eyes of others.’
‘It’s a noble notion, boy, but it won’t serve. Who else is there to take his place?’
The reply was as much a defence of Ohannes as the truth. None of the men he had so far marched with had impressed with either the qualities to lead or the desire to replace the man who did, added to which none had soldiered before; all they were good at was moaning.
‘Then you must undertake the duty, since you’re practically doing it already.’
‘At my age?’
‘Wouldn’t be tolerated in a proper army, but something tells me that you don’t need to be told how far this lot is from that.’
‘But will the men follow me?’
‘They will, for if they do not, they will have to deal with me.’
‘And Ohannes?’
‘I will tell him and if it eases your mind I will be kind about it. Now find out where your lot are and get them ready for guard duty. As for your old friend, he is excused for tonight. But on the morrow, like everyone else, he will march.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The night was a nervous one for Flavius, who should have slept but dared not. The method of ivory tallies used to ensure the sentinels were at their post and awake kept him on tenterhooks, for if any of the men he was now nominally in command of fell into a slumber it might not only be the miscreant who paid a price. The centurion on duty, a man unknown to the youngster, made his rounds and handed out his tokens to all who were alert; woe betide any man who could not return the requisite number come daybreak.
He had to see them changed at intervals, so that each man had four full glasses of sand with his head down and only two split shifts of duty on the section of the outer encampment ring for which they were responsible. Such was his worry, and his fear that he would not be woken by a disgruntled inferior, that he kept himself awake by seeking to recall how his father had handled his role as a commander and how he could apply it now, thoughts that were as daunting as they were enlightening.
Dawn brought little relief, though the night had passed off without alarms; the men, Ohannes aside, were in a foul mood and it was moot as to the cause. Lack of rest or the notion of being ordered about by a lad just turned fifteen and a voice that occasionally cracked to prove his adolescence; he suspected the latter but what kept at bay outright and vocal complaint was the proximity of Forbas, who was never far off and obviously willing, a message sent by many a glare, to intervene if anyone was insubordinate.
They breakfasted, struck their tents, loaded their personal possessions and the tent onto the cart that served the whole century and once they were blessed at Mass it was time to be back on the road, marching four abreast. Flavius was in the front of the two files and on the right, Ohannes beside him, and had a chance to quietly put to them what he could not do in the hearing of anyone of higher rank: that if they were so disgruntled by his elevation and annoyed by having to obey his commands he would happily step aside for anyone they proposed, albeit such a person would have to be approved by Centurion Forbas.
‘Suits me,’ Ohannes declared, somewhat restored after his slumbers and marching with seeming brio. ‘Who would want to c
are for this lot?’
‘You took pleasure in it,’ came a loud reply, from a fellow called Helias, the Greek name for watchman, which was backed up by a loud ‘Aye!’ from two of the others. ‘Not that I saw much care.’
‘So you might think,’ the Scythian shouted, clearly stung, ‘but if I took it, it was to get out from being under the likes of you.’
‘Must have slept well,’ came the call from another. ‘Let’s hope his legs are as strong as his voice.’
‘That’s past now,’ Flavius declared, looking behind to see if anyone in the ranks to the rear had heard the Scythian bellow, only to find he was staring at a row of blank eyes; if they had heard, and they must, all were pretending not to. ‘And Ohannes, keep your voice down. Helias, if you want the position of decanus speak up, the rest too for I will not put it to you again.’
‘Only fit for those that grovel,’ cawed Tzitas to some suppressed laughter.
‘You’ll eat those words, mark me.’
Flavius caught Ohannes by the arm and growled at him. ‘Be silent, for the love of God, or you’ll see us all at the wheel.’
That his old friend was hurt was clear, his expression left no doubt, but Flavius was not willing to soften the look that went with his admonishment. In truth he was conflicted, aware that his new rank would cause him many problems and not least in his relationship with a man to whom he owed so much. But if he was to be a decanus then he must act like one and the first rule was no favouritism.
It was not a very elevated rank, to be sure, but just to be lifted from the mass of ordinary footsloggers and have some status, even if he sought to disguise it, was pleasing, especially to a young man who had dreamt, not so very long ago, as he read the histories of successful campaigns, how he would one day command armies and win great battles. His next words were a whisper.
‘I need you to aid me.’
‘Which I will,’ came the reply, though not in a tone that eased the mind of the person at whom it was aimed.
‘A mite less talking will be welcome.’ The gravelly voice of Forbas, who had come back from his position at the head of the century to see what was going on, stiffened every back and had eyes rigidly looking ahead. ‘Save your puff to move your feet.’
At the first rest break Flavius made a point of sitting slightly away from Ohannes, so as to establish to the others that he was not going to be over-partial to his interests. Whether it worked or not was hard to tell, given there was none of the relaxed talk that might have been exchanged in a contubernium at ease; what it did do was leave him with no one to talk to and a period of time to think.
Almost one of the first lessons Flavius had ever received on fighting had been when he overheard his father lecturing his brothers. Decimus sought to drum into his boys that if you fought for the empire or for the legion of which you were part, such notions evaporated when it came to actual combat. He could hear him now driving home his point, that you fight for only two people, the man on your right and the other on your left.
‘Keep them alive and they will do likewise for you.’
Listening, Flavius, if he had not actually dismissed it, could not see himself as a mere soldier in a line of the same; he was, in his imaginings, a commander, a person directing the fight as much as taking part in it, albeit he was out in front inspiring those who followed him by his martial prowess. When he dreamt of such engagements, all of them were furious, all of them successful, every one, when it ended, with Flavius Belisarius standing in amongst a slew of dead enemy bodies, just before he was cheered to the heavens by his soldiers.
This was reality; seven men alongside whom he must go into battle and not in some grand position. Now he was recalling the truths Ohannes had sought to impart, that at this level you would see little and know less, so what mattered was the spirit that animated them as a group. Calculation, the number of leagues covered multiplied by the days they had been marching, told him they could not be far from Constantinople now and what would happen then? Would they be thrown straight into a desperate fight and if they were—
‘Decanus!’
He shot to his feet and slammed a fist into his plain leather breastplate, looking over the heads of both Forbas and the well-dressed officer who had lifted his head with his baton that first day; it did not do in the Roman army to look a superior in the eye.
‘Come with me.’
Both spun round and walked away, obliging Flavius to move swiftly to get on their heels as they headed towards a covered wagon with a good-looking and well-caparisoned horse tied to the wheel, his drawn to the elaborate saddle, edged with adornments in silver, the accoutrements of a rich individual.
He had known just from his dress that this officer was of the equestrian class at least; indeed, by his smooth cheeks, calm look and easy air of authority he might be a born patrician. The tailgate of the wagon was down and on it sat a stone flagon and some beakers, to which the officer pointed with a lazy finger.
‘Help yourself to some wine, Decanus.’
Forbas had already picked up and poured himself some, smacking his lips after a swallow, which produced on the officer’s face a fleeting look of aversion and one that amused Flavius. Not that he showed it, indeed he was wondering if he should decline the offer of wine, sensing this might be a test of some kind, unaware that his hesitation was noted.
‘Don’t hold back, it will wash the dust out of your throat.’
‘A fine pressing, Tribune Vigilius,’ Forbas said, after another deep swallow.
A thin smile: was it genuine? Vigilius removed his helmet to reveal short-cropped fair hair. ‘From my father’s own vineyard, Forbas.’
‘An ancient one, sir?’
‘Planted in the reign of Constantine.’
Definitely a patrician and from an old family, Flavius thought, an easier assumption to make given he could observe the easy manner and the innate confidence while not himself under scrutiny. Vigilius picked up a goblet, poured some wine into it and handed it to him, the stone of the cup cold in his hand, the wine it contained made more pleasant, and it was of good quality, by being served in such a material.
‘Centurion Forbas informed me last night of his action in promoting you.’ The raised eyebrows – the eyes were startling and blue – seemed to indicate that Ohannes and his demotion were not to be mentioned. ‘I make it my business to know all of my inferiors who have responsibilities, so I am bound to ask if you are comfortable being in charge of the men in your contubernium.’
He had to disguise his voice again as he replied. ‘It is too soon to say, Your Honour.’
Another fleeting smile. ‘An honest response, I like that.’
‘How much time do I have to gain their trust, sir?’
‘A good question,’ came the response, followed by a pause in which Vigilius was working out if the person asking was worthy of an answer. ‘We are two days’ march from the capital. What happens when we get there is as yet not known.’
‘If we are still long enough, Tribune,’ Forbas insisted, ‘we might be able to beat some discipline into them.’
‘Beat?’
‘Beast, I meant, work them till they drop. Some hard training and mock fighting with sword and spear, which time has not allowed us to work on. I have not seen any of your lot do more than march. That tells you little of how they will behave in combat.’
‘Perhaps the emperor will throw open the gates of Constantinople and abase himself at our feet.’
Flavius looked at Vigilius, only to realise that he was mocking the very notion, before he poured himself some wine and addressed him. ‘What are you like in mock combat, Decanus?’
‘I expect to hold my own, Your Honour.’
Tempted to boast, for he had shown genuine prowess in such activities, Flavius held back. Let his superiors find out from observation rather than his own lips.
‘You must do more than that,’ Vigilius replied, for the first time in a voice that was firm. ‘You will need to ensure t
he men you lead can hold not only their own, but the enemies we face.’ Those blue eyes lost that lazy look and went hard. ‘I am no great lover of the whip, but I urge you to see it employed at any sign of insubordination.’
He looked at Forbas, as if to include him in what he was saying. ‘You are young, very much so, and the men you lead all older by many years. They will seek to exploit that, Decanus, and if they do you must report them to Centurion Forbas who will put them right. Do not seek to be popular, seek to be respected and then should we come to fight you might survive it. If you fail, then …’
Vigilius drained his cup and gave him a look that said the talking was over. Flavius fisted a salute and marched back to where his men sat.
It was easy for a man of the background of the tribune to say he must gain respect, something he would get from rankers, as long as he was competent, merely for his birth. It was not so for Flavius and at the root of the problem was Ohannes, who, as the day went by, began once more to show signs of serious fatigue: the previous night’s rest had restored him for the morning; that did not hold once the sun had passed the meridian.
Instead of looking ahead his chin was from time to time meeting his breast and his breath was increasingly laboured. He had to be nudged to keep his spear upright and his shield in the correct position and was prone to a very occasional stumble. To favour him in any way would be fatal and Flavius knew the rest were waiting to see what he would do, hoisting him on the horns of a real dilemma, not made easier by the knowledge that they still had a whole league of marching yet to do. Ohannes might well collapse!