‘Wise, Magister?’
‘Necessary,’ was the snapped reply.
Being clearly in search of a degree of personal popularity drove Constantinus to seek outright success, but that was not granted to him; if he employed the right commanders and the right troops, some of whom just happened to come from the Belisarian bucellarii, he was successful. When he employed other formations and thus avoided the opprobrium heaped on his commanding general for perceived favouritism, the results were less rewarding and sometimes risked being disastrous.
Flavius allowed him to have his head; let the army find out for themselves that only one man knew the right way to fight. It became clear that such pressure told on his second in command. The day came when Constantinus declined to give the task of mounting a raid to another; he proposed to lead it personally, yet he did so at the head of the only other troops who could be said to be fit for the purpose.
No one admired the Hun way of fighting more than Flavius Belisarius; indeed, when creating his own heavy units under Justinian he had modelled much of their mode of fighting on that race. They were the people who had first evolved a way of making war on horseback as mounted archers, albeit on swift and agile ponies instead of heavy steeds and that had given them a fearsome fighting reputation.
There was thus no ill feeling in the breast of Flavius as he watched them exit the western gates and head for the Plains of Nero. His prayers were for success and if he found the behaviour of Constantinus an irritation it was a minor one: the man was ambitious but so he should be. God aid him if he led inferiors who lacked belief in their own abilities.
The Goths came out from their camp to oppose Constantinus, who immediately deployed his Huns to face them. The chosen battlefield was too far off for the whole action to be in plain view, though the general outlines were visible. At first, matters proceeded as they should, the Huns doing that at which they were superbly proficient, riding forward in fast and loose groupings to engage and thin the enemy ranks with arrows.
It was Photius, with his young eyes, who first spotted that matters might not be panning out as well as they should; the twin forces seemed to be getting closer to each other, a concern quickly laid to rest by his stepfather.
‘Constantinus knows when to break off, Photius. He saw what happened in the recent battle and will not allow the Goths to get too close to his lines.’
‘They are doing that very thing, slowly but successfully.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I can only relate what my own eyes tell me.’
A cold feeling gripped Flavius then; for all the mixed fortunes of recent forays the balance had been towards success and not failure. When his men had got into difficulties and had been forced to flee it was for gates now under Byzantine control. If they had incurred losses, they had not been serious and as a result the dented morale of his army had begun to repair. Right of this moment the last thing he needed was a major reverse.
The sound of the distant horns did nothing to relieve that feeling, especially as the masses of men began to move and their composition became easier to observe and comprehend. Constantinus had broken off the engagement but it was clear even through the dust that he and his Huns were not headed towards the city gates, while the advancing Goths were hard on their heels, which meant Photius was right.
He looked along the parapet to observe the faces of his other senior commanders and was not reassured; Valentinus was clearly praying, Bessas staring, his expression one of concern, Martinus and Valerian the same. Ennes, now leader of his bodyguard, was looking at him in a way that presaged doom, doubly evidenced by a quick break off from eye contact.
‘I cannot support him,’ Flavius murmured. ‘I dare not.’
Such words were pointless anyway. In order to reinforce Constantinus he would require his own bucellarii to be ready to act at once, they being the only troops he could rely upon to effect a good outcome. Having ceded tactical control to his second in command that was far from the case; neither they nor their horses were armed, saddled and ready.
Photius now reported that Constantinus had swung away to the west and he and his Huns were making for an abandoned suburb, then that they had got in amongst the buildings and he could no longer see them. This being a place Flavius had reconnoitred, he knew to call them buildings was overstating their condition. Like every suburb of Rome outside the walls it had been subjected to Goth savagery. Most of the houses that made up what was a farming community had been torched and in many cases their walls had collapsed in on themselves.
‘That might give us time,’ Flavius cried. ‘Ennes, get our men mounted.’
‘The light, General,’ came the concerned reply. ‘By the time they are ready it will be near to dark.’
Ennes had made a calculation that took into account the time it would take to close with Constantinus and in that he was correct. It would be under moon and starlight by the time Flavius and his bucellarii would be in a position to fight and that was a bad notion. The feeling that he had to do something faded for the very good reason it would only be to show others he was not being passive in the face of the possible massacre of his Hun mercenaries and their general. Ennes got a nod of agreement, which served to rescind the previous instruction.
The light did fade and in the distance there was a mass of torches, with no one having any clear indication of their locality. Were they in that village or without? Finally they faded to leave only the silver light of the moon and stars as well as anxiety, for the lack of those torches could have two meanings and one was total annihilation.
It was near dawn when Constantinus, at the head of his troops, asked to be allowed to re-enter the city. He and his Huns, covered in dust and exhausted, looked a sorry lot in the light of the torches by which they made their way down the roads that led to their encampment. Constantinus did not accompany them; he was required to report to his commander.
‘They crept forward, Flavius Belisarius. It was not an obvious movement, given it was so slow, but by the time we wanted to break off they were too close.’
The temptation to reply ‘You should have seen it, fool’ had to remain unsaid but the spoken reply was hardly less damning. ‘It is a tactic by which we lost in our one major battle. I think we agreed it was one we must guard against in any future engagement.’
‘Which I would have done, but the dust the Huns created obscured my view, making it difficult to see what the Goths were about.’
There was some truth in that: horsemen in constant motion, riding forward to sting and then retire on dry ground would have created a murkiness hard to see through. Yet it was still an excuse and a glance round the faces of the others present told Flavius they took it as such as Constantinus continued.
‘Those abandoned buildings seemed to provide the only chance of safety and once within them I had my men dismount.’
‘Which clearly worked, given the numbers with which you finally returned.’
‘The lanes were narrow and the spaces between strewn with rubble, too dangerous for the Goth to seek to fight in. Whoever led them declined to risk that, though he had his men circling the settlement hoping to force us out with nothing but insults.’
Eventually the Goths had retired and would, no doubt and quite rightly, claim a victory; had they not driven their enemies from the field, a defeat which if it had been low on casualties was demoralising? By his actions, Constantinus had allowed a pendulum swinging towards Byzantium to be sent quite markedly the other way.
‘You did well to survive, Constantinus.’ There was a sting in that remark and the man did not miss it as Flavius added, ‘Now I think you must yearn for the baths and some food.’