Amantius looked back down the little boat, past the man on the steering oar and the up-curved stern post, past the rear two boats in the small flotilla. He saw nothing but an ephemeral safety to love in Olbia. The great expanse of scrub grass, wind-bent trees and dislocated stones where the Goths had camped. The low, stubby wall where many of them had died. The tangle of mean streets, some burnt out, down by the port where the defenders’ fires for heating oil had got out of hand. The yet more congested acropolis, where Amantius had prayed and where he had been reduced to living like a slave in a tiny attic room.
Disparagingly, Amantius thought that Olbia might be less crowded in future. When the siege had been lifted and boats had returned to the docks, there had been an undignified rush of citizens booking passage south: to Byzantium, Chalcedon, Miletus, to any place of greater safety. At least the exodus had been of use. During his stay in Olbia, Amantius had not been quietly approached by a frumentarius. It was hardly surprising given the remoteness of the town and the confusion after the fighting. In the absence of an official channel for clandestine communication, there had been a wide choice of merchant vessels all leaving for the Hellespont. For discretion, he had entrusted the arrangement to Ion. A slave boy would have drawn less attention on the dockside than the distinctive figure of an imperial eunuch. Ion was a sensible boy. He had selected a reliable-sounding skipper, who, for a high fee, had promised to deliver the letter to a certain soldier stationed in Byzantium. From there the frumentarius could send it on to the Praetorian Prefect by the cursus publicus.
The missing centurion Regulus entered Amantius’s mind. It was an unwelcome, even vexatious arrival. Amantius did not condemn him for his desertion. If opportunity had offered, and he had thought he could weather the consequences, he would have done the same. Presumably, Regulus would have taken the Fides back to her station on the lower Ister. He would have had to account for her unexpected reappearance, and for the absence of the imperial embassy and most of her crew. Amantius took pride in the veracity of the news he conveyed. It was likely that whatever exculpating tale the centurion had concocted might find its way to Censorinus. The safety of the sacred Augustus Gallienus — the very safety of the imperium — might often rest on the accuracy of the information available to the Praetorian Prefect. If the centurion’s inventions cast Amantius himself in a bad light, the personal consequences might be serious. It might spell the end of his hopes to return to the Palatine and the imperial court. If the charges were grave, it would be much worse. There was never a public trial for those who failed Censorinus, but punishment was inexorable and draconian. The gods willing, Amantius’s report would make clear the true turn of events. In any case, Amantius was sure, things would not go well for centurion Regulus.
The desertion of Regulus and the flight of the refugees had combined to pose serious problems for the embassy. After the departure of the Goths, three days after the battle, Zeno had strode into the Bouleuterion still clad in full armour. The Vir Perfectissimus recounted how he had taken up arms and made his stand on the wall. It was the duty of any man who wanted a name for virtue to do likewise for his friends. Zeno’s rank and a level of tact precluded too close investigation of the claim or his whereabouts since. He had proceeded to rant against the cowardice of Regulus. He would see the centurion executed, and in the rigorous, old-fashioned way. The governor of Moesia Inferior, Claudius Natalianus, was a friend. He would see the thing was carried out, and in public, before the eyes of gods and men. The terrible execution would serve as an example to all. Yet, by all the gods, it could not remedy the fatal blow the coward had dealt to the embassy. The Fides was to have conveyed the mission to the north, and she was gone. All the ships in port were sailing for the south. There was nothing for it. The embassy would have to take passage back to Byzantium, and seek further instructions.
It had been a fine oration, possibly not quite as extempore as it implied, but powerful nevertheless. It was what one would have expected from a man of culture who had been a Studiis to the emperor. In his heart, Amantius could not have agreed more with its conclusion. Yet it had been undone in a moment. The first archon Callistratus had taken the floor. There were boats on his estates at the settlements on the other bank of the Hypanis. They were rustic things, but serviceable, good for shallow rivers. In fact, they were more suited for the portages of the Borysthenes than the Fides itself. As some small recompense for the services to the polis of Marcus Clodius Ballista and Gaius Aurelius Castricius, and of course Aulus Voconius Zeno himself, it would give Callistratus nothing but pleasure to present them to the embassy. He would not hear of accepting payment. Only what you gave to your friends was yours for ever. The councillors of Olbia had shaken back their cloaks and applauded. At once, unanimously, they had voted such extra crew as were required be seconded from the civic militia. The strategos Montanus was to select men suitable for the labours and dangers of the voyage.
Caught, like an insect in amber, there had been nothing Zeno could do but accept. The equestrian had made a reasonable stab at dignified gratitude. But Amantius suspected he was not alone in seeing behind the mask. Amantius knew himself lacking in courage. But he was a eunuch, and his kind were not as robust as others. Zeno was entire, and he was a coward. Spite and cowardice often went hand in hand. Back in the rebellion instigated by Macrianus the Lame, Zeno had run from his province of Cilicia rather than face Ballista. It did not augur well for the two men travelling hundreds of miles in proximity, and it did not augur well for the success of a delicate mission.
Olbia slid out of sight behind a low, wooded island. The Olbian guide in the first boat had led the small flotilla between dank islands, oozing mudflats and treacherous shoals. They would take the far channel of the Hypanis down to Cape Hippolaus. The leading boat was turning south into it now. Splashes, laughter, obscenities and shouted orders indicated they were making a poor fist of it.
Amantius shifted his soft haunches on the hard bench. He gripped the side nervously. The four boats had been a great disappointment. Narrow, low in the water, open to the elements, they were fragile-looking things. They reminded him of the camarae of his childhood in Abasgia, and that was not a good thing.
Each vessel had a local steersman and was paddled by ten men. The two bringing up the rear were crewed by Olbians, but the leading pair had the remaining men of the Fides at the benches. Used to rowing, the Romans were finding it difficult to adjust to paddling facing forwards. As the vessel on which Amantius was an unwilling passenger came about, it yawed and dipped alarmingly, the green water all too close to the edge. He clung on tighter, his chubby knuckles whitening.
The boats could take only four passengers in addition to their crew. The mission had been distributed among them. Ballista, Maximus and Tarchon rode in the first with the guide. Amantius had been assigned to the second with Zeno, the Danubian peasant Diocles and a slave. Castricius and the insolent-looking Egyptian soldier Heliodorus commanded the last two, each accompanied by two slaves.