Carrying on he tried the public houses in which a common traveller could get sustenance and even a bed, now crowded out with the men sharing the route – raucous and uninviting places to Flavius, but entered to make the same enquiry and met every time with universal and blank incomprehension. The owners made their living by selling food and wine, an excess of the latter, judging by the sounds of singing coming through the open doorways of every one they approached, what words that could be understood far from spiritual in their composition and rendition.
‘No point in getting distressed by it, is there,’ Ohannes opined, as they passed another crowded establishment where lyrics being sung were particularly blasphemous. ‘It’s as I said to you prior, not all who are on this road with us are assembling for God’s purpose.’
‘Neither are all of we,’ growled Dardanies.
If the majority aiming to join Vitalian were farmers or labourers, such volunteers were leavened by a small number of men bearing proper arms, who by their bearing and swagger, as well as their easy camaraderie, gave the impression of being ex-soldiers. Ohannes, who sought to see from various bits of their apparel where they might have served, sized them up quickly and approvingly.
‘Stuck for a crust after the end of the Persian War, many were, and took to serving the wealthy as watchmen. Now they are happy to up sticks and come to join the uprising. Once you have soldiered proper it’s in your blood.’
Such admiration did not extend to more numerous armed individuals, men who had taken up positions of employment in which guarding property required that they possess swords, spears or both. Ohannes would manoeuvre close enough to get to talk to them too, happy to report back that first impressions were accurate: they would struggle to make true soldiers.
‘Might be fit to stand guard over a farm, but not up to a real fight.’
‘And all from north of where we now are. I should be home now, given it would be a good time to pillage, with so much protection missing.’
Flavius looked at Dardanies as he said this, realising he was jesting, albeit the comment had within it a strong element of truth. What might happen on the Danube border now, especially now; following on from the massacre of the imperial cohort, there was no organised force to oppose raiding and no support could be expected from Vitalian’s army, now wholly intent on another objective.
‘Serve them right,’ was his sharp opinion, when he outlined the risks to the citizenry of Dorostorum. ‘They should have held to their bond.’
‘Trouble is, Master Flavius,’ Ohannes responded, ‘it is not the guilty who will pay.’
Dardanies cut across what looked about to become a lament. ‘If I have not said it before, Ohannes, I say it now. It is time to drop the tag of master and start addressing our young friend as Flavius. You put him at risk every time you address him so.’
‘Habit,’ the Scythian replied, in a grumpy tone.
‘A bad one can get you killed.’
‘What will do for me is all this marching,’ the old man said, rubbing at his shoulders, then easing his knees. ‘Every bone I possess aches.’
Flavius laid a concerned hand on the man’s back, his voice carrying the same tone. ‘Then, since we are under no one’s command, let us rest awhile.’
Leaving the road was not immediate; they waited until they spied a fallen tree trunk big enough to use as a communal seat, Ohannes being strong in his belief that if he was to sit on the ground they would struggle to raise him up again. Before they ate some of their provisions the old man disappeared into the woods at their rear to relieve himself, leaving Dardanies and Flavius alone.
‘You are fond of him, are you not?’
‘As was my father, and he saved my life, so why would I not be?’
‘Odd that,’ Dardanies smiled, ‘he told me you saved his.’
‘He exaggerates, I acted by instinct and if it aided him it was by chance.’
‘I have observed you are much given to modesty.’
‘Honesty is the word I would prefer.’
The return of Ohannes did for that conversation and after he joined them the three sat eating, which curtailed much in the way of talking, this as a stream of men passed them by, few with any interest. On a hot day and feeling far enough away from recognition Flavius fretted at still wearing the cowl, which he eased back as much as he dared, while tending to gaze at the ground before his feet, constantly checking himself for that which he could not help, looking up as some fellow on the road called out to another.
To say Flavius was troubled was well off the mark, for he had a whole cart of worries, and not just his present preoccupations. Would his mother, once she received the news of the death of her husband and sons, do as he had asked and await his arrival, or would she rush back to the family home? He felt the need to prevent her, given the strong possibility her welcome and treatment wouldn’t be any different from that envisaged for him, though Senuthius would need to be careful how he treated her.
If his father had been less than wholly popular through the needs of his responsibilities, she had been the reverse and was held, particularly by the poor of the city, in high regard, due to her selfless consideration for their welfare. To accuse her of sorcery would surely not be believed by folk whose illnesses she had medicated and whose poverty she had worked tirelessly to relieve.
That thought checked him; who would believe that anyone in his household had indulged in pagan rites? No one with eyes to see or a brain to think, but a mob fired up by lies and fed with free wine was of a different nature. Senuthius would expend gold to damn anyone named Belisarius, and Blastos would use his office to aid him!
If that was not an immediate dilemma, it would become that once they reached Marcianopolis, where there was another via publica that joined that city to the main road west, the Via Egnatia, which would take him to Illyricum and in doing so impose a choice. What would his mother want him to do, seek out the imperial commission and go with them to Dorostorum or look to her security? He was looking at his own feet once more, thinking that she would insist on the former, when another pair appeared.
‘Can you spare a bite, friends?’
To avoid looking up was impossible. The man before them, with a spear in his hand, a sword at his waist and a plain leather breastplate on his chest, was clearly a one-time soldier, covered in dust, as were the trio he was addressing. With the butt of the spear shaft resting on the ground he was leaning on it in a way that indicated he was as weary as Ohannes, who was the one who replied.
‘Been on the march long, brother?’
There was a pause, as if he found the question obtrusive. ‘All the way from Axiupolis.’
It seemed the name of that city made no sense to Dardanies, but Flavius knew it lay well to the east of Dorostorum, it being the nearest fortified town in that direction, as would Ohannes. Many times his father had gone there to confer with his opposite and equally under-strength counterpart and mull over their difficulties.
‘That’s many a league,’ Flavius replied.
‘And many more to go, I think.’
‘Not as many as you have behind you, friend; Marcianopolis will be not much more than another day’s march.’
Flavius was wondering why Ohannes was growling, but he was in no position to enquire as the fellow spoke again, the expression implying he was impressed. ‘You know the road well?’
‘Well enough,’ Flavius responded. He looked around, to the sound of the old man growling even louder. ‘Are you on your own?’
‘I was with a party, but I seem to have got separated.’ He smiled, showing broken teeth. ‘Too much time spent talking to others on the path to salvation, but I can catch up with them if I have the strength to put my best foot forward.’