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.
A whole day went by in fruitless talking as Abandanes and Flavius went through the motions of diplomatic exchange that both knew had no purpose. There was talk but no guarantees that Khusrow would retire in peace, merely suggestions, and should he do so the Sassanids could expect that Justinian might finally appoint ambassadors to talk of what price the empire would be willing to pay for an end to conflict.
Flavius agreed that this was possible but was adamant he could not commit Justinian to anything, for to do so would step on the imperial prerogative. It truth, both men knew matters would be decided when Khusrow was apprised of his situation and not before. Naturally Abandanes was sent home with gifts, fresh skins from every beast the forests nearby contained, as well as a valuable statue that had once been the property of Khusrow’s father, Kavadh. It was one of the spoils of the Battle of Dara.