They were brave. Some of them, careless of our soldiers, rushed out between burning wagons to pour buckets of water on the liquid fire to try to douse it. But their efforts led only to fresh cries of dismay, for the Sklavenoi discovered, as had the followers of the false prophet before them, that the liquid fire continued merrily burning even though soaked with water.
We had at first set four wagons ablaze. God, in His kindness to us Christians, then granted that the breeze from the west, which had been fitful, began to blow more strongly. It carried flames and burning embers not only to the wagons close by those we had ignited, but also to the thatched roofs of the huts in the village the wagon circle had been made to protect. Along with the guttural shouts of Sklavinian men, the high, shrill cries of women and children came to my ears.
The fire reaching the huts, the battle was as good as won. While some of the Sklavenoi did continue trying to withstand us, others turned instead to fighting the fires, and still others, abandoning fight and fire both, ran for the shelter of the woods. Our soldiers were hunting them like partridges, having great sport. I let that go on for a short time, but then sent forth a new order: "If the barbarians wish to surrender, let them. The more captives we take, the more we can resettle in the empty lands of Anatolia." After a moment, I had another thought: "A pound of gold to the man who brings me Neboulos, the so-called kinglet here."
Because the village was burning, the Roman soldiers herded the prisoners into the fields nearby. They had to keep some of the Sklavinian women from slaying themselves because their husbands had been killed; officers familiar with the character of the Sklavenoi told me their women were more tender in this regard than those of any other people we know. Our men threw the corpses of those husbands- and of the women and children who died in the village- into a large pit they made some captives dig.
No one brought me Neboulos. I hoped he had fallen in the fighting and been burned beyond recognition but, on questioning Sklavenoi through men who knew their tongue, discovered no one who admitted having seen him go down. Disappointed, I concluded he might well have escaped as Sklavinian resistance crumbled.
Commanders were busy rewarding Roman soldiers who had fought welclass="underline" some with promotions, some with money, and some with their pick of the Sklavinian women among the prisoners. One of the barbarians tried to keep his attractive wife from going off with the soldier who had chosen her for his enjoyment, and was promptly speared to death. The woman shrieked and wailed; the soldier led her away anyhow. As someone- as I write these words, I cannot remember who- said in the early days of Rome, "Woe to the conquered."
One of the prisoners, a yellow-haired woman of outstanding beauty despite a large smudge of soot on her cheek, struck my fancy. Approaching an officer who was making sure the Romans did not quarrel over their rewards, I asked, "May I be considered to have fought well?"
He looked startled for a moment, then bowed and replied with a smile: "Emperor, without your orders, we would not have fought at all. Since we won, you must have given good orders, which is surely the same thing as fighting well."
He could hardly have said no, but I liked the way he said yes. Pointing to the woman I wanted, I said, "Have her brought to my pavilion."
When the Emperor of the Romans travels, even to war, he travels with as close a reproduction of the comforts of the grand palace as his servants can give him. At the time, never yet having traveled as a mutilated exile on the deck of a miserable little ship with only bandages and a loincloth to call my own, I took for granted such luxuries as a wide, soft bed, hanging lamps, and a tall, heavy wooden chest that held not only my robes but also a gilded suit of mail in case I wanted to join in the fighting myself.
I also traveled with a large retinue of palace servants, some eunuchs, some whole men. I ordered them to bring me a jar of good wine and two cups, and then to go away and stay away till morning: "I shall be entertaining tonight," I said grandly.
My servants retired, sniggering. "Entertaining, eh?" I heard one of them say to another. "He'll be entertained, is what he'll be." His friend laughed. I paced impatiently about the pavilion, waiting for the Sklavinian woman.
The soldiers did not take long to fetch her. They had scrubbed the soot from her face, but she still wore the same smoke-stained wool tunic, decorated at the bodice with flowers and fantastic birds embroidered in red and blue thread, she had had on when I first saw her.
She stared around the pavilion in dull wonder. Lamps of glass and silver, a bed that stood off the ground on legs, my own gorgeous raiment, perhaps even the tall chest- all these must have been strange and splendid to her. I had by then seen the inside of Sklavinian huts. Only the richest of the Sklavenoi were well enough off to be reckoned poor. The rest had less, much less, than that.
"Do you speak Greek?" I asked her. She shook her head. I shrugged. What we would be doing did not require much in the way of words.
I poured her wine with my own hands. Not even my generals enjoyed such an honor. She stared down into the cup. Except when they got it by trade or theft from the Romans, the Sklavenoi did not drink wine, having instead a barley brew of their own, so she may not have known what it was. After a taste, though, she gulped the cup dry. I drank a little more slowly. When I held out the jar to her, she nodded. I filled her cup again. She drained it as quickly as she had before.
I pointed to the bed. She looked at it, at me, at it again. She must have known why I had summoned her to my pavilion. She must have known, too, I was no man of ordinary or even of merely high rank; whether, in her barbarian ignorance, she realized I was the Emperor of the Romans, I cannot say.
She held out the wine cup to me. I poured for her once more, willingly enough; if that would make her tractable, all the better. I had been wondering if I would have to fight her or beat her into submission, and wondering also whether that would kill my enjoyment or spike it.
She drank down the cup, then said something in her own language. I knew none of that, but from the flat, resigned tone could guess what she meant: something on the order of Might as well get it over with. She pulled the long tunic off over her head, let it fall to the ground, walked over to the bed, and lay down.
I stared at her a moment before undressing myself; she was as well made as she was beautiful, which says a great deal. When I lay down next to her, she did not turn her head toward me, but kept looking straight up at the poles and ropes supporting the pavilion and the silk cloth stretched over them.
I bent my mouth to hers. She let me kiss her, but her lips did not respond in any way. She lay there, still, unmoving, expressionless, as I kissed and fondled that splendid body. Even when I brought my tongue down to her hidden parts, she did not stir. I thought she thought she might escape by not responding. That angered me.
Roughly, I pulled her legs apart and poised myself between them. Roughly, I thrust myself into her. She was wet enough, from my spittle if nothing else. I forced myself hilt-deep, drew back, rammed again. All the while, I watched her face. She might not have been there with me at all, but somewhere far, far away.
I took my pleasure, and did not withdraw afterwards. Being a young man, I knew I would soon rise again. And so I did, and began the act once more. Save that she was warm and breathing, it was like carnal congress with a corpse. Only after I spent myself a second time and pulled out of her did she move: she rolled onto one side and drew up her legs. I thought about taking her again, this time from behind, but before I could, I stretched out to rest a bit and let my spear regain its strength\a160… and I fell asleep.