‘What was that monk saying?’
‘That the crimes of your bishop are greater than the crimes of your senator, for he has sinned against God and his holy vows.’
‘You don’t agree,’ Flavius said, ‘I can sense it by your tone.’
‘Senuthius is a greater threat to us than Blastos, who is in truth no threat at all. But men steeped in religion only see things as eternal. Yet it is he who advised they be retained by us and in that he is right.’
His mind working furiously, Flavius could think of no way to counter this and it was beyond maddening. If he had not formulated any definite plan, even before they had crossed the river, it had been his intention to somehow be present when the people sent from Constantinople arrived in Dorostorum, ready to provide his father’s evidence and encourage those who had intimated they might stand witness to step forward and do so.
Primarily he needed to be there to see the downfall of the man responsible for the death of his family. In his imagination he had pictured himself as the person who, hammer in hand, nailed Senuthius to the stake at which he would be burnt, able to see the terror of the forthcoming conflagration in his eyes. In his mind now he could almost hear the flames licking the spitting lard from that oversized body but even more vital than the satisfaction of that, he would have fulfilled his father’s mission and sent to hell his enemy.
Such dreaming had survived being captured, strengthened by the decision of the Sklaveni tribal elders: he would get back to the southern bank with their aid, and yes he would head south. But he had then envisaged a point at which he would be free to act to his own dictates and if the means had been vague his intention had been definite. Added to that he needed to tell to the commission the truth of what had happened to his father and brothers and how they had been deliberately sacrificed.
‘Would it be possible to have them copied?’
The pause was long before Dardanies replied. ‘I will ask.’
Another clash, more waving of arms and then Dardanies was back again. ‘No, but it has been agreed that should you return to Dorostorum in a position to make use of them, and they are still unknown to our enemies, then they will be given over to you.’
‘Take it, Master Flavius,’ Ohannes said forcibly, as he saw the youngster was set to once again protest, effectively silencing Flavius, who looked far from pleased.
Dardanies spoke quickly. ‘Now it is time to eat, for we cross the river tonight and we need to be well away from the southern bank come daylight.’
‘Are you going to eat too?’
‘I am, and at the same time I must say goodbye to those who will miss my presence.’
‘Children?’
A nod, then a grimace. ‘It would be mocking the gods to say to them that I fear to die saving the life of a Roman.’
Flavius puffed out his chest. ‘It might be that it is I who will save you.’
There was a terrible feeling of remembrance when Dardanies replied and he did so while exiting the hut doorway, using precisely the same words as those employed by the armed and ready to fight brother Cassius. ‘You’re too young.’
When he returned Dardanies brought with him a sack of food of the kind that would be of use on a journey; dried and smoked meat as well as three skins containing rough wine, enough for several days. He also brought the money he had removed, giving the purses back to Flavius.
‘We will need to buy food, not that it will last with three mouths to feed.’
‘Take one,’ the youngster responded, touching a face now washed. ‘It cannot always fall to me to buy things, especially if my face can be recognised.’
‘Those black eyes will fade in time.’
‘The sooner the better,’ was the opinion of Ohannes.
‘Recall how they came about, friend.’
‘Friend?’ the Scythian remarked.
‘What else could you be?’ Flavius responded, his voice cracking and not from his age. ‘There is no Belisarius house now, so what need of a domesticus?’
‘There will be again, take my word on it.’
‘You can see into the future, Ohannes?’
For the first time Flavius saw the older man cross himself. ‘If my prayers are answered.’
‘The monk has returned with me,’ Dardanies said, indicating the open doorway. ‘He wishes to bless our journey.’
Standing, Flavius picked up his leather armour and in the lantern light the decoration on the breastplate flashed, which got him a hard look from Dardanies, returned in good measure by the youngster. If it was a silent exchange it was to make a clear point: such an article was like a beacon by which, never mind his face and the blemishes that still disfigured it, he could be recognised. Stubbornly, Flavius was saying that to him it was vital he take it.
‘I know where we will find some sacking in which to wrap it and keep it hidden.’
The trio filed out to find the monk waiting outside and at a sign both Flavius and Ohannes fell to their knees, the Sklaveni remaining apart and upright. The monk mumbled prayers over the pair and again a flash of memory assailed Flavius. Gregory Blastos had been the last person to do this and it was an unwelcome image to conjure up when seeking divine intervention on what was found to be a journey full of hazard.
With much effort he pushed that out of his mind and tried to concentrate on the faces of his father and brothers, so that his prayers should be for their souls and not just for his survival, though he quickly remembered to include Ohannes. Should he also do the same for Dardanies, who clearly did not believe in a Christian god? It seemed churlish not to do so; one day he might see the light of revelation.
The route they took to the shore was different to that by which they had come to the hut and when they got to the riverbank there was a boat waiting with two other men beside it. Obviously they would row them across and come back, which would obviate the need to leave a strange craft on the southern bank or hidden in the trees, where it risked being discovered and setting off a search.
‘Do they know who I am?’ Flavius asked.
‘They will guess, but they are my brothers, so will say nothing for fear that I might come to harm.’
‘You are lucky to have brothers.’
‘Not all the time,’ Dardanies replied. If he picked up the catch in the throat from Flavius he ignored it, too busy looking up to the sky, now growing increasingly dark as the last of the light faded on the western horizon and the stars that littered the sky began to glow. ‘Sometimes brothers are a trial.’
‘Never enough to wish to be without them.’
‘Time to go and no more talking till we are well into the woods. There is some sacking and rope in the boat, wrap up that armour good and tight.’
They pushed the boat into the river and clambered in, the brothers of Dardanies taking the oars and plying them with strong and effective strokes. Flavius, as he bound what had come to be his prized possession, making a sling by which he could loop it over his back, sought to catch their eyes, there being enough reflected light off the water to make their faces visible. They made a point of avoiding looking at him; it was as if to do so was to bring down on them and their brother some kind of curse.
The crossing was near to direct and was obviously to a place previously selected, the boat eventually grounding on one of those pebble strands that had been so useful to both he and Ohannes when they had been running from the dogs. Once out, Flavius and the Scythian stood while Dardanies embraced his brothers, then he reached into the boat and produced two swords with sheaths and belts, these quickly tied around their waists, that followed by two spears, all wordlessly handed over, Flavius being sure he saw a shake of the head from one brother, to say that arming he and Ohannes was unwise.
At a gesture they set off, each with a food sack over their shoulders, straight into the seeming darkness of the woods, yet it was not as Flavius first thought a foolish move. The canopy above their heads was quite sparse and so let in, if not light, a view of the mass of stars and, hard on the heels of Dardanies, he knew the Sklaveni was following a route, one that he and his kind had taken before. He gave the impression of having passed along this way often, which had Flavius wondering how many times the Sklaveni had come across the river to use this very path, prior to a lightning foray of the kind that had been commonplace. If he was dying to ask he could not, both for the sake of silence and the notion that it would be an unwise question to pose. Better not to comment, just to remember.