Vigilius drained his cup and gave him a look that said the talking was over. Flavius fisted a salute and marched back to where his men sat.
It was easy for a man of the background of the tribune to say he must gain respect, something he would get from rankers, as long as he was competent, merely for his birth. It was not so for Flavius and at the root of the problem was Ohannes, who, as the day went by, began once more to show signs of serious fatigue: the previous night’s rest had restored him for the morning; that did not hold once the sun had passed the meridian.
Instead of looking ahead his chin was from time to time meeting his breast and his breath was increasingly laboured. He had to be nudged to keep his spear upright and his shield in the correct position and was prone to a very occasional stumble. To favour him in any way would be fatal and Flavius knew the rest were waiting to see what he would do, hoisting him on the horns of a real dilemma, not made easier by the knowledge that they still had a whole league of marching yet to do. Ohannes might well collapse!
‘I have never asked you, friend,’ Flavius whispered, ‘how many years you have?’
‘Lost count,’ Ohannes replied, which implied to Flavius he was no more skilled in numbers than he was in writing, ‘but I was full-grown when I enlisted.’
Twenty-five years of service, Flavius calculated, maybe twenty summers old when he joined the army and in three more he had served as the Belisarius domesticus. Coming up fifty, which was old, too old to still be soldiering. The last league before they made camp was spent in encouragement and the odd helping hand, every time he touched Ohannes bringing a snort from those to his rear.
They got to the chosen field and Flavius was quite brusque to Ohannes when it came to setting up the tent, only relenting when it came to tightening the ropes that would hold it down by passing over the food tally and sending him away to draw their supplies. The rest had to gather timber for their fire and get it ready to light before they buffed the dust off their equipment and stood to for an inspection by Forbas.
‘At least we have no guard duty tonight,’ Flavius said, once they had been dismissed.
‘Not that we’ll sleep,’ Helias moaned, to Flavius his natural mode of behaviour, ‘with our ancient goat snoring.’
Aimed at Ohannes it had the old man beginning to rise to his feet – he had been lighting the kindling and it was clear there was going to be a confrontation, which got a bark from Flavius that made everyone freeze.
‘Permission to take that piece of shit to some place quiet and teach him some manners,’ Ohannes growled.
The word ‘Denied’ from Flavius melded with the response from Helias, which was, ‘In your dreams, old man.’
‘Get the fire going, Ohannes, and let us eat. We will all be better placed after a meal.’
The reply was defiant. ‘I’m not goin’ to take much more from him, Master Flavius.’
‘Master?’ Tzitas demanded. ‘What’s that about?’
‘Slip of the tongue,’ Ohannes snarled.
It might have worked if Flavius had not looked away, avoiding any eye contact at all, for if Ohannes’s slip of the tongue had made them curious, his reaction only engendered suspicion, not that a word was said; it was all in the looks. But the mode of address had not gone away; as they ate it cropped up in all the most inappropriate places to tell the decanus that it had registered. The butcher who had cut their meat was a ‘master’ at his craft. Would they ‘master’ the enemy when they met them? Emperor Anastasius was far from a kindly ‘master’ to his subjects.
To get away from it and think, Flavius took a tour of the camp, something he had done many times, passing the eight-man contubernia, each round their own fire and seemingly at ease with each other, not the case with his. It could not last; Ohannes would not back down and if he struck any of the others Flavius would be obliged to punish him.
Moving out from the lines of properly pitched tents he wandered into an area populated by the numerous, non-combatant camp followers, some of them the ‘wives’ and children of the men who had joined Vitalian. In description they fitted any known type, from bent old crones to bustling and sprightly young women who busied themselves about the camp. Here they cooked for their rustica menfolk and washed their clothing, no doubt supplying comfort as well, Flavius supposing that with a wage earner on the move – so very few of those who had joined owned anything but their labour – the women had to move too.
It was probably a mistake to make his way right through the middle of the area where they had pitched their makeshift coverings, for this exposed him to sights he would rather have not seen; they did not conceal everything that happened within. If the men were allotted their own part of the camp that did not mean they stayed there and it was some time before the nummi dropped and Flavius realised that the term ‘wives’ covered more than connubial attachment.
As a result he was also exposed to many a ribald comment; that he was tall for his age and good-looking only increased the banter as he was invited to ‘dip his wick’ and have ‘a roll on the straw’. It was enough to have him quicken his step and in doing so he bumped right into a young girl carrying a bucket of water, the contents going flying.
‘If he won’t spill his seed,’ came the raucous cry, ‘he can tip out water.’
Through the laughter that engendered, emitted by a dozen harpies, he heard the follow-up comments. ‘Bet he’s got as much juice in his pouch as he has cast on the ground.’
‘Too mean to share it with us.’
‘Shame, with enough to go round.’
‘Please forgive me,’ he said to the girl, who was on her knees righting the bucket and did not see how much he was blushing.
‘Of no matter, sir,’ she replied just as a loud bellow sounded from a male throat.
‘What are you about, girl?’
Flavius turned to see a fat fellow approaching, unshaven and bearing a heavy black growth, a sweat-stained leather cap on his head, the garment he was wearing open so his belly hung out to droop over the top of his filthy culottes. He pushed past Flavius and raised his hand to strike the girl, now cowering.
‘Hold!’ Flavius cried, grabbing the hand. ‘This is my doing.’
The hand was pulled violently away, the other used to push Flavius in the chest and send him stepping backwards, coming with that a barking command to, ‘Stay out of things that ain’t your concern, brat.’
The slap then delivered only skipped past the girl’s tied-back golden hair, which did not satisfy her assailant as punishment since he raised his hand again. There it stayed as he looked down at the point of cold steel that had pushed against his flesh, so soft that the sword point could make an impression without making a cut.
‘Stay that hand.’ Flavius pressed gently to force a retreat, aware out of the corner of his eye that the intended victim was gazing up at him and that she had a fearful look on her face, so he said, ‘Hand me the bucket.’
The rope was put in his hand and as it was he realised those who had been ribbing him had gone very quiet. Not so the fat one.
‘That’s my girl an’ I can do to her what I like.’
‘She did nothing wrong, I did,’ Flavius replied, looking at the face; the fat man was still looking at the sword point and Flavius was sure he detected a tremble. Certainly the tone changed; now he was pleading.
‘Respectfully, Your Honour, you do not know her. She is ever clumsy.’
‘Stand up,’ Flavius said, with a sideways glance, ‘there is no need to cower there.’
Looking at her, he missed most of what the fat man was saying, only afterwards recalling that he claimed to be her father, that she was a trial to him, forever rebellious and always had been, while only his hand, oft used, was of any service in controlling her. The reason he was distracted occurred immediately; she was beyond pretty even in a shapeless smock, had rosy cheeks in fair skin, if not entirely clean, and a pair of striking blue eyes.