The Last Roman: Vengeance

by Jack Ludlow

  The document included within it not only his wishes for his posterity, small gifts to certain religious institutions who would be asked to pray for his soul, a stone to be carved in Latin and placed on a wall outside the city with his full name, his title and a list of his battles, but also such mundane instructions as to which slaves should be in receipt of manumission. It was the accepted way to reward long service upon death and it would be another manifestation of his father’s desire to be seen as nothing less than a proper citizen of the empire.

  Flavius was familiar with most of the contents of a chest in which he had occasionally been allowed to rummage as a child: silver tableware and decorated goblets that were laid out on special occasions, one brightly polished silver salver held up in his hand to show him the now dark, yellow-tinged bruises under both his eyes, framing his swollen nose.

  There was jewellery too, the property of his mother, and a mass of saved communications from both parents relating to friends and relatives, as well as the official despatches between the court and the centurion, too many demands for overdue money which had him look into the smaller chest containing the funds his father had control of, no great amount of coin, that went with the office he held.

  He came across only one object on which he had never before set eyes, a tightly sealed and tied oilskin pouch. Unravelled with one hand and his teeth, it revealed a set of rolled-up papers, once opened contained a series of letters. A quick perusal showed they were copies of those sent to, as well as replies from, Constantinople. The former were in an inelegant hand he knew belonged to his father; the replies were properly composed and laid out with a fine hand, and given the elaborate broken seal, they appeared official.

  That his father had written any letters was unusual for he was not fully gifted in the art, having been taught late in life by his spouse. Normally when communicating with palace officials he had used a trained scribe, a fellow well versed in flowery hyperbole, who knew how to set out communications in an acceptable manner, which required not only that the subject be presented clearly and properly but had the added requirement that certain people be addressed with a degree of flattery alien to a mere soldier.

  The very first missive sent by his father was dated less than a year past and it was to an old friend. Decimus Belisarius had, in his youth, been a boon companion of Flavius Justinus after whom he named his fourth son. It was an oft-repeated tale of how he, Justinus and two other companions had fled an Ostrogoth invasion of Illyria to arrive in Constantinople without money and with little food, their minds full of dreams of riches, which would surely come the way of such a deserving set of hearty fellows.

  The truth, if it was sobering at the time, became a humorous tale in later life and one oft referred to. The streets of the imperial capital were not paved with easily gathered gold, nor were the citizens, be they high or low, in any way impressed by these ragged, illiterate individuals from a far-flung province who spoke an incomprehensible tongue between themselves, a bit of rough Latin, and barely knew ten words of decent Greek.

  It was fortunate that the empire always required soldiers, for they would have starved had it not. It was a world to which they took with a whole heart and varying success, given two of the original four had died in battle. Flavius Justinus had fared the best; through his own exploits and not a little luck he had risen to high imperial rank, that being common knowledge in the Belisarius household.

  The beautifully executed reply to his first letter told Decimus that Justinus had been elevated yet again to the post of comes excubitorum. That was certainly a piece of news that had never been disseminated, strange given that the exploits of Justinus and the parental association had been the object of some pride. As Count of the Excubitor he was commander of the Imperial Palace Guard, which made him the most trusted military officer in the capital.

  Flavius was slow to realise why his father had written his part of the correspondence, but he got the point the further on he read: these communications concerned a matter he had wished to keep to himself and perhaps even from his own relatives. Flavius could recall no mention of it and if his brothers had known they had been as silent as their sire. Had his mother knowledge of it, for they shared everything as a couple? There was, at present, no way to find out.

  Laid out in date order, it was the next copy of a parental letter that revealed his father’s reticence and need for secrecy. First he reminded Justinus that he had served the empire as a faithful soldier, campaigning in every theatre of war from Illyria to the Persian frontier, putting down local insurrections, seeing off barbarian incursions as well as fighting the enemies of the empire. If the position he had achieved as commander of an under-strength unit in a far-flung outpost was not so very elevated, he wished to assure his old companion that his reputation for probity was as important to him now as it had ever been.

  He referred to the present disordered state of the whole Diocese of Thrace brought on by the imperial religious decrees, being open that his conscience would be troubled if he were called upon to take part in any uprising designed to restore the Chalcedonian dogma. General Vitalian, camped with the rump of an army north of Marcianopolis, was insisting upon a reversal of the imperial policy, he being a one-time commander of both men and a man Decimus still admired. More on that dispute and the potential ramifications followed but it was of little interest to the youth.

  The real crux of the communication was to point out his local difficulties: that the depredations of the leading citizen with whom he had to deal, aided by the local bishop, were undermining all his attempts to keep order in his area of responsibility. More importantly they stood against his endeavours to broker peace with the Sklaveni tribal elders and there was much written outlining his efforts in that regard, as well as a roll of those with whom he had dealt.

  All his efforts had failed in the face of the most powerful man in the district and those who backed him, not least the magister militum Conatus. The offences committed by Senuthius, both alleged and known as facts, were listed, those of Blastos being broadly outlined, as well as the twin layers of protection that ensured they were never sanctioned. The crimes that could be laid at the door of Senuthius shocked even a young man who knew the object to be corrupt, for there were laid out acts of thievery the nature of which he was unaware.

  This letter received a sympathetic reply, added to a reserved position on Vitalian and any proposed insurrection, but no real hint that Justinus would act regarding Senuthius and Blastos. Reading it several times, the words intrigued Flavius. The youngster got a strong impression that Justinus was agnostic on the dispute regarding dogma, though the letter was so carefully worded as to be open to several interpretations. While asking his father to reiterate his complaints it seemed also to contain some kind of gentle admonition, hinting to Decimus that he could not take them any further unless the centurion avoided all reference to religion.

  Decimus had taken the hint; he duly rewrote his original complaint and was rewarded by a more positive reply. Justinus, having unfettered access to the throne he was tasked to protect and to oblige an old friend, had bypassed the court officials, especially the protective relative of Senator Senuthius, and taken these critiques directly to the emperor himself, where they were seen as matters requiring more information, for instance the names of potential witnesses prepared to testify, this duly provided in that crabbed and inelegant parental hand.

  Dated as being no more than a month past, the last missive from Constantinople carried within it a notification that an imperial commissioner with plenipotentiary powers would soon be despatched to investigate both named miscreants – it would include an imperial confessor to question Gregory Blastos – one that would bypass and keep in ignorance the Patriarch of Constantinople and the provincial government as well as certain unnamed but obvious palace officials.

  Flavius conjured up an image then, of his father’s elation as he read something that would lay to rest years of frustration. Had he, when
he led his men out to fight, carried a private hope that this would be the last time he would be obliged to leave his quarters to put down an incursion that had likely come about in retaliation for some act of Senuthius?

  Had he, perhaps, looking into the future, had his mind on his long-cherished hope of which he made no secret: that with an end to raiding from within the empire and some diplomacy, added perhaps even to a proper treaty, lasting peace and security could be brought to both banks of the River Danube?

  ‘The Bishop Gregory is here to see you, Master Flavius.’

  Flavius turned to acknowledge the slave who had been sent to tell him of this visit, realising that he was one of those whose manumission he had this very morning examined. This was not the time to tell him; that must wait for a formal reading of the testament.

  ‘Be so good as to ask Ohannes to attend upon me?’

  As the slave went to do as he was bidden, Flavius, with some difficulty and a serious amount of pain from his shoulder, slipped out a hand from his sling to retie the bundle as tightly as it had been on discovery and reseal the letters in the oilskin pouch. Lacking a place to hide it, for he felt by instinct it needed to be kept as undisclosed now as it had been when his father was alive, he slipped that into the black sling that once more held his arm.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The youngster was determined to avoid wearing his emotions on his sleeve, to present a calm demeanour when within he was seething with hate and a desire for bloody revenge. How easy it was to imagine behaving in that fashion, given his lack of years and a quite natural apprehension in dealing with a man many years his senior and one his father called a natural and practised dissembler. In deep and resonant voice, Gregory Blastos offered his condolences for both his loss and that of his absent mother.

  He then made an enquiry as to the state of his damaged shoulder, very obvious in its sling, but no remark followed regarding the equally evident blemishes on his face, now two proper black eyes. His tone then became that of a man of position and maturity, addressing what to his mind was no more than a callow youth and one, moreover, who had quite seriously sinned against God and his church, much being made of that funeral pyre.

  The cleric, given he glanced several times, was obviously wondering at the presence of Ohannes, who was standing just inside the door, silent and stiff of face. One reason was the trust now reposed by Flavius in his father’s retainer, added to his fear that he would be unable to control his desire for revenge; the old soldier was there to stop him committing violence or even murder.

  Added to that was the fact that he would never allow himself to be alone with a known pederast, a man who had, by repute, trouble controlling his hands. The Belisarius brood had been a handsome lot, none more angelically so until puberty than Flavius and even that had not rendered him ugly: he was tall for his age and well proportioned and he worried that under the clerical pomposity and strictures there might be a degree of unwelcome attraction.

  ‘What you did was blasphemous, if not idolatrous, and it is only sympathy for your understandable grief that stops me from acting to chastise you as I would another, though I must insist that you do suitable penance when your period of mourning is complete.’

  Flavius replied with a blatant lie, one accompanied with violently shaking knees, which he reckoned was plain to see under the embroidered smock that barely covered them. Likewise his voice, hoarse anyway, seemed to have within it an added and obvious tremor, which he sought to cover with a bowed head.

  ‘I thank you for that, Your Eminence, I acted in haste and heartache.’

  ‘Understandable,’ the bishop murmured softly, smiling, lips now shiny and wet. He moved a couple of paces closer, a hand held out towards the good shoulder, which made Flavius shift quickly to one side to keep a space between them.

  The youngster was not in the least sorry for what he had done but it would be folly to challenge the divine who represented the authority of the patriarch in this part of the province, a man who, with no father to protect Flavius, could bring down on him a punishment he would have no means of avoiding. At a word from this slimy Greek, Flavius could spend the rest of his days in a salt mine.

  Why had Blastos waited so long to come calling? Was it to emphasise his own standing in relation to the status of a mere imperial centurion? In the two days since he had set light to that pyre the youngster had received a whole host of citizens expressing sympathy, some the smaller landowners who had been part of the militia gathered to repel the barbarians.

  In times past the same men had often come to the very room in which he received them to complain about some act of Senuthius that diminished their pride or their purse; now they were keen to make plain they had only acted on the field of battle as that same figure dictated. In accepting their condolences, as well as their excuses, Flavius had wondered how much of what they said was true conscience and how much a mere pretext to salve their guilt.

  Now he felt, in some cases, a sense of embarrassment; within the list his father had sent to Constantinople were the names of people who had come to offer him their condolences, which had Flavius castigating himself for his notion of them being false in their feelings. He could not prevent, at that point and with those thoughts, his good hand straying into his sling to feel the outline of the pouch of documents secreted there. If he saw the movement and wondered, the mind of Blastos was elsewhere.

  ‘Numbers obliged us to bury the victims of the recent incursion in a communal grave and they have had a Mass said for their salvation. But we must say another for the departed souls of your father and brothers that are, thanks to your actions, in deep peril of eternal damnation. Now, as it is my duty, I will confess you and grant you absolution.’

  If Flavius had been nervous prior to that he was rendered doubly so now: could he in confession, before taking in the blood and the body of Christ, fail to tell when asked of what he had found? Would he, in failing to be utterly truthful, damn his own soul?

  ‘Leave us alone,’ Blastos hissed at Ohannes, there being no need to explain why.

  Dread of God’s wrath disappeared somewhat, Flavius wondering if he had things other than damnation to worry about. In truth such fears were misplaced; Bishop Gregory Blastos carried out his clerical duties impeccably, listening to the young man’s filleted confession without interruption, imposing upon him as penance a strict regime of prayer and repentance, before producing a small box containing bread and a vial of consecrated wine, both properly administered.

  The bishop then began praying sonorously above his kneeling body and bowed head, asking that he should be granted forgiveness, yet all Flavius could hear throughout was his father’s voice cursing this man, his blasphemous depredations and filthy behaviour. It was necessary to hold to the truth that if God was omnipotent and could see everything and everyone, to the innermost thoughts of their soul, a blessing from Gregory Blastos might well be meaningless.

  One hand dropped from where it had been placed, on the top of his head, to softly caress his cheek and then seek to cup his chin. Flavius shot to his feet and looked the bishop in the eye, which must have contained a measure of his fury at what was being inferred. His glare was greeted by a smile and a shrug added to a soft injunction that to a troubled youth sounded like a threat.

  ‘I am sure in time we may be friends, Flavius, closer than your grief allows us to be at present.’

  Still wary, Flavius moved to the doorway and called on Ohannes to return, to take up his position by the doorway, wearing the same unfriendly expression with which he had previously fixed their visitor. Both the act and the look seemed to mildly amuse the bishop, who had begun to relate how busy his church had become since what he called ‘that unfortunate event of two days past’.

  ‘So many victims, you understand. Many of those who have come to pray for the souls of those we lost have also asked that the Lord bless you with the means to overcome your sorrow.’

  ‘For which I am bound to give them thanks.�
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  ‘A goodly number are curious as to what you will do now.’

  ‘What can I do but take my mother, if she comes here to grieve, back to the place of her birth. There is family there, after all, and given my father’s appointment is no more—’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Blastos interjected, taking hold of the large and expensive cross that adorned his chest. ‘We will sadly need to send to Constantinople to have another come to protect us, as well as the men to do so, perhaps in greater numbers than we have hitherto been granted.’

  The word ‘sadly’ struck a totally false note; Flavius could not believe Blastos cared a sliver for the men lost of whatever rank or relation, so again he was left fighting to stop himself from raining curses down on this swine’s head. When he did speak, he croaked a question he had been dying to ask since the bishop arrived, not that he anticipated an honest answer.

  ‘Do you feel that Senuthius acted as he should?’

  That brought a deep, almost animal growl from the throat of Ohannes, which got him a look of utter disdain from a man who thought the views of such a fellow to be worthless. The bishop then looked at Flavius, eyebrows raised, as if he was surprised to be in receipt of such a question.

  ‘I mean as commander of the militia.’

  ‘How is a mere priest to know? Such things are the province of fighting men, which my calling dictates I cannot be.’

  ‘You were present.’

  ‘In the capacity of my office, no more, to bless those going into battle.’

  ‘Which was as good as over before Senuthius sounded the advance.’

  Up came the hands in a gesture of futility, added to a furious shake of the jowls, leaving the youngster with a distinct impression he had pushed Blastos into an area in which he was far from comfortable. It was as if such an enquiry was unexpected, yet how could he come to this house and not anticipate something of that nature to be raised?