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mother—and kept to Roman manners when entertaining.
“Not from the Huns, but by implications from the Ostrogoths— no disrespect intended. There have been reports all along the Danuvius, both on the Moesian and the Dacian side of the river. The Ostrogoths are determined to hold on to their territory. You must be aware of this.” Sergios nodded several times. “The Roman settlements are all up in arms, or would like to be. For now they lack the soldiers and fortresses to be sure of their prevailing. The Gepidae are—”
“I’ve been told that there will be battles before winter,” Flautens said, determined to direct their conversation in order to learn as much as possible before Sergios became incoherent.
“Who has told you that? Is our predicament so bad as that?” Sergios asked, the words not coming out quite right. As one of Flautens’ slaves refilled his cup, he muttered a thanks and sat back to listen to all that his host was telling him, his linen lacerna hanging open over his cotton tunica, both garments feeling too heavy and hot for this sultry afternoon.
“It is bad enough. The reports from the north are growing troublesome, what with the Huns raiding well into Gothic territory,” Flautens said, not quite as bibulous as Sergios was, but no longer as lucid as he had been when they sat down together, “and yet we have to continue to pay off the Gepidae in order to keep the lands left to us by our parents and their parents, or lose all. Yet it is far from clear that the Gepidae are in any position to preserve our holdings for us. And now the remaining Romans are demanding that we all contribute to building and reinforcing defenses throughout the region, bearing the expense of our own protection. Yet there is no assurance of those defenses being extended to our lands, which is a dreadful imposition, what with paying taxes to Constantinople as well as the Gepidae.”
“True enough,” Sergios rumbled, reaching for a wedge of cheese set out upon the central table on a tray with flat-breads. He had a little difficulty putting the wedge on a slice of bread, and leaned toward the table to keep from spilling his food.
“Have you been in contact with Gnaccus Tortulla?” Flautens asked with little sign of interest.
Sergios chewed energetically, gulped the cheese and bread down with more wine, then said, his face turning ruddy from the wine and the heat, “The Praetor Custodis of Viminacium? I am awaiting an answer from him in regard to our worsening predicament. I’ve received a brief note from Rotlandus Bernardius, the Tribune of Ulpia Traiana, who’s as worried about our situation as I am. He has been attempting to gain support from all the towns in his region, but he is having little success.”
“Do you suppose the Roman garrison will be allowed to remain in Ulpia Traiana? Will the Gepidae permit them to remain with the garrison?” Flautens asked. “Half the troops are barbarian of one stripe or another: can they be counted upon to remain faithful?”
“I don’t know,” said Sergios, abashed that he did not have such vital information. “If they’re Dacians, I think they might.”
“Sarmizegutusa, that’s the Dacian name for Ulpia Traiana, isn’t it?” Flautens said a bit absently, finishing the wine in his cup and signaling for more.
“Yes, it is. There’re standing stones there, and some other religious structures. The Christians don’t like it,” said Sergios. “Impressive stoneworks, quite ancient.” He had more wine. “This is very good. Local, is it?”
“From Drobetae, truly.” Flautens drank less eagerly than Sergios. “One of the heartier grapes.”
“Not from your land, though—according to the records, you don’t have vineyards.” Sergios felt a rush of pride that he was alert enough to recollect this. “You grow oats and barley, and some wheat, and beans and lentils.” He was a bit surprised that, given his state of mind, he could remember something so specific.