by Jack Ludlow
‘How am I to know you are who you say?’
There was no blinking in those deep-brown eyes, just a steady gaze that hinted at self-assurance; how could the older man know that not for the first time in his life this youngster’s knees were shaking?
‘I need to know who it is I am talking with.’
‘I don’t think you are in any position to demand anything.’
‘I did not think I demanded, sir,’ Flavius replied, in an emollient tone. ‘If you are not Count Justinus, I would be obliged if you would take a message to him.’
‘Which is?’
‘That his correspondence with my father, Decimus, is safe.’
Justinus stood stock-still for several seconds, before growling as he spun round, ‘Come with me.’ Flavius heard him mutter to the guards as he passed them not to say a word to anyone, then he had his arm taken to be bustled in through the gate and, with a sharp turn, down some stone steps into a cold, stone-walled basement. There were several heavy wooden doors with grills, all wide open, the one closest showing a bare cell with a bench and a cot into which he was shepherded.
‘Wait here.’
Flavius, who still had his weapons and possessions, was confused − more so when the older man swung the door shut but did not lock it. He was gone for a short while before returning carrying a large set of keys.
‘I want you to stay here, Flavius, until the palace settles down for the night, then I can take you to somewhere more comfortable. I have to lock the door, not to keep you in but to keep anyone else out. No one must know you are here and if anyone but me comes through this door I suggest kill them, for they will be here to assassinate you.’
‘Who are you?’ Flavius pleaded, his voice cracked.
Justinus moved close and took him by the shoulders, looking deep into his eyes. ‘I was told you were dead, that my old comrade Decimus had died with all of his sons.’
‘You are Justinus?’ That got a nod. ‘My brothers were killed fighting bravely alongside our father and by the downright treachery—’
‘Save that till we can talk properly,’ Justinus interrupted. ‘I must go back to my own guards and not only command their silence but ensure it by threatening them with hellfire and damnation. There are currents within these walls that you will not understand, heaven knows I struggle myself, but you are in my care now and, once I fetch you from this cell, no one will harm you without they need to harm me too and I have command of over a thousand spears.’
Flavius began to cry, as a month of anxiety seemed to fall away, unaware that Justinus was mulling over what he had just said; no one was immune from harm in an imperial palace.
‘I have a better idea. The door locks from the inside; you do that when I go and if I do not return before dawn tomorrow, get out of here, get out of Constantinople and change your name.’
Justinus had a heavy gold chain round his neck, which he removed and handed to Flavius. ‘Use this to fund your travel, sell one gold link at a time and the medallion last.’
‘Am I allowed to know who would threaten me?’
‘The name Vicinus will suffice and it is a problem of your own making. It was he who was first alerted to your name being daubed on the walls. If I thought you dead it is possible he will know you are not, just as he will know what a threat you represent to his family.’
‘I want Senuthius dead, I want vengeance for my family.’
‘In time, perhaps, first let us keep you whole.’ Justinus smiled. ‘I have no sons of my own. Perhaps, if God wills it, you may come to fill that gap. Now, once you have locked the door, get some rest, for when I come for you it will take many an hour to tell me everything that has happened this last month.’
‘Why was the commission recalled?’
‘It was the decision of Anastasius; he feared to stir up more trouble in an area that might go over to Vitalian.’
‘Can we arraign Senuthius, can I see him pay for his crimes?’
‘One day,’ Justinus replied, but he was no longer looking the youngster directly in the eye. So Flavius was unsure if he was being told the truth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Justinus had to tell Petrus what had happened and how it had come about, even if he did so with a lack of enthusiasm, certain that his nephew would object to bringing Flavius Belisarius into the palace. His reluctance extended to another truth, the knowledge that he had come to rely on his sister’s son as a means of finding his way through the labyrinth of imperial politics. In the field Justinus, fighting the enemy, was a master of his craft, not least because it was easy to see who your opponent was: in his present post, outside his actual duties, he often felt uncertain.
Open recognition of friend or foe did not exist in the great palace of the richest and most extensive empire in the world, a building in which an invitation to dinner could result in a painful poisoned death, where a smile could be a prelude to betrayal or a firm embrace the act that preceded the secret knife. It was not easy to admit that, being just a simple soldier loyal to his polity, and a man who saw his word once given as binding, he lacked the gifts needed to ensure his own security and continued employment.
Being a natural intriguer, Petrus seemed to thrive in this cesspool for he enjoyed the game. With no official function other than to act as secretary to Justinus, he had ample time to observe the behaviour of others, as well as the aptitude to cultivate even people he saw as potential enemies. He was adept at evaluating motives even if they were hidden by men skilled in subterfuge and he could manoeuvre for an advantage that his uncle did not even know existed or was beneficial.
‘Here? In the palace?’
‘Out of sight, in one of the punishment cells to keep his presence a secret.’
Petrus wanted to tell his uncle then that there were no secrets in this building, which was as much a palace of gossip as it was the seat of imperial governance, but there was no point. He had felt a clutch at his heart on hearing that Flavius was alive and that it was he who had daubed a message on the walls; a moment when he saw the angel of death hovering over his body and it had taken all his guile to keep hidden from his uncle the terror that assailed him. Thankfully, having delivered his lightning bolt, Justinus seemed lost in thought, which gave Petrus time to control his breathing and begin to think matters through.
‘Who saw him?’ he demanded.
‘The two guards at the gate, and the man they sent with the message. All three have been spoken to and issued with dire warnings.’
‘The gaoler?’
‘Knows nothing, I took his keys without explanation.’
‘No one else?’
Justinus bridled slightly at that third peremptory query, in what, it seemed to him, was turning into an interrogation. ‘Are you aiming for the post of imperial inquisitor?’
‘Forgive me,’ Petrus responded, knowing it was necessary to be less aggressive. ‘If I feel the need to advise you I would not like to make an error through ignorance.’
‘He’s a fine-looking youth, Petrus,’ Justinus said wistfully, diverting his own anger and a potential point of dispute. ‘Even shabbily dressed you can see his father in him.’
‘Am I permitted to a how did he survive, how did he get here?’
‘No idea,’ came the sighed response. ‘But he is the son of Decimus, for certain.’
‘You are sure?’
‘He mentioned the letters, said they were safe.’
Those documents had been a concern Petrus had carried in silence, never mentioning it as a factor he and his uncle should be anxious about. That correspondence in the wrong hands could not do other than create difficulties, how much so being uncertain. Once Petrus was apprised of the death of Decimus, his elliptical enquiries directed at anyone who might know of the matter appeared fruitless.
They had produced nothing to indicate the scheme to curb the activities of Senuthius Vicinus had become known to anyone outside those already within the circle of knowledge, yet there was a re
sidual disquiet that someone had found out something and acted upon it. That was in the past; Petrus knew he had now to deal with the present.
‘Fine-looking he might be, but his method of contacting you lacks a degree of subtlety.’
Justinus did not miss the tone of deep irony but he did think Petrus had missed an important additional cause for disquiet.
‘Not just me, everyone in the city can come and gaze upon his handiwork. Pentheus Vicinus already has and, according to those who observed his reaction, he nearly had an apoplexy.’
That being far from good news, indeed it had deep ramifications, there was a pause before Petrus responded. ‘What do you intend, Uncle?’
‘To bring him into the palace proper, to hear his tale and to do something to make amends for our failure to protect his family.’
‘Did we fail?’
‘Decimus is dead, is he not, and three of his boys with him? Flavius said they died bravely, but through treachery, which I find easier to believe than what we were told, which was a pack of lies.’
The fact that they were dead and that perfidy was involved only underlined to Petrus how naïve his uncle was being. Could he not see the logical conclusion to be drawn from the words he had just employed? That somehow, someone, and he could only guess it to be Pentheus Vicinus, had got wind of what the comes excubitorum was up to. Not the detail, unless it was Anastasius who let slip their shared secret. They had done everything in their power to keep their intentions secure, yet enough had emerged to frustrate their intentions in a quite bloody fashion.
Someone would gossip about this Flavius, if not this day, then at some time very soon. How could Justinus keep him in the palace without the presence of a strange youth being remarked upon? If it were, Pentheus, an experienced courtier steeped in the arts of conspiracy, would deduce that it might be a threat to him. For a man who had already acted as he had that would be enough and there could only be one outcome.
How far would the senator go? Would he seek to undermine Justinus with the emperor, or would he reckon that, with his reputation for probity, such an attempt would only expose his intentions? It had ever been Petrus’s way to seek to put himself in the shoes of others and he did so now, knowing that for Pentheus to feel utterly secure the death of Flavius, identified or not, would ill suffice and for a very good reason: the senator was a man who lived well beyond his discernible means.
He owned several farms, it was true, and they produced abundant crops, but not enough to support the aims of a person who wanted to be a power at the imperial court, where the disbursement of gold was a necessity if you wished to avoid being seen as of no account. It was not hard to deduce where such monies came from.
Pentheus had to be in receipt of monies from his criminal cousin in Moesia and it was those that gave him the power to bribe, the funds to lavishly entertain and the means to present himself as a man of wealth. It return, he shielded the criminal activities that had been regularly reported by Decimus Belisarius.
He would act now as he had done previously, not out of family loyalty, but for personal necessity and the best way to protect what he would be desperate to hang on to was to close off all the avenues that might threaten him. One death might give him satisfaction; three, if they could be carried out discreetly, would seal off the problem completely.
‘I cannot dissuade you from the course you have set us upon, Uncle?’ Petrus asked, even if he knew the answer.
‘I gave my word.’
Petrus nearly broke his commandment then and spoke openly, to ask to be allowed to act as he saw fit to protect all three of them from what they might face. But it was bitten back; the less his uncle knew the better. Once made aware of his actions he would want to be consulted on every gambit and move which, if it did not kill off his intentions, would at the very least impose a check on the freedom Petrus needed to manoeuvre.
‘So be it.’
That got him a hard look. ‘I had expected you to object more than you have.’
‘There is no point, you have made a decision and I know, if you have given your word, you will hold to it. It is what makes you who you are.’
‘What do I say to the emperor?’
‘Nothing! In time perhaps, but not now.’
Justinus came for Flavius after the guards had been set for the night, having brought him a cloak to hide his grime-streaked and paint-spattered clothing, telling him he must abandon his spear. He then led him through seemingly endless silent corridors, lit by flaming sconces under which stood rigid-to-attention guards, who only moved to salute their commander as he hurried by. Officially Justinus had a suite of rooms, one of which was an unused bedchamber – he preferred his barren cell – and attached to that was a bathing chamber, now ready filled with hot water.
‘Take off your clothing and wash, Flavius, for you stink of the gutter. I have had an excubitor tunic laid out for you as well as suitable undergarments, and when you are clean and dressed, we can talk.’
The youngster divested himself of the cloak, which revealed the gold chain and medallion given to him that morning, immediately removed and returned.
‘I will await you in the other room.’
‘Which other room?’ Flavius asked, for they had passed through several.
‘Follow your nose.’
To divest himself of his clothes, in which he seemed to have been living for a lifetime, was bliss on its own; to then step down into a hot bath was akin to paradise, though he did question the smell of powerful unguents that had been added to the water. He would stink of them when finished and such perfumery was counted as unmanly in Dorostorum. Pleasure outweighed concern, for there was a sponge with which to wash, a pumice stone with which to scour his skin and the whole made him feel both alert and secure.
Towelled dry he used the combs provided to dress hair that badly needed the attention of the barber slave that had administered to the Belisarius family. That made him think of those he had left behind, the same bleating sheep he had taken that day his father died to the safety of the citadel. Had they paid a price for his flight? Why had he not seen fit to think on the well-being of the family slaves up till now?
He came out and did indeed follow his nose, to enter a candlelit chamber, hung with huge tapestries of mythical scenes, somewhat pagan to his taste, plus a table laden with food and silver flagons of wine. Justinus was present and so was another younger man, sat sprawled in a curule chair, introduced to him as the elusive Flavius Petrus Sabbatius.
‘We call him Petrus,’ Justinus said, ‘there are so many of your name in the family it distinguishes him, that is if anything ever could.’
‘How can I fault such an introduction, Uncle?’
Petrus tried to hide that the slight barb stung him, Justinus being prone to the very occasional remark that was designed to remind him of his place. That he employed such a tactic now was telling: perhaps he was seeking to bolster his esteem in the presence of this youngster, a youth of good height and muscular, handsome of face and looking so fresh with his reddened skin and damp black hair that the man observing him felt a faint flash of envy.
‘Petrus is my right hand and I depend upon him,’ Justinus added, seeking by a kindly look to make up for his earlier remark. ‘You may trust him as you trust me.’
Flavius was examining Petrus with the same acuity as he was under; the fact that the nephew was sprawled in the chair made it hard to judge his figure, but it looked to be thin and stringy. The hair was red in the candlelight and the head was canted at an angle that hinted at scepticism, as if he doubted what was standing before him.
‘Eat, Flavius, then I will ask you to recount what happened to your family.’
‘You were not told?’
‘We were told they were dead, you too, and I admit to my shame I never enquired after your mother.’ The news she was safe in Illyria seemed to mightily relieve Justinus; he actually acted as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. ‘That is good, though he
r grief must be acute.’
Obviously they had been fed the same false tale as Flavius had heard from Forbas and he said so, before launching into a description of both the truth of the encounter as well as his adventures since that fateful day. Both men let him speak, very rarely interrupting, this done more by Petrus than Justinus, he seeming to need to be absolutely clear of what was being recounted.
‘In order to come to Constantinople I joined with General Vitalian.’
If he had been sprawling throughout, that made Petrus shift and his voice, hitherto relaxed and quite often languid, was suddenly snappy. ‘You marched with Vitalian?’
‘As a decanus, which goes far to tell us what a less than perfect host he commanded. It was not the finest, yet it achieved its goal.’
Petrus coughed and sat fully upright. He then began to question Flavius about that host, of what it consisted and why so many had flocked to the Vitalian banner. He was treated to all the reasons religious and mercenary, to which he listened with more avid attention than he had shown hitherto.
‘But really,’ Flavius insisted, feeling he was being drawn away from his reason for being here, ‘I did not come to describe to you his motives or that of his forces.’
‘You want justice,’ came the slightly acerbic response, ‘which you saw fit to paint on half the walls of the city.’
It was easy to let the exaggeration pass. ‘I do, and it would please me if you could now tell me if such a thing is possible.’
‘I said in time,’ Justinus replied. ‘And we will not deceive you, it could be some time.’
Now it was his turn to explain, to tell in more detail of how the rising of Vitalian had led to the recall of Petrus as well as to add that if the mission on which Petrus had been engaged was ever to be reconvened, then there were considerations of politics which must intrude. These of necessity being complex.
‘I am not master of that, Flavius.’
