by Jack Ludlow
‘I think you know how gratified I am you came to see me, Flavius Petrus.’
‘If I am to look out for myself, it behoves me to also look out for those whose friendship in the future I might come to depend on.’
‘Let us go back indoors and drink a glass of wine together.’
‘I am at your service.’
‘Hidden away?’ Justinus demanded. ‘Where hidden away?’
‘In the city, somewhere safe, and even you must accept, Uncle, to have him stay here in the palace is to put his life in danger. I moved him for that reason.’
‘You have overreached yourself, Petrus.’
‘I have done what was needed.’
‘Tell me where?’
‘It is best you do not know.’ Seeing Justinus fill his lungs with air to shout at him, Petrus cut him off. ‘If you are asked you can answer honestly that you have no idea. You are never comfortable telling lies.’
‘While you are!’
What his nephew said was true: Justinus was a poor liar, barely able to be convincingly false in kindness, inclined to go red and even stutter if the matter was serious. It was one of the things that made him so valuable to Anastasius, his patent honesty, indeed it had marked his career and the way he had risen within it. People trusted him and were rarely disappointed.
‘Do we want to keep the youngster safe?’ A nod; he had not used the name, for he did not know who could hear them arguing. ‘Can we do so here?’
That got an angry sigh. ‘No.’
‘If Anastasius asks you where he is … do you want your loyalties to be tested?’
‘You’re sure he is safe?’
Petrus could see his uncle was beginning to calm down and so he should, for what had been done was both wise and logical. ‘As far as he can be.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It did occur to me that a guard consisting of a couple of your officers might make things more secure.’ Seeing the question rear up he cut across that too. ‘They don’t need to know his name, and if you wish, I will suggest a pair who talk of you as if you are the manifestation of Christ risen.’
‘Don’t blaspheme.’
‘Forgive me, Uncle, but I have acted for the best. If that displeases you, well, I cannot do much to make it better.’
‘You sometimes take too much upon yourself, Petrus.’
God be thanked the nephew thought, before saying, in a voice full of entreaty, ‘It is only out of regard for you. It is not too much to say I look upon you as a second father.’ Playing on the sentimental streak in Justinus usually paid dividends and it did so now. ‘Permission to write the orders detailing two of your officers to protect our charge?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘I will bring them to you to sign.’
‘Why bother,’ Justinus snapped, seeking to salvage some authority. ‘You take so much on yourself you might as well do that too.’
When he was alone, Petrus wrote out two sets of papers, only one the orders that would give two of his own very good friends the task of protection. The other was a commission to one Flavius Belisarius to proceed to Dorostorum to investigate complaints of collusion in cross-border raids by citizens of the empire. It had the seal of the comes excubitorum, which would give the youngster the right to use the mansios reserved for officials and military officers on official business. A copy was made for Pentheus.
One of the other functions performed by Petrus was to manage his uncle’s accounts, for he struggled with figures as much as letters. With possession of the keys to his chest he took out a sum in gold, having listed it in the book as a payment for a new set of highly decorated armour of a kind that went with a general’s rank, in short that equal to a count of the excubitor, enough in funds to procure that for a junior officer, as well as a horse, with coin to spare.
‘If this falls into the hands of anyone else, it will ruin my uncle.’
‘I will guard it with my life,’ Flavius replied.
‘You look very fine in decent clothing.’
Stroking a breastplate and the devices that marked it out, Flavius asked, ‘Is it not deceitful?’
‘An excubitor uniform is necessary, Flavius, and it goes with that commission in your hand. No one will dare question you if you are wearing the clothing of a body who act as personal guards to the emperor.’
The room in which Petrus had temporarily accommodated him overlooked one of the harbours of Constantinople, full of shipping, and as dusk settled, light began to twinkle from many a window and deck, while from below his feet came the sound of singing, that brought on by drinking and carousing; Petrus seemed to know the place well, the owners too, for they had greeted him like a long-lost brother.
‘Your horse is downstairs being held by the innkeeper’s groom and with it a cloak, which even on a warm night I suggest you wear until you are clear of the city. It would not do to encounter a real excubitor and be exposed.’ A purse was handed over, which Flavius weighed, hardly surprised it was quite heavy. ‘More funds, I hope, than you will need.’
‘I tried on my old breastplate,’ Flavius said, wistfully, again fingering the one he was wearing, without knowing why he was telling this strange fellow something that could not be of interest to him. ‘Before you brought me here.’
‘And?’
‘It didn’t fit any more.’
He was surprised but pleased that Petrus got the drift of what he was seeking to imply.
‘The time will come when you can put all of your past behind you, Flavius, and pray to God it is soon. Shall we do that − pray?’
Flavius was then doubly surprised by what happened next, not seeing Petrus as in any way religious. Yet he was quick to kneel, uttered his supplications to the deities in a strong voice and with passion, which was only half as fervent as those he uttered when the youngster had departed, in which there was a degree of wailing and sobbing which took time to pass, for if he sinned readily, he was much assailed by the fear of damnation for doing so.
His mental self-flagellation complete he made his way downstairs to a room raucous with people enjoying themselves, where he called to the owner, asked him to engage a messenger and when that was provided, the fellow was sent off with a coin and a scroll to the villa of Pentheus Vicinus.
Flavius unwittingly rode past that same villa, exiting the city by the Blachernae Gate, and that with no trouble; people leaving the city, even after dark, were of little concern to the urban prefects. Once on the Via Gemina he put his mount into a canter, his mind ruminating on his mission, but also the notion that he might once more come upon Apollonia, the effect of those thoughts making his blood race. He made his first nightly stop, a government mansio only three leagues from the city, on a route in which he had to walk as much as ride in order not to overtire his mount, for the real pressure to hurry on his travels would begin on the next morning.
When Pentheus Vicinus received the message from Petrus, he called immediately for a covered chariot, as well as two of his most loyal retainers, men who normally patrolled the grounds at night. On this occasion they would be left unguarded, the mission they were on much more vital than looking after the senator’s property.
Petrus, having seared his soul, spent a happy night carousing, in what was a favourite tavern frequented by himself and a goodly number of his uncle’s officers. He particularly enjoyed the dancing performed by girls who were not too shy of exposing their flesh nor of suggestive choreography designed to fire the desires of the men in their audience. As company, Petrus preferred them to the staid and painted women that he was constantly being introduced to by his mother, with heavy hints at them being suitable brides with good dowries. He liked his women with the sweat of activity on them and little or no inhibitions.
He was in a room with two of them, sated and sound asleep when Flavius espied the twin lanterns that marked the entrance to the mansio where he would spend the night. How different it was to approach such a place with the means to enter,
to be greeted with grovelling obsequiousness by the man on night watch and have a bell rung to fetch someone to show him to a comfortable chamber. Knowing it would not be long till it was light again he lay down to sleep, removing only those things that made it uncomfortable, his excubitor breast- and backplate as well as his silver filigreed greaves and riding boots. Apollonia was much in his thoughts as he drifted off to sleep.
The watchman, who usually enjoyed a good and quiet night, was thinking that God had it in for him when a senator turned up and demanded entry. It was then he realised he had forgotten to tell that young excubitor something, but he was no doubt asleep now so it would have to wait; he would find out soon enough. Going back into his hutch he tried to do the same himself, cursing his disturbed night.
There was a commotion within the house, but the watchman was too far off to hear it and he had retired by the time Flavius awoke, to decline a bath, grab some fruit and, in a hurry, get back astride his horse and ride away. The two naked bodies found outside the perimeter of the mansio in wooded countryside were not connected to him, for they lay undisturbed for three days before discovery and that only came about because, in the late summer heat, they had begun to smell.
Who they were and where they had come from was never established, not that anyone tried very hard to find out, given they were very obviously, by their dress and features, people of no account. Likewise the senator had left in his covered chariot before cockcrow, not even stopping to eat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Flavius travelled faster than any official would have been required to do, almost as fast as an imperial messenger, but he had a mission, and the Via Gemina provided the means to move with alacrity; a constant ability to change his horse, taking one from a mansio stable to replace the one that he left behind and a willingness to suffer the aches of constantly being mounted. This brought him to the main foederati encampment in only seven days and on arrival he rode in through the gates in some style, unlike his previous encounter and, being on a horse and dressed as he was, albeit he was stopped, it was with respect.
The camp was nothing like as crowded as he recalled, hardly a surprise since many of those who had flocked to Vitalian’s banner in the cause of Chalcedon had gone off to their homes, or, in many of the cases he had heard, to a life where a roof over the head was seen as the lot of the more fortunate. When he asked to speak to Vitalian himself he was treated as an honoured messenger, disarmed and escorted to the timber-and-thatch structure that was part of his headquarters.
The general was entertaining his officers probably, to Flavius’s thinking, dining them on the proceeds of what had been gifted to him by Anastasius, when this messenger was brought in to see him and it was obvious to the youngster that most present were drunk, especially the leaders of the Gautoi mercenaries. With, they assumed, no enemy on the horizon that was not untoward; the message they received from Flavius made it less so, telling as it did the truth, not convenient lies. There would be no concessions to Chalcedon, instead the very reverse and with an army on the way under Hypatius intent on crushing them.
‘Who sends you to say this?’ demanded Diomedes, Vitalian’s second in command.
‘A friend.’
A very slurred voice shouted out in bad Latin, ‘Damn you, remove your helmet when you address our general!’
As he lifted his helmet from his head, simultaneously looking along the tables, he spied his late tribune Vigilius and noted the expression of disbelief on his face when he recognised this messenger.
‘Who is this friend?’
Flavius had no idea it was Diomedes who had made the demand, yet it was one, regardless, that left Flavius in a quandary; Petrus had made no mention of who he should say had sent him yet surely there was only one name that would convince those he was addressing that he was genuine, which, looking at the glowering suspicion to which he was being subjected, no one currently believed. Yet he had been sworn to secrecy, the two being incompatible.
‘I refuse to say, but he is a high official and one who knows and has fought alongside the man who commands you.’
That set off a cacophony of noise, some agreement, most derision, as well of cries of, ‘Name him!’
‘Why would anyone of rank send you?’
The soft voice first confused Flavius until he realised it had come from Vitalian; how could a man with a stentorian voice enough to address an army have such a quiet mode of expression in private? But what to say?
‘General, I know this man.’ All eyes turned to Vigilius, who had spoken out loudly, the question hanging in the air. ‘He was recently a decanus in my brigade.’
‘Dressed as an excubitor officer?’ someone said and uproar broke out, everyone talking at once and not, in a lot of cases, with much sense.
‘If I may be permitted to explain how this came about,’ Flavius shouted, trying and failing to make his voice heard.
Silence was only restored when Vitalian stood to command it and even then it was not immediate, but finally he could speak. ‘Hold, my friends, there are deep currents here and I am not sure with my brain a bit addled by wine I can see it straight.’
‘Chuck him in the latrine,’ one voice shouted to much raucous laughter.
‘Who will treat him as his guest tonight?’ Vitalian called. ‘For someone must. If he is dressed as he is then he is entitled to that courtesy.’
‘And if he lies?’ asked Diomedes.
‘Then he has no right to retain his head.’
‘I will share my hut with him.’
All eyes turned to Vigilius again, now standing, some mouthing ‘fool’, others too far gone in drink to see him properly.
‘You forgo, then,’ Vitalian responded, ‘the rest of the night’s revels.’
‘I accept that as forfeit.’
‘Then take this fellow, but be warned, Tribune, should he not be here to talk with me in the morning, when I might be able to assess the truth of what he is saying, your head is as much at risk as his own.’
The pair of Gautoi sentinels who had escorted him into the building were there to march him out, Vigilius needing to hurry to catch them, and having caught up he did not speak, merely directing the guards to his hut.
‘Best take station here, one of you,’ Vigilius demanded. ‘The other to go and tell the guard commander. You, inside.’
Flavius walked in to find the interior of the hut containing the same furnishings he had before observed at a distance, and close to they looked even more valuable. He was also aware that for some reason Vigilius was feeing awkward, as if he did not quite know how to act.
‘This,’ he said finally, ‘is very strange.’
‘To me as well as you, Tribune.’
‘You were a common soldier a few weeks past, a decanus for a brief period and now you turn up dressed as the commander of a numerus in the excubitor.’
‘I doubt you would believe me if I were to tell you.’
‘You’d better try, Flavius, if that is your true name, for I put myself forward to keep you from others who would now be trying to beat out of you the truth.’
‘I am Flavius Belisarius, the son of the imperial centurion of Dorostorum,’ he began, and as he continued he was aware that his listener was struggling to believe what he was being told, for he left nothing out and if Vigilius doubted what had gone before he was doubly sceptical of how Flavius concluded.
‘If, as you say, an army is coming by sea, it would have had to be set in motion before we ever arrived outside Constantinople.’
‘It may well have been, Tribune, but that I have no knowledge of.’
‘So I am expected to believe that our emperor was lying from the very outset?’
‘It would seem so.’
‘If I was to say to you, Flavius Belisarius, if indeed it be your name, that your tale is too fanciful to be credited, what would you counter that with?’
‘Is Forbas still with you?’ A nod. ‘Then ask him!’
The cen
turion was not happy to be dragged from his slumbers but it was an order he could not disobey. If Vigilius had been shocked by what he was presented with, Forbas was no less afflicted, but once his astonishment had subsided, he was able to remind his tribune that he had harboured doubts about Flavius from his first encounter.
‘You said he was not quite right, do you recall?’
‘I’d forgotten.’ When Flavius raised an eyebrow, Vigilius added, ‘You were not of much account to me.’
As they had talked, even before the arrival of Forbas, the sounds from the main building had grown louder, male yelling being mingled after a while with female shrieks; the officers were enjoying themselves and now it had risen to a crescendo.
‘Dancing girls,’ Forbas explained, when the noise rose. ‘At least, that’s what they term themselves.’
‘That’s not the cry of a woman,’ Flavius said.
There was a moment of disbelief, until another cry rent the air and it was definitely male and pained. Vigilius grabbed his weapon and led an unarmed Forbas out of his hut, Flavius following, and the first thing to see was the flames of the wooden camp perimeter well alight; it was under serious assault.
‘I need a sword,’ Flavius cried.
‘Then find a dead man who has one,’ Forbas shouted, ‘as I have to.’
What followed was mayhem; the officers to a man were drunk, there were half-naked females running in all directions making life, hard already, ten times more so. The assault was coming over one side of the camp and Flavius, having found a weapon and fighting alongside he knew not who, entered into the fray without being certain it was in his interests to do so.
The first real battle for someone so steeped in fighting lore was a disappointment and in later life part of an education used to good effect. Confusion was rife; sometimes he had no idea if he was fighting someone on his own side, not that he had one, or one of the people trying to overrun the camp. It was not numbers that drove the foederati and their Roman officers back, it was a lack of cohesion, added to the surprise achieved by the enemy.
