Chapter 2
Author: Fran Saleški Finžgar
The Danube shimmered in the dim moonlight, flowing and creeping like a giant, silver-scaled serpent through tall reeds and bushes. The mighty river moved silently, only occasionally splashing or bending the alder trees and reeds along the bank, revealing its vitality.
A few hundred paces from the Danube stood a mighty fortress on a small hill. Thick logs stood upright, dug into the earth to form high embankments. Over the logs loomed shadows—larger at the corners and smaller along the embankments—stretching far across the disturbed ground. Among these unmoving towers, smaller, restless shadows moved. They approached each other, but before meeting, they silently turned and moved away. When they turned, a gleam would flash from their heads or chests, reflecting the moonlight like a spark.
Byzantine soldiers guarded Hilbudius’s camp. The moon shone on the camp, which remained still. No fires burned, no horses neighed; it was just a dense mass of ox hides and thick canvases stretched over stakes and poles. The soldiers were exhausted, as if they had just returned from battle.
Early that morning, the trumpets had sounded. Everyone had to prepare as if for a long battle. They carried not only swords, spears, and shields but also shovels, axes, and sacks of wheat and barley, enough for two weeks. Hilbudius led them on a march over hills, through valleys, and across marshes. They had to cut down a small forest, pile the logs, dig up the earth, and quickly build a strong barrier. When they returned to camp that evening, many hadn’t even ground their barley to cook dinner. They collapsed into their tents and closed their tired eyes.
Only one man was not tired—Tribune Hilbudius, the commander. He hadn’t even removed his leather armor. A short sword hung at his side on a wide belt studded with bronze plates. For a while, he lay on a buffalo hide. Then he ate some wheat porridge, brought to him in a clay bowl by a young Goth. When everyone else had fallen asleep, weary like soldiers after a battle, Hilbudius rose and went out into the clear moonlight. He leaned against a tower and gazed across the Danube, lost in thought.
It had been three years since he last removed his armor. He had cleared Thrace and Moesia of wild barbarians—the strong Slavs and Antians. They had previously swarmed across the Danube like locusts, plundering and enslaving Byzantine subjects, causing even Byzantium to tremble. But he had driven them back across the Danube, forcing them to hide in the tall grass of the vast plains and retreat into valleys and forests like hunted beasts. How much plunder, cattle, sheep, and strong, handsome slaves had he already sent to Byzantium! But Byzantium is like the sea—it swallows everything and is always hungry, never satisfied, like an infernal abyss. Emperor Justinian is a diligent ruler, but as greedy as a dragon. However, his greed could be satisfied if there weren’t another ruler beside him—Theodora!
When Hilbudius thought of the Empress, he clenched his fist and reached for his sword.
Theodora, the coquette, the adulteress, the circus performer—ha, such an empress! And a tribune must kneel before her and kiss her foot, a foot deserving to be severed for walking the path of crime. Oh, I prefer barley porridge, a buffalo hide on straw for a bed, and the arrows of the Slavs over a single degrading kiss on that woman’s foot! She persecutes the brave because they are honest, while she welcomes perfumed dandies into her luxurious halls and showers them with honors. Where are we headed, what will become of us?
Hilbudius sadly rested his head against a wooden post and watched the Danube’s waves flowing past.
What was that?
Hilbudius turned his head, his sweaty, matted curls shaking.
Another signal—then a third and fourth.
All the guards responded. The camp came to life. There was a rustle, and centurions gathered in front of Hilbudius’s tent in the middle of the praetorium.1
The commander, accustomed to victories, walked firmly and calmly to the guard at the gate. The guard pointed out that a group of riders was approaching.
“Messengers from Byzantium. Sound the trumpet for the soldiers to lie down! Then go and open the gate!”
At the sound of the trumpet, the camp immediately fell silent. All the centurions moved away from Hilbudius’s tent. He climbed down from the rampart and went to the gate to wait for the riders. He didn’t order any torches lit because the night was clear enough to see faces by the moonlight.
In front of Hilbudius dismounted Centurion Azbad. His golden armor gleamed, and his light helmet was adorned with colorful gems. His well-fed horse had a precious saddle, and its bridle was decorated with gilded buckles. It was clear he came from the emperor’s stables.
Azbad greeted Commander Hilbudius with courtly elegance. Hilbudius, however, greeted him briefly and firmly, like a soldier who prefers a strong handshake to polite gestures. He led him to his tent and invited him to sit on an oak log, in front of a roughly hewn plank serving as a table. Then he struck a spark, lit a clay lamp hanging in the middle of the tent, and went outside to give orders.
Azbad looked around the tent. Swords, spears, and lances were scattered about, along with several armors bearing dents from enemy lances; some still showed traces of blood. Azbad was astonished. A smile played around his lips. “Such a commander!” he thought. “This is the dwelling of a barbarian, not a Byzantine general.”
When Hilbudius returned, Azbad was still standing in the middle of the tent. “Sit, Centurion! You must be tired. I have ordered a lamb to be roasted for your dinner. Have you traveled far?”
“Fourteen days!”
Hilbudius didn’t respond. He looked at him meaningfully and thought: If that were true, your armor wouldn’t shine so brightly, and your horse would be thinner!
“Do you bring important news?”
“His Majesty, Emperor Justinian, greets his servant and presents you with this letter.”
Hilbudius immediately opened the emperor’s letter and stepped under the lamp to read it. His face didn’t change at all. Azbad felt deeply insulted that the commander read the lines from the emperor’s office with such calm and indifference. When the tribune finished reading the parchment, he placed it on the table and sat quietly.
Azbad wasn’t curious because he knew what the emperor wanted. But he was irritated that Hilbudius didn’t say a word.
“When will you return?”
“Tomorrow. I’m in a hurry.”
“You will have your answer tonight.”
Hilbudius studied him with sharp eyes, as if to say: “You’re not in a hurry to leave! You just don’t like straw and buffalo hides. You’d rather stop beyond the Hemus Mountains, where you can have a good time in safe cities; then tell the courtiers in the emperor’s palace how you starved in barbarian lands.”
“Forgive me, tribune, but such accommodations are a bit too… barbaric for a commander, don’t you think?”
“Alexander the Great was a mighty commander, yet he slept on bare ground. For me, sent by Byzantium to sweep the barbarian filth from our land like a loyal servant, such accommodations are more than enough. I only regret that I cannot offer you Damascene rugs and Persian perfumes. But know that in Hilbudius’s camp, the smell of garlic and onions is much preferred over the stench of Asian perfumes!”
The centurion bit his lip.
“I understand; a man gets used to this wild life. But one who comes from the divine emperor’s palace can be forgiven for being taken aback at first sight.”
Hilbudius’s aide brought dinner. Azbad eagerly ate the fragrant roast and washed it down with wine from a jug in front of him.
During dinner, Hilbudius wrote a single sentence to the emperor: “Lord and emperor, you shall have what you ask for, provided I do not fall in battle.” He rolled up the parchment, sealed it with a heavy bronze ring engraved with a large cross and spear, and handed the letter to Azbad.
The envoy was furious at gaining no information from Hilbudius.
But the commander paid no attention to his knowing glances. He wished him good night and offered his tent for the night. Then he opened the canvas flap in the nearest officer’s tent, lay down, and fell into a deep sleep.
When the flap closed behind Hilbudius, Azbad sneered contemptuously.
“Fool! Byzantium may admire you, and the emperor may have called you the pillar of the empire in the north, but you are still a fool. If you are a valiant soldier, fine. Fight and win, then come to splendid Byzantium, enjoy yourself, feast, and then crawl back to this dog’s den. But this—fool! He doesn’t even have a wife with him, nor any women in the whole camp. Fool, hahaha…”
The next morning, Azbad quickly rode off, carrying the brief letter with him.
Immediately after his departure, Hilbudius ordered his soldiers to sharpen their dulled swords, stockpile enough grain for three weeks, and gather all the lead projectiles for the slings. The archers were instructed to ready their arrows. By evening, he commanded them to secure the floating bridge across the Danube, inspect and repair any loose planks, and replace pegs where necessary. The work was to be completed by midnight.
No one questioned the orders—no one needed to. It was as if the same blood coursed through all their veins, the same thoughts filled every mind. They looked at their commander’s steady gaze, the rise and fall of his armored chest, the firm belt cinched at his waist—and each soldier knew they were preparing for a difficult task ahead.
- Meeting place for military commanders ↩︎