The Gautoi claimed kinship to that race, but came from a land separated from Germania proper by a large inland sea. Flavius was thrown back on his histories, to recall from his studies that all the tribes north of the Rhine tended to be numerous and formidable as enemies. The fate of Varus in the Teutoburger Wald was still told to frighten children. In that deep forest, during the reign of the Emperor Augustus, three of his legions had completely disappeared along with their eagles, every legionary assumed to be horribly mutilated or burnt alive in wicker baskets.
Since those far-off days the Rhine had been breached time and again and Gaul overrun, though each barbarian incursion eventually led to settlement. The Ostrogoths, another Germanic tribe, had, halfway through the last century, overrun the old Roman provinces of Italy, which Constantinople had feared lost to the empire for good.
After much bloodletting, a chieftain called Theodoric had taken power. He proved to be an admirer of the Roman way of life and, independent merely because of distance and a lack of any desire for reconquest, he had taken up residence in the imperial palace in Ravenna. Then he sent to the previous Emperor Zeno a message to acknowledge that he acted only as an imperial subject; in short, he did not claim the title of Western Emperor.
‘Don’t like ’em much, whatever German band they come from,’ Ohannes added, when this was recounted to him, the fate of parts of the empire not something to hitherto trouble his thoughts. ‘But, by the Lord, can they fight!’
‘Which we might see evidence of,’ Flavius crowed happily, receiving from his companion a jaundiced look when he added, ‘Maybe we’ll get a chance to test our skills against them.’
He then found himself looking into the face of one who had come close and it was not friendly. The blond hair under the man’s helmet was plaited and hanging either side of a face dominated by a huge moustache of the same colour, while the glare he was emitting left the youngster in no doubt that he would happily employ his whip. He barked something in what presumably passed for Latin amongst these mercenaries, but it made no sense to the people at whom it was aimed, which made the fellow, already red-faced, go puce and start bellowing and gesturing with flailing arms.
‘Think he wants us to form up,’ snorted Ohannes, making no attempt to hide his amusement.
This led to a great deal of shuffling as the group of which they were part sought to get themselves into some form of order. Partly achieving this task, revealed to them a person of higher rank, evidenced by the nature of his good-quality apparel, his fine helmet and, most of all, his chest armour, a breastplate decorated in much the same fashion as that of Flavius, though the devices were different. He also had a thin, leather-covered baton, edged with gold top and bottom.
A strong arm took hold of Flavius and pushed him to and fro until he was level with the man on his left, the Scythian getting an appreciative nod as he got himself in line on his own and helped others to do likewise. That occasioned a call to the finely clad fellow who had to be in command and he stepped over to stand before Ohannes, asking him where he was from and, if he was an ex-soldier, with whom he had served.
Flavius listened to a list of campaigns and generals under whom the old soldier had fought until finally Ohannes mouthed the name of his father. The sound of that, rarely mentioned in these last days, had the youngster hanging his head and working hard to hold back the tears, while at the same time wishing that his companion had kept that information to himself.
Then he heard Ohannes say, ‘As fine an officer as I ever served under, sadly no longer with us.’
‘I am minded to elevate certain people to the rank of decanus,’ the officer said in clear and good Latin. ‘You are clearly a man of experience …’
‘And years, Your Honour, happen too many to be leading others.’
‘Let us see how this century forms up, but I have marked you.’
The tip of the baton was used to lift Flavius’s chin and when his head came up he found himself looking into the unblinking glare of someone who probably matched his late brother Cassius in age, with smooth features and penetrating blue eyes, the question that followed a demand to be told the youngster’s background.
‘I am the son of a soldier,’ he replied, in what he hoped was a less elevated argot than that he had been taught to speak by his pedagogue Beppolenus, holding his breath until that got a nod. ‘Dead now.’
Expecting to be asked to explain further, Flavius was grateful when no enquiry followed; he did not want his identity to be known. He had half turned away when another question occurred and he spun back. ‘Can you ride?’
‘No,’ Flavius replied.
‘Pity, we are in dire need of cavalry.’
‘Why do you lie?’ Ohannes asked in a whisper, when the officer had moved off and was far enough away to not hear.
‘I want to stay close to you.’
That required no explanation and nor did the flagellum that struck Flavius’s arm, followed by the barely comprehensible instruction to stop talking. The blow delivered, the moustached face was thrust forward to gloat over the reaction caused by the pain, only to look confused by what came back from a pair of eyes nearly free from the blemishes that had disfigured them. Flavius gave him a stare of total blankness, which he held as the sapling was lifted again – his attitude was clearly being seen as defiance – but no blow followed, for the intended recipient did not flinch.
In an established military encampment the units of ex-soldiers and those who had their own weapons were allotted proper huts in which to sleep and to store their possessions. The rest were put into tents, which was less of a problem than it might have been given the weather was dry, as was the ground after a day of sun.
Most important of all they were fed, Vitalian having lopped off the head of the magister militum – the man who had delivered the message from Anastasius cutting off his rations – and purloined his treasury in order to buy food to supply his putative army as well as pay them. An added tax on landowners in Moesia was imposed so he could continue to do so, as well as distribute small sums to his new recruits: if many might have come for religious reasons others had not, and they would not stay without some kind of reward.
To say the camp was in chaos was an understatement; for every man present who was aware of the basics there were ten rustica who had no idea. As the head of an established fighting force Vitalian had good men capable of issuing instructions but pitifully few able to obey them, added to which, fired only by religious fervour, these farm and field labourers were not of the type to respond to the harsh discipline necessary to make them truly effective.
‘Such numbers will look good at a distance.’
‘Not, Ohannes,’ came the mordant reply from Flavius, ‘if the men examining us have good eyesight.’
They too had been drilled, but with a tenth of their century having served before, old habits came back and others had at least the wit to follow their lead, so if they were bellowed at it was with instructions to march this way or that, to wheel as a body, to form various combinations in which they would be deployed to fight, added to the method by which, should they be forced to retire, they could do so in good order.
There was no training in actual fighting, mock combat, which came as a severe disappointment to Flavius, added to which he was beginning to get frustrated at the time it was taking for Vitalian to move; he needed to be on the road. Halfway through the several days this drilling took, Ohannes was given the rank of decanus, responsible for seven plus himself.