The Last Roman: Vengeance

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘You?’

  ‘A pagan would call me “Nemesis”.’

  ‘Your voice, I did not—’

  Flavius cut right across him. ‘I have grown out of what you may recall and I have come so that you may answer for your crimes, not only against my house but the empire.’

  He tried bluster; he had to. ‘Have a care, Flavius Belisarius, I have powers and influence you know nothing of.’

  ‘If you refer to your cousin Pentheus, I think you will find his head adorning the gate of the foederati camp north of Marcianopolis. He sought to betray Vitalian and play him for a dupe; now he has paid for his mistake, as you must in your turn.’

  ‘Then kill me.’

  ‘What, and deny myself the privilege of seeing you plead for mercy?’

  ‘I won’t,’ Senuthius growled, his whole being defiant.

  Flavius smiled. ‘You will.’

  The fat senator cried when his villa was torched, or was it the sight of his chest of gold being ransacked? His two children had been sent packing on foot and they did not walk, they ran. Every stick of Senuthius’s furniture, every statue and object of value was brought out to be stacked for later distribution and when Flavius led his men and his prisoner away they were backlit by the blaze of a house in conflagration.

  There are occasions when a whole district can come to life, where a normally slow and sometimes moribund way of passing on news transcends itself, a heavy raid by barbarians being one. This was another and soon the tracks and the viae rusticae were full of flickering torches and very animated people. They tied Senuthius to the tail of a horse and dragged him into Dorostorum, the news that he was fallen from grace seemingly able to be transmitted without any consciousness of time or distance, so that well before they reached the first outlying dwelling, the route was lined with a jeering mob.

  Sods of excrement, mostly equine but some human, were chucked at the senator to whom so recently the same people would have grovelled and Flavius found it hard to contain his disgust; this lot would have dunged his father given half a chance. Worse faced the prisoner when he entered the forum, with its missing stones and air of neglect. Hanging upside down from a hastily assembled frame was the naked body of Bishop Gregory Blastos, the red-hot poker with which he had been immolated still protruding from his anus, along with the rank smell of burning flesh.

  The sight reduced Senuthius, hitherto defiant, to a jelly, the chanting in favour of Chalcedony rising and falling as an added threat to his being. This Flavius had neither foreseen nor left orders to prevent and if he hated the victim he was aware that he had failed; the men he left behind saw no reason to stop a fired-up mob hell-bent on the rights of their religion.

  ‘Kill me now, Belisarius,’ the senator shouted, and he was swung round in the centre of the forum.

  ‘No, Senator,’ Flavius replied, dismounting, ‘these people have to hear your crimes listed.’

  ‘Before you hand me over to their mercy?’

  ‘No, if you are going to die, it will be by my hand, for you must answer for my father and my three brothers.’

  ‘One was a fool and the others bred between a fool and a whore.’

  ‘If I could be provoked into killing you quickly, Senuthius, I have already enough cause.’

  Vigilius had taken his place on the rostrum and was reading out the commission Vitalian had provided for Flavius, not that he was heard. Before him was a baying mob intent on blood and Flavius, observing it, was full of revulsion. It was mainly the low-born but not exclusively so, there being a goodly number of well-heeled citizens in the mix. He saw his own trio of friends – did they recognise him helmeted? – screaming as many a bloody imprecation as the meanest peasant.

  Many of these same people had, by either silence or collusion, thwarted his father as he sought to contain Senuthius; now they were hoping to tear him limb from limb and no doubt also thinking that to do so was to expiate their own sins. That only increased as Vigilius read out, to a roar at each charge, the indictment against the prisoner, this accompanied by a multitude of presented and repeated cries of ‘I will witness’.

  Flavius had to give Senuthius his due; he may have panicked at the sight of the body of Gregory Blastos but he had fought hard to regain his composure and succeeded. Knowing he was going to die, he stood square-shouldered and defiant, his eyes ranging around the forum and the crowd as if to say ‘I have marked you and will be waiting to greet you in hell.’ The man who had captured him was also watching those same faces and with growing abhorrence.

  Collectively they could have done in a blink what Decimus Belisarius failed to achieve in six years of frustration. How many now yelling themselves hoarse had been active supporters of the man they now wanted dead? How many had known and just kept silent, while the rest, who must have at least supposed that crimes were going unpunished, hid their heads deep in their cellars?

  ‘Forbas.’

  It took some time for him to respond, so loud was the crowd. ‘Sir?’

  Flavius had to shout his reply, while indicating he should come close. ‘Sir? Will I ever get used to that?’

  ‘Enjoy it while it lasts.’

  There was no questioning of the orders Flavius issued; Forbas rode off with an escort, while Flavius apprised Vigilius of what he intended, then formed up his remaining foederati in two lines so as to keep these irate citizens at bay, before tying a furious Senuthius over a saddle.

  It was strange to ride the same road as he had that fateful day with Ohannes, when, if his nose was sore and his eyes blacking, his world was bright with promise. Why did it look smaller and less significant now? He crested the rise to look at what he had last seen as a field of battle; now it was once more verdant farmland and there in the distance was the blue and slow-flowing Danube.

  They moved down the slope, eventually coming to the very spot, now overgrown, where he had lit the pyre for his family. There he stopped, dismounted and knelt to pray, while everyone, including the noisy, trailing crowd, as well as his prisoner, fell silent. If they joined him in his supplications he did not want them to; Flavius desired his memories to be unsullied and entreaties for their souls to be pure.

  Forbas had acquired a decent-sized boat and, devotions over, a protesting Senuthius was forced aboard, into the bottom and his bonds extended to lash him to one of the thwarts. It was plain to a person who had grown up here that such activity would not go unnoticed and he was not wrong. Long before they reached the northern shore a strong body of Sklaveni warriors had gathered, and with them, Flavius could see, were the very tribal elders who had spent so much time haggling over his fate. More pleasing was the sight of Dardanies.

  ‘I come in peace,’ Flavius shouted, ‘and with a gift of great value.’

  A gesture indicated he should come to land and the boat was brought to lay by a small jetty. Flavius climbed out and came face to face with Dardanies, who, after a moment’s hesitation, embraced him.

  ‘What has brought you here, Flavius, and,’ he held him at arm’s length, taking in the quality of the garb, ‘seemingly much elevated since I saw you last?’

  ‘A long tale and for another time Dardanies. I have a request to meet once more with that monk of St Basil who talked with your elders.’

  ‘Best acknowledge those elders first, for they are proud.’

  That got a grin. ‘Then lead me to them so I may flatter their arrogance.’

  ‘There is not enough of that in the world.’

  If it was said with a laugh, there was an underlying seriousness, proved by the time Flavius spent telling them how puissant and wise they were as one-time warriors and present leaders. Finally, when Dardanies felt he had greased their conceits enough, it was he who asked for the monk, who, once brought forward – he was in the crowd – Flavius took off for a quiet talk.

  ‘I have a man who was rich and will now be poor, a great sinner who, on this side of the river will be given little opportunity to transgress more, indeed he may die for
many of his crimes were visited upon the tribe with which you live. It will take all of your blessedness to keep him alive, as well as all the power you possess to bring him to a realisation of the peril to his soul. His name is Senuthius Vicinus.’

  The monk crossed himself; even to him the man was Lucifer.

  ‘It may be you will fail and he will be slaughtered, for he has visited much harm on the Sklaveni.’

  ‘More on you and your family, that is known on this bank.’

  ‘My desire to take his life is strong, I grant you, but where would I stand with God if I succumbed to that temptation? I would condemn my soul in order to take as forfeit his body. I will hand him into your care, with the instruction only that he must not be allowed to escape. If it is necessary to scourge him to bring him to realise his peril then that is for you to prescribe, but no man is beyond God’s grace, even the greatest villain. Will you do this for me?’

  ‘I will do that which is my calling,’ the monk replied, in a very soft tone of voice, ‘not for you but for the poor miscreant of whom you are giving me charge. But if you are true in your faith, you too must pray for him.’

  ‘That will be hard.’

  ‘God will demand it of you, for did not Jesus say to turn the other cheek from those who offend you?’

  Dragged from the boat, the appearance of Senuthius brought forth gasps from those who recognised him, followed by an outbreak of screaming not much different from what had been heard in the forum of Dorostorum. It was those tribal elders, made aware of what was intended, who saw the senator through the mob to a place of safety, this not witnessed by Flavius, who had boarded the boat once more and had himself rowed back to the southern bank.

  ‘You will regret that,’ Forbas insisted.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘You and Vigilius to remain here, to sequester and sell all of the property of Senuthius Vicinus, the proceeds to be passed to General Vitalian to do with as he wishes.’

  ‘Surely you should have it?’

  ‘No, Forbas, it is too tainted for me; I will settle for the value of my family home, which I also ask you to undertake to dispose of for me. I will set foot in the city of Dorostorum again one more time only, if I have my way. I must go now and fetch my mother to this place so that we can properly grieve for my father and brothers and erect, as I promised I would, an obelisk to their memory at the place they gave up their lives.’

  It was while riding out of the city, on the road to Marcianopolis, that Flavius recalled his father’s other wish and one he would fulfil by placing a plaque on the city wall, detailing the life, titles and service of Decimus Belisarius, as befitted a proud Roman soldier. For the rest there was nothing − not even his friends − so damaged was his heart by what had happened here.

  On the way south, before he turned for Illyricum, he searched for Apollonia, but to no avail; the life of a camp follower was an itinerant one and if he picked up a trace it soon went cold until finally he knew he had to leave such a thing to fortune or God. It was only years later and by chance, while on campaign, he found out she had died in delivery and when he enquired as to when it had happened, it was reasonable to suppose the child might be his own.

  They had performed the obsequies by the banks of the Danube, with an obelisk to mark the spot where the other men of the family had perished. Their last act was to set in stone and dedicate, near to the gate by which the inhabitants entered Dorostorum, the promised plaque after which she had naturally enquired as to what he would now do.

  ‘I was born to be a soldier, Mother and that is my destiny, to live like my father did as a Roman. May God aid me to prosper in my choice and I hope the soul of my father and brothers will be there to guide me.’

  To be continued …

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  About the Author

  JACK LUDLOW is the pen-name of writer David Donachie, who was born in Edinburgh in 1944. He has always had an abiding interest in history: from the Roman Republic to medieval warfare as well as the naval history of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, which he has drawn on for his many historical adventure novels. David lives in Deal with his partner, the novelist Sarah Grazebrook.

  By Jack Ludlow

  THE LAST ROMAN SERIES

  Vengeance

  THE CRUSADES SERIES

  Son of Blood

  Soldier of Crusade

  Prince of Legend

  THE ROADS TO WAR SERIES

  The Burning Sky

  A Broken Land

  A Bitter Field

  THE REPUBLICSERIES

  The Pillars of Rome

  The Sword of Revenge

  The Gods of War

  THE CONQUEST SERIES

  Mercenaries

  Warriors

  Conquest

  Written as David Donachie

  THE JOHN PEARCE SERIES

  By the Mast Divided

  A Shot Rolling Ship

  An Awkward Commission

  A Flag of Truce

  The Admirals’ Game

  An Ill Wind

  Blown Off Course

  Enemies at Every Turn

  A Sea of Troubles

  A Divided Command

  The Devil to Pay

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  12 Fitzroy Mews

  London W1T 6DW

  www.allisonandbusby.com

  First published in 2014.

  This ebook edition first published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2014.

  Copyright © 2014 by DAVID DONACHIE

  (Writing as JACK LUDLOW)

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–1426–1