Honour

CHAPTER EIGHT

The first manned outposts protecting Vitalian heartlands were more than a full league from the main camp, precautions the general took to avoid being surprised. That had happened three years previously when Anastasius had sent an army under his nephew Hypatius to both surprise and chastise the rebellion, this at the same time as he was talking peace and reconciliation, a melee in which Flavius had inadvertently become embroiled.

The small rough and wooden stockade was manned by foederati, large men, with long blond hair and fearsome bodily decoration who hailed from a far northern Germanic tribe called the Gautoi. Terrible in battle, such men could also be hard to control; once the killing began, their lust for blood made it hard for any commander to bring them to order and sometimes they had been known, when engaged in one of their epic drinking bouts, to slay people just for sport. Vitalian had managed to keep them under tight control in the past; was that still the case now?

Given the Excubitors were clearly military and not of the rebellious army it was not worth taking a chance, especially since the whole Gautoi contingent was hauled out with their arms to face them as soon as they were sighted. Ahead of Flavius lay a straight road leading to their small stockade. There was a barrier, too, where local trade would be halted and taxed for passage, this to augment the pay Vitalian must provide to keep what were mercenary soldiers both happy and loyal.

In reflecting on this long rebellion, while acknowledging it to have proved fruitless so far, there had to be admiration for the mere fact of keeping it alive, this in the face of repeated failures to force the Emperor Anastasius to modify his stance on Monophysite dogma. To march on Constantinople and be rebuffed the first time had taken a massive effort of will; to repeat that in the face of disappointment required a great deal of charisma, for if these foederati formed the backbone of his forces they were insufficient to present any threat to the far more numerous imperial troops.

Every time he marched Vitalian had been required to raise a sizeable army from within the dissident Diocese of Thrace, a few trained soldiers but mostly idle or angry peasants. If most of those men were fired by their religion it still took great ability to tap into that zeal and gather them together to repeatedly disturb the public peace. Flavius, marching in the first rebellion, had carried his own purpose — he sought revenge for his family — but he well remembered how many of his compatriots were willing to risk their lives for the right to worship within the tenets agreed at the Council of Chalcedon. There were, of course, others who marched in search of plunder, men quite willing to cloak themselves in pious fervour to gain access to possible booty.

Flavius halted his party well beyond spear-throwing distance and, handing over the reins of his own packhorse, he rode forward alone to give his name and his purpose, first dismounting then seeking permission for him and his men to ride on and deliver the message he carried to their general, that swiftly denied.

‘No force bearing arms is allowed to approach the main camp.’

‘I would not proceed without them.’

It was not just pride that had Flavius declare such a stance; once inside the perimeter created to protect Vitalian he would be at the mercy of the type of men before him and he was wary of trusting them. They might reckon to have more to gain by delivering his severed head than his whole person.

‘Then I bid you carry a message that the tribunos Flavius Belisarius wishes an audience with General Vitalian. He will know that his old enemy Anastasius is no more. I come on behalf of the Emperor Justin to offer peace and an amnesty for past misdeeds.’

‘I’ve heard that name, Belisarius,’ was the response, delivered in bad Latin.

‘Then you will know it as one who has fought at your side.’

‘Who perhaps betrayed us and now wears the armour of our enemies?’ There was no point in seeking to deny that so he sat in silence until the Gautoi spoke again. ‘Peace?’

That question set up a murmur in the whole file this man commanded, leaving Flavius to wonder if the notion of peace might be unwelcome to men who earned their living by war. If this lot had any religious feelings they would be pagan, not Christian, so they would be indifferent to either dogma. He had no right to make promises on behalf of Justin but he needed to say something reassuring, even if the amnesty he brought applied only to Vitalian, his sons and his officers.

‘It is time to welcome the Thracian foederati back into the imperial army.’

Which basically meant regular food and pay, as well as a chance of fighting and spoils, which they would not be getting now. If it was a loose commitment it was sufficient.

‘Your message will be sent and you may wait within the stockade if you wish.’

‘We will wait where we are and I require that the general sends back to me an escort from his comitatus.’

Which meant his personal guard, not Gautoi. Once back with his own, Flavius increased the distance between his men and the stockade by several stades, and if they dismounted there was no relaxation. Two men were sent even further back with the pack animals while the remainder stood to with their spears at the ready, mounts by their side to give the impression they were prepared to give battle. Not that Flavius would do so; they might be matched in numbers but he doubted his Excubitors could stand in close combat against such fearsome warriors. Their horses were left saddled and ready for flight.

If the response was not swift there was no way of telling why. Was the man sent to advise him of this request just taking an interminable time or was the wily Vitalian deliberating, weighing the odds of refusal against agreement. Having been previously the victim of much imperial underhandedness he was bound to be cautious about allowing armed men in to his inner defences. The key was the name of the messenger; he knew Flavius and had some reason, it was hoped, to hold him as trustworthy.

The body of cavalry who appeared — their noisy hooves had signalled their coming — were recognisably comitatus, personal troops committed to their general not just for pay but also bound by ties of blood or deep loyalty.

Originally a German concept it was another sign of the way the Romans adopted the habits of their enemies, so that now every general had such a body, men who would never leave his side unless expressly ordered to do so. They could also be the shock troops of his army, for they tended to a discipline and cohesion rare in mounted warriors and were often led or thrown into battle at key moments.

The barrier was to allow through a single rider and once he was close Flavius recognised Marcus Vigilius, the man who had been his tribune on that first march to the capital. The greeting was cautious rather than friendly but the message was welcome: he was there to escort them to the main camp.

‘How will we be received?’ Flavius asked, once he and his soldiers were both reunited and mounted.

‘Guardedly.’

‘He can trust the word of the man who sent me.’

The response was sharp. ‘Vitalian no longer trusts anyone!’

Handsome and from a rich patrician family, Vigilius had aged since last seen. There were lines in a face that had previously lacked blemish and the skin around the eyes was now creased and the whole had a weary look. Flavius wanted to ask how he fared and what had happened since they last met but Vigilius’s attitude did not invite enquiry.

If his old tribune had aged that was as nothing to his leader. Vitalian seemed to have shrunk; though not tall, his once square shoulders were slightly rounded, the face cratered and the cheeks sunken, far from the commanding visage Flavius remembered. Also, he displayed an attitude that spoke of a burden too heavy to carry, not of a cause full of promise. With an acute eye, as they rode into the main encampment, Flavius had sensed decline; there was no feeling of fervour in the dull looks he got from those armed men he rode past and even the segment occupied by the camp followers, gimcrack huts and tents, seemed to be on the perish.

He was afforded no chance to address Vitalian alone; the rebel commander met the dismounted messenger flanked by two of his sons, Bouzes and Coutzes, now grown to full manhood and obviously, by their attitude and bearing, now raised to positions of command. This trio was surrounded by Vitalian’s senior adherents, each of whom led their own groups, men Flavius also remembered from his last visit to this camp and it was evident that these were fewer in number than hitherto. Yet when Vitalian spoke, it was with a well-recalled strength of voice; if he looked diminished he did not sound so.

‘So, my old comrade Justinus has grabbed the diadem?’

‘Justin was the choice of the old imperial council, then presented to the citizens and acclaimed emperor in the Hippodrome.’

‘By a mob that would be as quick to tear him limb from limb.’

‘They were ecstatic, General. He is a good man and will make a fair-minded ruler.

‘Justin?’

‘His Imperial Highness wishes to be seen as the ruler for all citizens of empire, Greek and Roman.’

‘Barbarians too?’ Flavius nodded for it was a pointless question. ‘Just as well, given his bloodline. You’ve changed, Flavius Belisarius, grown up.’

‘If I may come to my purpose?’

There was a pause before Vitalian acceded to that, giving the impression that he knew what was coming — it could not be otherwise — and it not being fully welcome. A new emperor would only send a messenger on one resolve, to secure an end to this rebellion, and Flavius could understand the feeling that acceptance of such could be seen as capitulation.

But any impressions he had were of no account; he had his instructions and he delivered them as he should. The dispute on dogma was laid to rest, there would be no further repression of Chalcedony and any bishops or priests deposed from their diocese or churches by Anastasius would be reinstated forthwith. Vitalian and his officers should come to Constantinople where Justin would offer them the hand of amity as well as an amnesty for past misdeeds.

‘Or lop off my head?’ Vitalian grunted, his head turning to make the point to those around him. ‘To be set on a pike atop the Golden Gate, perhaps.’

‘If you believe that, then is it not my head that will adorn your gate? The Emperor wants this rebellion to end and not just for reasons of dogma but also of a remembered friendship. He desires to welcome you back into the fold where he assures me he would welcome your close counsel.’

‘Assures you, Flavius? My, how you have risen, and of such tender years too.’

He’s playing a part, Flavius thought, pretending to this gallery that there is an alternative when the whole impression of this encampment is one of a failed enterprise, it being nothing like it had been before, with boundless enthusiasm for a righteous cause. Even in extremis, when Hypatius and his army threatened, there had been an air of purpose. If he had inspired rebellion before, could Vitalian raise himself to do so again and for a fourth time? Flavius felt in his bones he could not.

‘And if I decline?’

‘General, I carry no threat. I have not been ordered to deal with such a consequence for the every simple reason that Justin cannot conceive it would be necessary. He invites you to the capital and will meet you in person.’

‘Outside the walls?’

Flavius knew where that question came from; on the first investiture of Constantinople, Anastasius had invited Vitalian and his officers to enter the city to treat for an accommodation. His subordinates had agreed and emerged impressed, safe and loaded with gold, as well as committed to the lifting of the siege. Vitalian had not, on the very good grounds that had he done so none of them would have emerged alive.

‘That is for His Imperial Highness to decide.’

‘It shall stick in my craw to address him so.’

That was a relief, for if it was not couched as such, it hinted at acceptance. ‘I think you will find it easier than you suppose, for he wears his station lightly.’

‘And when am I to be afforded this privilege?’

‘It is at your convenience but it is hoped that you will return with me and my men.’

‘Like a prisoner?’

He was playing to the crowd again and it was time to neutralise that. ‘The offer of amnesty applies to you, sir, and those you choose to lead your men.’

‘To counsel him?’

‘Perhaps to fight for the empire and not against it.’

‘Posts for all.’

‘Possibly.’

‘I would want that assured.’

‘Then I repeat, meet Justin and let him be the one to convince you, since I cannot commit him to anything other than my mission allows.’

‘You come in peace, Flavius, and will be treated as an honoured guest. But you must wait for your reply till I have discussed the offer with those who counsel me.’ His head spun to one side. ‘Vigilius, you have played host to this young man before, oblige me by doing so once more.’

‘My men and their mounts? They must be catered for before I am given comfort.’

That got the first smile; he was a good general who took care of his own men and he was clearly happy that Flavius felt likewise. ‘Vigilius, make it so.’

That his Excubitors were nervous was natural; they were ten men wearing imperial uniform, surrounded by what were still enemies and numerous, men who might not wait to ask what dogma they subscribed to before cutting their throats. Vigilius, once their horses had been fed and watered, with a couple of willing, young camp followers brought forth to groom them, led them to a communal tent, close to a long, low, wooden hut that was the general’s own quarters, then surrounded that with guards. Once food was brought to them and that dished out Flavius could do no more.

It spoke a great deal that Vigilius then led him to a tent of his own, albeit a beautifully appointed one, richly furnished, he being the son of a wealthy senatorial family, already with guards outside as befitted his rank. To still be under canvas after all this time drove home how temporary the whole rebellion was. Vitalian might hold sway over much of Northern Thracia, he might be able to tax its citizens and recruit its men, dispense justice and enforce its edicts, but there was no permanence. What he had here counted for little; what he needed lay in Constantinople and try as he might he could not get at it.

Food was brought to this tent as well, to be eaten off fine plate and washed down with good wine. Flavius found himself subject to gentle interrogation and if there was some genuine interest in his time fighting on the Persian frontier that was only a mask to allow Vigilius to probe into his reasons for being here and what he had left behind. The tale he told of the rise of Justin to the purple was only partially true; the devious machinations of Petrus were not mentioned so it was made to sound as if there had been no opposition to the elevation and no alternative candidates.

His host had never met Justin/Justinus and had, it seemed, barely heard of him, so much delving arose related to the imperial character, and as Flavius described him he was aware that it sounded too good to be real. Yet the man was a good and successful soldier and so honest he had difficulty in telling a lie without blushing. He had been loyal to Anastasius when he was alive and revered his memory now, even if it was plain he had never agreed with the policy against Chalcedon.

‘You make him sound like a paragon, Flavius.’

‘If I do, then it is because I cannot do otherwise, which is what I expect you to tell Vitalian when he questions you as you have queried me.’

That got a wry smile. ‘Are you going to tell me what I should say?’

‘If I was it would be to this effect. The general who commands you has served with Justin before. If he remembers the man from then, you could not say better than that he is the very same now.’ With that he stood. ‘I must make a last visit to my men.’

‘Then I must accompany you. The foederati will have been at their brew and that makes them dangerous.’

The vague noise of singing, which had penetrated the walls of the tent, became louder as they made their way through the encampment and being wistful it could hardly be reckoned as threatening. Vigilius explained if the Gautoi began their recitals with mournful ballads of their homeland, it would later turn to raucous renditions to the deeds of heroes and death to their foes.

‘If it gets out of hand, then Vitalian must personally soothe them, for they are fiercely loyal to him as their leader.’

‘No wonder he looks weary if he must attend to that every night.’

‘It is not every night.’

The sound was a backdrop to the carrying out of his final task for the day. When Vigilius suggested he return to his quarters to sleep, Flavius politely refused; he would stay with those he led and share their cots, this before he commanded his men to keep their weapons close by them throughout the night, as would he.

If the passing of the hours of darkness were noisy there was no threat of danger. Flavius woke to the sound of the guards being changed. He rose from his cot to observe that being carried out and to reassure himself that it was men of the right kind. Morning brought food, the means to wash and shave as well as a message for him to attend upon Vitalian when he was ready.

Again the general surrounded himself with his inferior commanders, making Flavius wonder if there was a lack of complete trust. It was something of a thought to hold on to and possibly pass on as Vitalian, having rehearsed his grievances and theirs, finally got to the point.

‘No man has the right to fight without just cause, therefore it is incumbent upon me to test the goodwill of my one-time comrade and see if his sudden rise has altered his character.’ There was yet again that inclusive turn before he came back to look Flavius hard in the eye. ‘But I will do so not only in the company of my sons and my officers but with my army at my back, and I will not accede to anything that favours me yet does not do likewise for them.’

‘So be it,’ Flavius replied.

Vitalian seemed to grow then, to become something of his old self, as in a loud and commanding voice he ordered that the camp be broken. ‘We depart at dawn!’

‘Which means that he is not at liberty to make a peace of his own. If he does, I think his officers will kill him.’

His audience with Justin was a private one; not even Petrus was in attendance, though Flavius had found enough time to relate to him what had occurred before being called into the private imperial chamber. He gave his report still with the muck of several days march upon him, having come south with Vitalian to only part company when the rebel army was outside the walls and setting up yet again a siege camp, albeit their numbers made such a notion risible.

‘Should I go out to meet him?’

‘I doubt he will enter the city, but if you do so, Highness, I would take as many archers as you can muster.’

‘No,’ Justin mused. ‘I can see why you think it wise, Flavius, but I am a soldier still. To get what I want means the taking of risks, though I will make sure I am on a fleet-of-foot horse. If there is trickery, it is best shown without the walls. Once inside it would be impossible to detect.’

That took Flavius back to that hurried conversation with Petrus who, if he had listened, was also full of enough worry and barely suppressed anger to speak. Justin was having trouble imposing himself on the officials he had inherited from Anastasius and the palace was seething with scheming, his nephew certain that some were openly plotting against the imperial person, furious that he would not do what was necessary.

‘He will not remove them?’ Flavius had asked.

‘That is not how you deal with treachery. When you are faced with a snake, the best way to rid yourself of it is to cut off its head, but what does my uncle do? He wants to introduce another reptile into his presence and promises to hold him close.’

Justin did not go out to meet Vitalian entirely naked; he deployed the gloriously accoutred Scholae Palatinae, a unit that revelled in the opportunity to display themselves and appear as what they should have been: an effective imperial mounted bodyguard, to which Petrus remarked, ‘God help us if it all if goes wrong, because those overperfumed oafs will not.’

They were halted halfway between the walls and the point at which Vitalian waited, while Justin rode on with only Flavius Belisarius and a decharchia of Excubitors to protect his person. When close he dismounted and Vitalian responded likewise, the two closing to engage in a private conversation. No one was sure of what was being said for there seemed no physical sign of either amity or dispute.

Finally, Vitalian took a step back, to spin round and stride out to close with and face his troops. The distance meant the words he used to address them were rendered indistinct to the likes of Flavius, but the final effect, if it was some time in coming, was stunning. As one, the entire rebellious army withdrew their swords then knelt, each one held out in submission. Vitalian did likewise until Justin closed the gap and raised him up to be taken in a tight and brotherly embrace.

The cheers were from the walls as well as from those Vitalian had led there and they lasted all the way through the Golden Gate and up the Triumphal Way as, on foot, Justin led his old comrade to his palace. It hardly seemed to matter that his army, officers included, was left outside.