Triumph (22 page)

‘If I was to swear, Colonus, that no such order was given, would you believe me? I would not imperil my soul by cold-blooded murder.’

‘It would be a fool who doubted the word of—’ The sharp headshake stopped the indiscretion; even whispered, Flavius saw the use of his name as dangerous, which allowed Colonus to finish with, ‘a man such as yourself.’

‘You served me in Italy, I think.’

‘The whole table did, though we came with Narses.’

It seemed politic to enquire more, and to include his companions in a recollection of their service. There was also a possibility that these men formed part of the Narses
comitatus
, and if they did their loyalty to the eunuch would be absolute. That fear was laid to rest by some of the choice insults aimed at the man who had brought them to Italy from Illyricum and to comparisons with their better treatment once he had gone home.

They had been withdrawn not long after Flavius himself departed
Ravenna and now formed some of the garrison of the capital, none too happy since there were no spoils in such a duty. Such general information flowed for a while, but Flavius was aware that Colonus was no longer taking part, and in a lull the man who had been identified as the senior centurion posed the obvious question.

‘I need help, Colonus, and I am prepared to pay a sum you would never chance upon even if you took Croesus himself prisoner.’

‘Then it is help that comes with great risk.’ Flavius nodded and Colonus fell silent for a while. When he did speak he again showed that he had a brain. ‘This duty has to be about your stepson.’

‘He is in prison – I want him freed and I cannot do that by mere pleading.’

‘By violence?’

‘That would be to invite certain death. He is beneath the palace and even if I know you to be hardy fighters you cannot take on the whole regiment of Excubitors.’

‘Then it has to be bribes.’

‘I would say so.’

Colonus fell silent again, though he again waved his hands to have his companions keep up their faux enjoyment. To concentrate his mind Flavius produced a soft leather pouch, which when he laid it on the table, testified to the weight of its contents by the telling thud.

‘We could take that and do nothing.’

‘You could, Colonus, and that also tells you I am short on alternatives.’

‘And how do I convince you that is not a waste?’

The glance at the purse meant no further explanation was required.

‘Are you free to visit the barracks at Galatea?’

‘I am when off duty.’

‘Tomorrow?’ A nod. ‘I will be there visiting the wounded I sent
back from Dara. I will not be hard to find for a centurion wishing to pay his respects to a man who once led him in battle. There we can talk freely and I can advise you on how you can do that which is barred to me. If you are not there, then I will know this was a waste. If you are, what you see is but a down payment on a far greater sum.’

Flavius was halfway to standing, and aware of the combined stares of men who had once more fallen silent. Still he addressed Colonus, and softly, his hand over the leather pouch.

‘One piece of advice from a fellow soldier. It would be wise to share your good fortune with some of your companions. This is no task for one man.’

There was no need to add more and the look in the other man’s eyes said plainly he understood.

Flavius Belisarius had no need to explain his presence in a military camp, least of all the near permanent base at Galatea. It was there Colonus found him, to be introduced to Solomon who would from now on be the Illyrian centurion’s point of contact, and that at arm’s length. He was given a sketch plan of lower floors of the palace and it was established that the way to get Photius free would require a combination of money, guile and perhaps some physical force.

‘The thought of that does not daunt you?’ Flavius asked.

‘If it did, General, I would never take part in a battle, would I?’

‘How many of last night’s companions have you included?’

‘The whole table.’ Seeing the raised eyebrow and the implied point that excessive numbers could be dangerous, Colonus was quick to add, ‘Might need every one.’

Once Colonus had departed Flavius was left alone with Solomon, who even if he said nothing, showed in his expression severe doubts as to the chance of success. Flavius had a different opinion.

‘I have often had cause to thank God for my luck, but never more so than now. It must have been his hand that guided me so quickly to these men. With that, I am sure his grace will attend to what must be achieved.’

Solomon crossed himself.

W
hatever concerns Flavius had travelled east with him, but the duty he found there put the problem of Photius into the background, to only surface when he received a coded message from Solomon to say that the first attempt at freeing him had failed. Lacking details that induced frustration, there was at least some reassurance that the men Flavius had engaged seemed determined to keep trying.

His first task was to reassert control over generals who had lost the habit of obedience over the months of winter. Thus he declined to agree to a request by Bouzes and his co-commander Justus, an imperial nephew, that he come to them, they having retired to Hierapolis well away from any possible zone of battle. They were quickly ordered to concentrate on the location he chose, one well placed to contest ground with the enemy.

The main problem, as before, lay with the intentions of Khusrow; his movements dictated those of the Byzantine army, which was not organised to invade Sassanid territory, this due to the continued prevalence of the plague, a situation which had deteriorated since the previous year. It now seemed to affect much of the area of his military responsibilities all the way to the Mediterranean shore, though his army seemed relatively healthy.

Even so, Flavius split his troops into small packets to contain the risk
of the disease spreading – which once caught was too often fatal – his aim to bring them together only when he was sure he would face an enemy. This blight, equally visited upon the Sassanids, was in his favour and with Khusrow moving his army within areas of infection that must expose his soldiers to greater risk.

As well as manoeuvring, the Sassanid King was busy complaining, sending messages to Flavius that he had anticipated ambassadors with which to treat. If he hinted at peace he was really interested in the amount of gold he could extract for abandoning Byzantine possessions. Flavius wanted him out, but he had no desire to bribe him to depart.

Having extracted an agreement from Justinian that no ambassadors would be despatched, he had undertaken to deal with Khusrow at no charge on the overstretched imperial coffers, though he had no faith that the Emperor would not bow to pressure from those on his council who saw bribery as the only answer to border incursions, wherever they took place.

Khusrow was advancing along the Euphrates again, using the river, fast flowing during late spring, to protect his right flank. Then he swung south to invest the city of Sergiopolis. As reported to Flavius, it transpired that the priest of that city, a divine called Candidus, had the previous year agreed to pay ransom for Sergiopolis but had reneged, which was enough to enrage a king who loved nothing more than money.

Being in no position to satisfy the renewed demand, Candidus had gone to the Sassanid King to plead poverty, only to be much tortured for his transgressions. When, with hot irons applied, he finally offered to pay he was abruptly informed that the amount required was twice that originally promised, a sum he had finally promised to procure from the treasures of Sergiopolis.

‘If anyone should be able to hold out under torture it is a priest.’

This opinion advanced by Bouzes was one with which Flavius was disinclined to support: too many of the divines he had encountered would sell their soul to avoid discomfort, never mind pain. In any case, Candidus had promised more than the city could deliver and that led to a siege, one only lifted when the Sassanids’ supply of water became so depleted – all the wells were within the walls – they could no longer keep fit their horses and Khusrow was obliged to retire to the banks of the Euphrates.

He was now moving into the region of Commagene, on a southerly route that would eventually lead him to Jerusalem, a city so long at peace and so much a source of pilgrimage that it presented a fabulously rich prize. To counter this Flavius moved his army to a point that threatened the Sassanid road back to their own possessions, one they would be obliged to take even if their incursion was a success, though he made no attempt to follow them.

His deployment was enough to stop the Sassanid advance as Khusrow pondered how to counter this move, with the added problem, passed to Flavius by his spies, that plague was seriously affecting his forces. Flavius decided to ask him to send an envoy who would agree a way of getting his disease-ridden army home, a tactic not universally approved of, the compliant being aired by the imperial nephew when the senior commanders came together.

‘The best way to achieve such an aim is to defeat them.’

‘I promised your uncle to remove Khusrow from his domains. How I do that has been left to my judgement.’

Bouzes, equal in rank to Justus but much more experienced, spoke to back up Flavius. ‘Remember the plague, Justus. To fight we must concentrate our own forces and then do battle with foes who are racked with the disease. That brings with it the risk of contamination. We could lose half the army.’

‘A risk I am willing to accept.’

‘Generous of you to do so on behalf of those you lead,’ was the less than tactful response.

‘Glory is all very well, Justus,’ Flavius added in a more emollient tone. ‘But take it from one who knows, success is sweeter, however you come by it.’

Regardless of sickness, Khusrow had to be wary of moving deeper into Byzantine territory with an army across his line of retreat. A message came to announce an envoy was on his way and while that was happening he undertook not to move. The question troubling Flavius was simple: if he wanted to avoid a battle, what could he do to convince the Sassanid invader that he would be best back in the safety of his own domains?

In terms of force numbers the two armies were fairly evenly matched, but the problem of disease dominated his thinking and that same difficulty must prey on the mind of his opponent. However, if Khusrow could be convinced his enemies were fit and free from the plague he would be doubly cautious about meeting them.

‘I need the very best physical specimens you have. The tallest, the stockiest and the most martial-looking and none of them showing any signs of sickness.’

‘To fight?’ asked Justus hopefully.

‘No, we are going to hunt.’ There was pleasure to be had in the confusion this caused as Flavius added, ‘No armour is to be worn, just leathers for the chase. Make sure the horses they have are the fleetest of animals too, not heavy cavalry mounts.’

The pavilion Flavius had erected, bordering a forest and set of hills known to be full of game, was magnificent and decorated with numerous colourful standards. He filled the interior with tables at which the men hunting could consume that which they caught, the
food prepared by a positive army of cooks, necessary since by the time all the men Flavius wanted had been gathered they numbered over a thousand – a risk, but one it seemed reasonable to take.

The proportion of barbarians was high: Flavius’s Goth levies from Italy, Vandals and Moors from North Africa, Heruls from the north Balkans, Gepids and Gautoi from across the Rhine, they the best of the physical specimens on show. There were large wooden tuns of wine and the assembled men were encouraged to drink it, though in quantities that would not affect their ability to ride. Their general wanted them cheerful!

Flavius had scouts out to alert him to the approach of the Sassanid envoy; this was a show and one that must be in progress as soon as the man came into view. What he would observe first would be the sheer quantity of tents. Closer to he would see parties of huntsmen coming and going, while from the scaffolds they had set up hung the carcasses of the most recent catch: deer, antelopes and the odd bear. He was lucky with the wind too, which blew into the face of the approaching party, carrying the smell of meat cooking over charcoal into their nostrils.

The man who greeted the envoy was himself in hunting clothes and full of good humour, speaking in Greek, not his favoured Latin, which was in sharp contrast to the man he addressed. He was named Abandanes, known to be a close advisor to Khusrow and a fellow in whose wisdom the King reposed great faith. Invited to enter the pavilion, Flavius led him to a private chamber shut off from the main space, a room filled with fine furniture and fabulous hangings depicting scenes of the chase from classical times.

‘Do you hunt, Abandanes?’

‘No,’ came the astonished response; that was not a question he was expecting and nor was he of a build that indicated he had ever
been sporting. He had the look of an indoor man, with his pale skin, loose jowls and bulk.

‘Pity, I have rarely seen a forest so teeming with opportunities as the one close by.’

‘I have not come upon such a frivolous purpose.’

‘It is good that soldiers have pleasure as well as duties. They fight better when they are merry.’

Flavius invited the envoy to sit, which Abandanes, being older and clearly quite unsuited to the ride he had been obliged to make, sank into gratefully. He had hardly made contact with the chair before he was off on his king’s favourite mantra, which was how easy it would have been to avoid conflict if only Justinian had sent the men needed to negotiate.

‘I bear the rank of
magister
, Abandanes, and I am empowered to treat with you on behalf of the Emperor.’

‘With respect, Flavius Belisarius,’ came the smooth and condescending reply, ‘this is not a matter for the military. I mean no disrespect when I say that more subtle minds are required.’

‘But peace is easy, Abandanes. All your master has to do is to lead his armies back into his own domains.’

The older man produced one of those smiles that hinted at intricacies too obscure for a mere soldier. ‘You do not consider he has grounds to be where he is?’

‘Clearly you do.’

‘Promises have been made—’

It was not tactful to interrupt but given he was accused of being a mere soldier Flavius had no hesitation in doing so, added to which his voice was not as gentle as this fellow felt he had a right to expect.

‘Not promises, Abandanes! Proposals, at best.’

‘I fail to detect a difference. Or is it the intention of the Emperor to dangle mere carrots.’

‘We generally reserve those for our horses.’

That the older was offended by the jest pleased Flavius; he wanted him to be, though the impression of success was fleeting. The man was a diplomat and high in the counsels of his ruler, so he knew well how to respond with grace.

‘You are not known for being a player with words, Flavius Belisarius. It will please me to report back to my king that you have that gift.’

The thundering of horses’ hooves took the attention of both men, with Flavius abruptly standing. ‘Join me, Abandanes, let us see what the latest hunting party has brought in.’

‘I prefer to keep talking.’

‘I must insist. My men would want no less than my admiration for their exploits and yours will only add to their joy.’

Unhappily obliged to concede, Abandanes followed Flavius out to where a party of Vandals, sat astride foam-flecked horses, were proudly showing the carcass of a lion as well as the still bleeding wound by which it had been slain.

‘A single thrust by one hunter,’ Flavius explained when the event had been described to him. ‘A Vandal used to hunting the beasts in their own lands. I am blessed with so many good men but they may be the best.’

The envoy was near to surrounded and whichever way he looked he could see fit and strong soldiers, some dark-skinned like the Moors, others with the flaxen hair and reddened skin of the very far north, and added to that there was everything in between from within and beyond the bounds of empire.

‘You have travelled a great distance today, Abandanes. I suggest
that you eat with me, then rest. The light will be gone soon and you will witness how my barbarians entertain themselves. As for parleying, that can wait until the morrow.’

The planting of the information had been prepared in advance. Flavius was sure that a man like Abandanes would despatch his attendants into the encampment to seek out a friendly eye in the hope that it was conjoined with a loose tongue. An eager retainer came back to the guest tents and soon Abandanes himself was on the move. No attempt was made to stop him and Flavius was gratified to observe that on his return he looked very unhappy indeed.

‘Time to invite him to dine, I think, Bouzes.’

‘He has heard?’

‘By his miserable face, I would say yes.’

‘Is he soldier enough to understand?’

‘There is no need for military knowledge to know that Khusrow’s options have been severely amended.’

The Sassanid King had only two routes back to safety and one of them he had already traversed, leaving it, as his army lived off the land, barren of supply. If the ploy had played out properly, Abandanes had been told that Flavius had put a strong force of cavalry across the only other path and at a place where, with the need to traverse a narrow ravine, superior numbers would count for nothing.

That left the choice of a full battle, always risky, doubly so against the only general that seemed able to beat the Sassanids. It was that or a negotiated way past a force that was sufficient to pin him in a bad place, one made precarious as Flavius could come upon his rear. It was telling that the subject of negotiation did not arise as they ate, yet despite his best efforts to hide it, Abandanes was clearly worried.

Flavius was the very opposite; he was jovial and a good host as
he enquired of the family of the man he was entertaining, at the same time lamenting the problems Khusrow had with all the tribes that bordered his lands to the east and north, these being difficulties shared in many cases by Byzantium.

He felt he had every right to be merry; even if Khusrow chose battle he would do so on Byzantine soil, and outside a catastrophe Flavius could suffer a reverse and still retire on any number of fortresses. His opponent risked much more: if he was defeated or even obliged just to surrender the field he would have to retreat over many leagues at the head of a beaten army, short of morale, and with his enemy on his tail.