. . . His name of course was Flavius Constantinus Zeno, Tribune of the Fifth, praepositus of this sorry fort, this Oescus by the Danube, and that was all I or any of us knew about him in the gilded palaces of Constantinople. Zeno, the last Tribune of the Fifth, a man who was a blank, a cipher, and in some ways a lost soldier - as were they all . . .
I bowed my head as he strode up to my horse to dutifully kiss the hem of my Imperial robes. It was a perfunctory act and his slight touch of lips to my hem seemed almost negligent - no more than a half-remembered gesture - but I allowed him that neglect. His eyes, black and enigmatic, remained hidden below the rim of his helmet and I think in my own way I was grateful for that. We eunuchs are forever held in scorn by so many that not to be looked at is sometimes preferable.
He stepped back then and spun on his heel to gaze along the lines of the men who had assembled before us. His slave hung at his shoulder, the shield ready to be handed over if needed. Behind me, I could sense the Isaurians dismounting casually, as if not caring about these soldiers, and I did not blame them or indeed even rebuke them. They were not wrong to be so dismissive. On my mare, above these poor men, I could see their old faces, their lined expressions, and empty eyes. These were lost men who had lived on beyond their time and I think as I let my eyes drift among them that they knew in their hearts all was at an end.
This Tribune nodded then to these men and a ragged shout rose up into the dust and that strange vinegary stench, a stench I was later mockingly to call the 'wine of Oescus' -
'We will do what is ordered - and at every command we will be ready!'
I was shocked - and I felt the notaries about me stiffen also. Barely had that last echo died away when the Tribune Zeno turned back to me and raised his arm in the old manner, the Roman way that one can still see on the arches and frescoes of Constantinople.
An old salute and an old oath - so be it. These men of the Fifth, of the Macedonica, that forgotten Legion, would have their final moment here in the castellum by the Danube. I would not begrudge them that - what fools they were though to hang onto ancient and now empty rituals.
It was then that the commander of my Isaurians - Balbiscus - touched my foot. He was smirking as he effected to adjust his baldric.
'Veterans or vagrants?' he mused almost to himself.
I motioned him to remain silent and then nudged my Nissean forwards a little.
'Legionaries', I shouted out, 'The Sacred Will of the Emperor is in my hands and I speak as He speaks. Hear me then and know now that this ancient Legion of Rome, this Fifth, the Macedonica, is now to draw its last donatives and retire its standards. The Emperor has deemed your honour satiated. Your valour full. Your oaths fulfilled . . . The Fifth is hereby ordered to discharge its men and stand no more among the ranks of the army and under the gaze of the Emperor. Justinian wills it so and so it shall be done.'
I did not mention that this pathetic legion, these last men, who had rotted here along this abandoned frontier, should have been pensioned off many years ago; I did not mention that no pay had reached them for almost a decade; that in the Lists of the Army no scribe even knew any longer that the Fifth still mustered here in this Oescus; that we in Constantinople had all but forgotten them. What gain would there have been in that? That we had lost this Legion? That Rome itself had misplaced them in that great epoch where Belisarius had reconquered Africa and Italy and Hispania? That in that turmoil of armies and frontiers shifting, we had misplaced this decrepit Legion and never even noticed? No, such shame should not be spoken aloud.
My words hung in the air more as a curse than anything else. I swatted a fly away from the hem of my Gothic cloak.
And there it was. The end of a Legion. What else was there to say on the matter? That Rome should end in such thin men; men dressed in rags, in dull weapons; that a once fearsome Legion should be now no more than these old and haggard faces - faces lined with hunger and want and neglect.
If the face of Zeno, his white face with those empty black eyes, was the stark mask of the tragedian then all I could see in the men about him, those last legionaries, was nothing more than the cracked masks of comedians who did not even know anymore the humour which flowed about them.
In that last silence, I think for a moment I almost pitied these empty men that I had taken away their last remnant of honour. Almost . . .
(Am I indulging here? I expect I am and Escher will berate me for this but I know this Valerianus better than my friend ever will! I have
his words, his words, in my heart and my hands in those dry papyri - in that old ruin in the desert now so far away. That poor old eunuch who will weep soon and stagger away in despair clutching something that passed only from his hands and into mine many untold generations later - Oh Escher, that will always be your weak spot! You see always the mighty picture and never the heart which breaks in the midst of it all . . . Not indulgence at all but instead forgiveness, I think!)