‘So Ohannes can be shifted?’
‘Why not, if it sorts a problem? Can’t see him being much use in a fight at his age and he’s no good as a decanus, though there’s not many soft stations, that’s for certain.’
Not much use at his age, Flavius thought: that’s all you know, Centurion Forbas; he could probably give you a good bout.
The centurion was deep in thought, tilting his head to consider the options. ‘The forestarii are light on numbers and you can get him put with them.’
‘They ride in carts?’
‘They do, with their timber.’ Forbas then barked a laugh. ‘Arse full of splinters, I shouldn’t wonder.’
His visitor was not laughing, he was considering, that being far from an undemanding area of labour. The woodcutters had to hew and gather enough timber for the nightly fires lit by a whole camp of what Flavius had roughly reckoned to be around six thousand men, from the great blaze that burnt before General Vitalian’s tent down to the cooking pot of the meanest peasant volunteer. It was a blessing they were not in anything like enemy territory; that made it a doubly heavy task involving the fighting troops as welclass="underline" the host needed to throw up a nightly stockade. Did it serve his deeper purpose?
‘Permission to speak to the curator in charge?’
‘You don’t need it from me.’
Another salute. ‘I am obliged, Centurion.’
He was halfway out of the tent when the question was thrown at him. ‘What’s this “master” joke that seems to be attached to your name?’ It forced Flavius to turn and compose his face into a look of confusion, added to an exaggerated shrug.
‘No idea.’
‘It’s all over the camp,’ Forbas growled, ‘and if it is set to take you down a peg I need to know so I can nip it off.’
‘If I find out I will tell you.’
It was all over the camp; any man he passed who recognised him called out ‘Master’, and gave him a thumped chest salute accompanied by a grin. In other circumstances it would have been harmless, just gentle ribbing. Had it been wise to deny any knowledge of the reason to Forbas? He was not a man who would take kindly to being lied to, but that was for the future.
The curator who led the timber parties was likely as strong as an ox; he certainly looked like one, nearly as broad as he was long, with forearms as thick as a normal man’s thighs – they were like the trunks he was required to saw through. He had a wide body and a square head, completely bald, lacked teeth and that lent his talk a whistling quality at odds with his stocky appearance. If his eyes looked dull to begin with they soon lit up when Flavius offered him one of the coins bequeathed to him by his father to ensure the new recruit to his gang was not overburdened with work.
‘A half follis,’ he said, his eyebrows rising as he took, with his gums, what had to be a useless bite of the twenty-nummi bronze piece. ‘What am I taking on, your mother?’
‘A good friend, an old fighter, whose knees are not up to a seven-league march each day.’
‘What about his arms?’
‘Good,’ Flavius replied, looking meaningfully at the coin, ‘if they are not overtaxed.’
The coin was examined once more. ‘Might be able to let him just gather and carry if this comes regular.’
‘How regular?’
‘Each Sabbath day?’ Flavius had only one thing in mind so he nodded in agreement. ‘Where’d a youngster like you get this kind of money?’
‘That’s none of your concern, the only thing you have to worry about is anyone asking where you got it.’
‘Something tells me you’re no soft touch even if you’re short on years?’
‘Never was and never will be. I will bring my friend to you and if you look after him right, I will do the same for you.’
Did he take that as a threat? He might have, for his reply was a growl. ‘I can take care of myself, young ’un.’
Flavius nodded and left, his route taking him past the line of the officer’s tents and being a warm night the flaps were open so he could see in. One belonged to Vigilius and within he saw what was carried in that covered wagon from which he had been given a cup of wine: fine furniture and hangings to make the interior luxurious, as well as carpets to line the floor. There was a low campaign cot made from well-fashioned and polished wood, with hangings on the sides to keep out prying eyes.
The tribune was at a table, his back to the flap, so Flavius was afforded time to stand and envy the tribune’s comfort, which included an obsequious fellow who appeared to pour him wine, only it was no stone cup this time but glass, established when Vigilius lifted it to drink and it reflected the light from numerous lanterns. If anything established that he was rich, it was that. Not only that he could afford such an object but that he must be unconcerned about the loss or damage to it on campaign.
‘What you hanging about for?’
Flavius spun round to face one of the barbarian mercenaries, who at least spoke comprehensible Latin. Like his compatriots his face was framed in pigtails that might be blond, but could also in the light of the torches be grey, for the face was deeply lined. The man had a spear and shield so was obviously part of the men guarding this part of the camp; only the foederati were trusted to bear arms so close to the senior officers, wary as they were of assassination by agents of Anastasius.
‘I was thinking I might have such a tent one day.’
That got a derisive grunt, not that the person in receipt really noticed. The conversation made Vigilius look round, Flavius wondering if he could see and identify him. There was no sign that he had; the tribune merely turned once more and went back to whatever it was he was engaged in, so the dreaming youngster moved off as he was commanded to, egged on by the barbarian’s jabbing spear. Back at the tent he found the old man alone, asleep and needing to be shaken into wakefulness.
‘Pack up your belongings, Ohannes, you look destined to be a Gideon.’
That did not register at first; Ohannes needed to be reminded that the saint was the feller of trees. ‘He was a mighty warrior, as well, so that fits you like a well-cut smock.’
He moaned of course; it was not fitting, and someone who owed him much was taking him down a proper peg. The youngster made it plain, yet again, there was no choice.
‘I’m sure they are friendly,’ Flavius said as they made their way through the camp. ‘Or at least better than what you have shared with so far.’
‘Master Flavius …’ The youngster sucked in his teeth to hear that word from Ohannes within earshot of anyone they might be passing, which got him another quick apology. ‘I have found myself with strange companions many times in my years and if it is stiff at first it ever settles, it just takes a bit of time. The sods you now command are no different and had they seen me fight, well happen they would have changed their refrain.’
‘When we get to Constantinople, maybe they’ll get the chance.’
‘And you might get sight of the folk you are so keen to talk with?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘What about your mother?’
That got Ohannes a sharp glance, but he was looking away. ‘She will be expecting me any day, I should think, given the time that has passed.’
‘You should send her word.’
The response was so terse it was wounding. ‘If you can find a way for me to do that, then tell me. If not, do not mention it!’
‘Seems to me you have taken to your new rank very well,’ Ohannes growled, putting Flavius on the back foot, something he was well able to do.
‘I had hoped at one time to be destined for higher things, remember.’
Was it the tone of that Ohannes picked up, or was it that he felt the need to take the sting out of his previous remark? Certainly his tone was emollient. ‘Got to start somewhere, unless you’re a patrician, but you will make your way, which I have said before.’