‘Am I allowed to say you’re too soft, Your Honour?’
‘Hang them, Karas? Urchins when they did not have so much as a knife between them? No, that would be blasphemy, so let us breakfast and then be on our way.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The first manned outposts protecting Vitalian heartlands were more than a full league from the main camp, precautions the general took to avoid being surprised. That had happened three years previously when Anastasius had sent an army under his nephew Hypatius to both surprise and chastise the rebellion, this at the same time as he was talking peace and reconciliation, a melee in which Flavius had inadvertently become embroiled.
The small rough and wooden stockade was manned by foederati, large men, with long blond hair and fearsome bodily decoration who hailed from a far northern Germanic tribe called the Gautoi. Terrible in battle, such men could also be hard to control; once the killing began, their lust for blood made it hard for any commander to bring them to order and sometimes they had been known, when engaged in one of their epic drinking bouts, to slay people just for sport. Vitalian had managed to keep them under tight control in the past; was that still the case now?
Given the Excubitors were clearly military and not of the rebellious army it was not worth taking a chance, especially since the whole Gautoi contingent was hauled out with their arms to face them as soon as they were sighted. Ahead of Flavius lay a straight road leading to their small stockade. There was a barrier, too, where local trade would be halted and taxed for passage, this to augment the pay Vitalian must provide to keep what were mercenary soldiers both happy and loyal.
In reflecting on this long rebellion, while acknowledging it to have proved fruitless so far, there had to be admiration for the mere fact of keeping it alive, this in the face of repeated failures to force the Emperor Anastasius to modify his stance on Monophysite dogma. To march on Constantinople and be rebuffed the first time had taken a massive effort of will; to repeat that in the face of disappointment required a great deal of charisma, for if these foederati formed the backbone of his forces they were insufficient to present any threat to the far more numerous imperial troops.
Every time he marched Vitalian had been required to raise a sizeable army from within the dissident Diocese of Thrace, a few trained soldiers but mostly idle or angry peasants. If most of those men were fired by their religion it still took great ability to tap into that zeal and gather them together to repeatedly disturb the public peace. Flavius, marching in the first rebellion, had carried his own purpose — he sought revenge for his family — but he well remembered how many of his compatriots were willing to risk their lives for the right to worship within the tenets agreed at the Council of Chalcedon. There were, of course, others who marched in search of plunder, men quite willing to cloak themselves in pious fervour to gain access to possible booty.
Flavius halted his party well beyond spear-throwing distance and, handing over the reins of his own packhorse, he rode forward alone to give his name and his purpose, first dismounting then seeking permission for him and his men to ride on and deliver the message he carried to their general, that swiftly denied.
‘No force bearing arms is allowed to approach the main camp.’
‘I would not proceed without them.’
It was not just pride that had Flavius declare such a stance; once inside the perimeter created to protect Vitalian he would be at the mercy of the type of men before him and he was wary of trusting them. They might reckon to have more to gain by delivering his severed head than his whole person.
‘Then I bid you carry a message that the tribunos Flavius Belisarius wishes an audience with General Vitalian. He will know that his old enemy Anastasius is no more. I come on behalf of the Emperor Justin to offer peace and an amnesty for past misdeeds.’
‘I’ve heard that name, Belisarius,’ was the response, delivered in bad Latin.
‘Then you will know it as one who has fought at your side.’
‘Who perhaps betrayed us and now wears the armour of our enemies?’ There was no point in seeking to deny that so he sat in silence until the Gautoi spoke again. ‘Peace?’
That question set up a murmur in the whole file this man commanded, leaving Flavius to wonder if the notion of peace might be unwelcome to men who earned their living by war. If this lot had any religious feelings they would be pagan, not Christian, so they would be indifferent to either dogma. He had no right to make promises on behalf of Justin but he needed to say something reassuring, even if the amnesty he brought applied only to Vitalian, his sons and his officers.
‘It is time to welcome the Thracian foederati back into the imperial army.’
Which basically meant regular food and pay, as well as a chance of fighting and spoils, which they would not be getting now. If it was a loose commitment it was sufficient.
‘Your message will be sent and you may wait within the stockade if you wish.’
‘We will wait where we are and I require that the general sends back to me an escort from his comitatus.’
Which meant his personal guard, not Gautoi. Once back with his own, Flavius increased the distance between his men and the stockade by several stades, and if they dismounted there was no relaxation. Two men were sent even further back with the pack animals while the remainder stood to with their spears at the ready, mounts by their side to give the impression they were prepared to give battle. Not that Flavius would do so; they might be matched in numbers but he doubted his Excubitors could stand in close combat against such fearsome warriors. Their horses were left saddled and ready for flight.
If the response was not swift there was no way of telling why. Was the man sent to advise him of this request just taking an interminable time or was the wily Vitalian deliberating, weighing the odds of refusal against agreement. Having been previously the victim of much imperial underhandedness he was bound to be cautious about allowing armed men in to his inner defences. The key was the name of the messenger; he knew Flavius and had some reason, it was hoped, to hold him as trustworthy.
The body of cavalry who appeared — their noisy hooves had signalled their coming — were recognisably comitatus, personal troops committed to their general not just for pay but also bound by ties of blood or deep loyalty.
Originally a German concept it was another sign of the way the Romans adopted the habits of their enemies, so that now every general had such a body, men who would never leave his side unless expressly ordered to do so. They could also be the shock troops of his army, for they tended to a discipline and cohesion rare in mounted warriors and were often led or thrown into battle at key moments.
The barrier was to allow through a single rider and once he was close Flavius recognised Marcus Vigilius, the man who had been his tribune on that first march to the capital. The greeting was cautious rather than friendly but the message was welcome: he was there to escort them to the main camp.
‘How will we be received?’ Flavius asked, once he and his soldiers were both reunited and mounted.
‘Guardedly.’
‘He can trust the word of the man who sent me.’
The response was sharp. ‘Vitalian no longer trusts anyone!’
Handsome and from a rich patrician family, Vigilius had aged since last seen. There were lines in a face that had previously lacked blemish and the skin around the eyes was now creased and the whole had a weary look. Flavius wanted to ask how he fared and what had happened since they last met but Vigilius’s attitude did not invite enquiry.