Vengeance

CHAPTER TWELVE

Justinus had heard no more of what the Emperor Anastasius had imparted to him nor did he show either by gesture or voice that he was in any way put out by the decision, merely sending word by fast messenger to his nephew that he should return to the capital. In the words used there was no expression of approval or regret and he went about his duties as if nothing had been said.

It was axiomatic at court that the suppression of any personal feelings was the only safe way to behave and if he felt sure that their conversations on the subject had been just between Anastasius and himself he could never be certain: no man could keep such a throne without being himself an intriguer.

There was rising tension within the imperial palace, growing daily, with news coming from southern Moesia of the activities of Vitalian, who had within the areas he controlled – those within reach of the army he commanded – removed several Monophysite bishops despite a direct instruction from the magister militum per Thracias not to do so. Not that the writ of that official, unpopular both as a satrap and a person, carried much weight with a count of the foederati, general to a strong body of mounted barbarian mercenaries.

Justinus was present in his official capacity as the council gathered to discuss what action to take and it was with a creeping sense of disquiet he listened to men who knew nothing about a man like Vitalian propose solutions that could only inflame matters. Chief among them were the three nephews of Anastasius – he had lost his only bastard son to a Hippodrome riot – who tended to compete with each other in order to ingratiate themselves, each vying to be named his successor.

It was instructive to watch such born courtiers – patricians by both birth and habit – deploy their arguments, each one showing a sensitivity, not to the problem under discussion but simply seeking to discern the effect their words had on their uncle and thus a reflection of their standing. The emperor had the unusual physical trait of different-coloured eyes, one being blue the other green – which had earned him the sobriquet Dicorus – said by some to be a sign of the devil, by others of divine approval, these in a face now lined with the ravages of age, loose flesh on the neck and jowls, the nose grown more prominent as had the sagging ears.

Yet it was an expressive face, so the slightest intimation that anything they put forward met with disapproval brought an immediate switch of tack; if a rival seemed to have struck a chord then that was the line taken by all. The rest of the imperial council – dozens in numbers and all men of shifting principles and profound self-interest – tended to let these nephews make the running until they could pick up which way the wind was blowing; it was then time to advance an opinion.

‘If the foederati cannot eat, Highness, they are scarce going to rebel,’ claimed Hypatius, the nephew Justinus reckoned most likely to succeed his uncle.

‘You suggest we deny them rations?’ Anastasius mused, in a way that showed it an idea that appealed to him, for while it would irritate Vitalian, it might not inflame matters to the point of a complete break.

‘Or the funds needed to purchase them,’ added the younger brother Pompeius, who had been advocating a totally different and more drastic point just moments before.

‘Not deny, Highness,’ Hypatius remarked, giving his brother a sideways glance full of bile. ‘Restrict. Empty bellies will provoke them, occasional hunger may not.’

‘And what if you are wrong?’ argued nephew three, the youngest and the dimmest. Probus was obviously thinking that clear blue waters between his cousins and himself might serve him well. What he got from Hypatius was a sneer and a winning rejoinder.

‘I cast only an opinion, Probus. I leave our emperor to take a decision that falls to him and I would not so traduce his wisdom to even suggest he might be in error.’

‘I meant-’

‘His Highness knows what you meant.’

‘We cannot be seen to give ground,’ Pompeius interjected, seeming to be clear now which way matters were likely to proceed, ‘to any general who opposes imperial edicts.’

Anastasius nodded very slowly, then looked around the glittering audience chamber, at his dozens of non-related courtiers, none of whom had as yet voiced an opinion and it looked as though none would, which Justinus found curious. Within that overstuffed body lay every vice known to man, but if they lacked sexual or financial morality they did not want for a degree of dexterity. It seemed obvious to the comes excubitorum that Anastasius was inclined to accept what was being proposed by Hypatius, to his mind like throwing a flaming torch into a vat of heated oil.

Sense dictated that some of them oppose such a dangerous policy but they seemed, by their lack of expression, to be in some way endorsing it and it was not difficult to find a reason why. For some, they knew they might be looking, in Hypatius, at the next emperor, so to rebut him was unwise. For others, who would reckon the nephew to be foolish, letting him have his head with a futile policy might be a good way to diminish him, given they would have views of their own on the succession, in several cases candidates from their own family.

Thus it was in the Roman Eastern Empire and it was no different in the West, now ruled by the barbarian Ostrogoth Theodoric, a man without an ounce of Rome in his being. There was no certainty to succession here or in Rome and even being strong militarily was not enough, so mere blood ties offered no guarantee. Any number of conflicting centres of power came into play on the death of an emperor so that it seemed more sheer chance than guiding principle decided the succession, Anastasius himself being a prime example.

‘Let it be so,’ declared the emperor after a long pause, indicating that he had given it due consideration. ‘It will do good to let the foederati be reminded of who it is who provides their meat, be it on the Persian border or in Moesia. If they do not like it let them go back from whence they came, where they will likely starve.’

That decided, a cacophony of noise erupted, as each man present sought the floor to propose to the emperor their full support, following on to advocate some project or point of their own outside the main discussion.

Lanterns were brought to the gloomy hut – if it was still day outside little light penetrated – and with them came that same trio of elders, this time with a monk in tow. Religion on the northern bank of the Danube was diverse, folk worshipping both their own pagan gods in a form of animism and Christianity as they chose, with no overarching authority to tell them who was right and who was damned. Fear of the latter and no certainty in either was inclined to have many of them worship both.

This divine, a disciple of St Basil, had for his faith travelled all the way from Syria across the empire, to preach to the pagan Sklaveni, while also administering to those he and his predecessors had converted, for this was a land the bishop of the southern bank left alone. He could read and write in both Greek and Latin, as well as now speak in the local tongue, so it was to him that the contents of Flavius’s sack were passed, read out to men who were probably not literate.

‘I could have done that for them,’ Flavius said when he realised what was happening.

‘Who says they would believe you?’

‘They would only have to look into my eyes to see I am telling the truth.’

‘Not those eyes,’ Ohannes jested, with a circular roll of a finger.

The testament of Decimus Belisarius was immediately handed over to Flavius, as soon as the monk had told the elders of its contents. Such things were of no interest to them, in stark contrast to the information contained in the letters to and from Justinus, evidenced by the noises emanating from the tight listening conclave, loud enough, given Flavius and Ohannes were sitting well away from the gathering, to cover a whispered conversation.

‘I think at least one, if not two of them have recognised their own names. My father listed those with whom he had dealings.’

‘Happen,’ came the laconic reply.

Yet again a question occurred to Flavius, one, like so many others, he realised he should have asked before. ‘Do you recognise any of them? You said you came over with my father when he dealt with them.’

‘I was never part of their talking, Master Flavius, that was done out of my sight. All I recall is that they were too mean of spirit to feed me even a bowl of meal.’

Voices were being raised. Flavius once more sensed dispute and Ohannes was in agreement, for both could guess there was more than one way to take advantage of what these barbarians had acquired. How much, for instance, would Senuthius pay to have a list of the charges against him as well as those who might bear witness in his possession? What if they gave him both the letters and the youngster who had spirited them away?

Throughout the ongoing arguments the monk sat silent – having finished his reading his opinion was not sought – yet both prisoners perked up when they heard him interject, softly but insistently, mentioning a very recognisable name to both prisoners, that of Bishop Gregory Blastos.

That the monk was held in some regard was clear by the way he was attended to, no one interrupting, but it was doubly frustrating for Flavius not to be able to understand what was being said. Here was a man he did not know and he had heard that, as a breed, monks could be just as saintly or just as venal as any other person who took to preaching the Gospels. The name Blastos recurred time and again but so even was the voice it was impossible to make out from his tone either approval or condemnation.

Then the discussion opened out, once more encompassing those tribal elders, voices rising and falling as views were expressed and countered, with the monk now listening in silence for what seemed an age, as if weighing up the case. Finally he spoke again, crossing himself as he did so, what he was imparting being received with nods from his audience. Eventually Dardanies, who had taken no part at all in the discussions, was spoken to and sent over to talk to them.

‘It has been decided that these letters must stay with us.’

‘No!’

Dardanies shook his head. ‘You do not have a choice in this, it has been decided.’

‘Why?’

It being Ohannes who had asked, the Sklaveni turned to him. ‘There is more than one reason. In your possession and once over the river …?’ That unfinished remark was followed by a shrug.

‘We might be taken?’

‘Which means that for us these letters are lost and so is any use they might be to the tribe.’

‘What was that monk saying?’

‘That the crimes of your bishop are greater than the crimes of your senator, for he has sinned against God and his holy vows.’

‘You don’t agree,’ Flavius said, ‘I can sense it by your tone.’

‘Senuthius is a greater threat to us than Blastos, who is in truth no threat at all. But men steeped in religion only see things as eternal. Yet it is he who advised they be retained by us and in that he is right.’

His mind working furiously, Flavius could think of no way to counter this and it was beyond maddening. If he had not formulated any definite plan, even before they had crossed the river, it had been his intention to somehow be present when the people sent from Constantinople arrived in Dorostorum, ready to provide his father’s evidence and encourage those who had intimated they might stand witness to step forward and do so.

Primarily he needed to be there to see the downfall of the man responsible for the death of his family. In his imagination he had pictured himself as the person who, hammer in hand, nailed Senuthius to the stake at which he would be burnt, able to see the terror of the forthcoming conflagration in his eyes. In his mind now he could almost hear the flames licking the spitting lard from that oversized body but even more vital than the satisfaction of that, he would have fulfilled his father’s mission and sent to hell his enemy.

Such dreaming had survived being captured, strengthened by the decision of the Sklaveni tribal elders: he would get back to the southern bank with their aid, and yes he would head south. But he had then envisaged a point at which he would be free to act to his own dictates and if the means had been vague his intention had been definite. Added to that he needed to tell to the commission the truth of what had happened to his father and brothers and how they had been deliberately sacrificed.

‘Would it be possible to have them copied?’

The pause was long before Dardanies replied. ‘I will ask.’

Another clash, more waving of arms and then Dardanies was back again. ‘No, but it has been agreed that should you return to Dorostorum in a position to make use of them, and they are still unknown to our enemies, then they will be given over to you.’

‘Take it, Master Flavius,’ Ohannes said forcibly, as he saw the youngster was set to once again protest, effectively silencing Flavius, who looked far from pleased.

Dardanies spoke quickly. ‘Now it is time to eat, for we cross the river tonight and we need to be well away from the southern bank come daylight.’

‘Are you going to eat too?’

‘I am, and at the same time I must say goodbye to those who will miss my presence.’

‘Children?’

A nod, then a grimace. ‘It would be mocking the gods to say to them that I fear to die saving the life of a Roman.’

Flavius puffed out his chest. ‘It might be that it is I who will save you.’

There was a terrible feeling of remembrance when Dardanies replied and he did so while exiting the hut doorway, using precisely the same words as those employed by the armed and ready to fight brother Cassius. ‘You’re too young.’

When he returned Dardanies brought with him a sack of food of the kind that would be of use on a journey; dried and smoked meat as well as three skins containing rough wine, enough for several days. He also brought the money he had removed, giving the purses back to Flavius.

‘We will need to buy food, not that it will last with three mouths to feed.’

‘Take one,’ the youngster responded, touching a face now washed. ‘It cannot always fall to me to buy things, especially if my face can be recognised.’

‘Those black eyes will fade in time.’

‘The sooner the better,’ was the opinion of Ohannes.

‘Recall how they came about, friend.’

‘Friend?’ the Scythian remarked.

‘What else could you be?’ Flavius responded, his voice cracking and not from his age. ‘There is no Belisarius house now, so what need of a domesticus?’

‘There will be again, take my word on it.’

‘You can see into the future, Ohannes?’

For the first time Flavius saw the older man cross himself. ‘If my prayers are answered.’

‘The monk has returned with me,’ Dardanies said, indicating the open doorway. ‘He wishes to bless our journey.’

Standing, Flavius picked up his leather armour and in the lantern light the decoration on the breastplate flashed, which got him a hard look from Dardanies, returned in good measure by the youngster. If it was a silent exchange it was to make a clear point: such an article was like a beacon by which, never mind his face and the blemishes that still disfigured it, he could be recognised. Stubbornly, Flavius was saying that to him it was vital he take it.

‘I know where we will find some sacking in which to wrap it and keep it hidden.’

The trio filed out to find the monk waiting outside and at a sign both Flavius and Ohannes fell to their knees, the Sklaveni remaining apart and upright. The monk mumbled prayers over the pair and again a flash of memory assailed Flavius. Gregory Blastos had been the last person to do this and it was an unwelcome image to conjure up when seeking divine intervention on what was found to be a journey full of hazard.

With much effort he pushed that out of his mind and tried to concentrate on the faces of his father and brothers, so that his prayers should be for their souls and not just for his survival, though he quickly remembered to include Ohannes. Should he also do the same for Dardanies, who clearly did not believe in a Christian god? It seemed churlish not to do so; one day he might see the light of revelation.

The route they took to the shore was different to that by which they had come to the hut and when they got to the riverbank there was a boat waiting with two other men beside it. Obviously they would row them across and come back, which would obviate the need to leave a strange craft on the southern bank or hidden in the trees, where it risked being discovered and setting off a search.

‘Do they know who I am?’ Flavius asked.

‘They will guess, but they are my brothers, so will say nothing for fear that I might come to harm.’

‘You are lucky to have brothers.’

‘Not all the time,’ Dardanies replied. If he picked up the catch in the throat from Flavius he ignored it, too busy looking up to the sky, now growing increasingly dark as the last of the light faded on the western horizon and the stars that littered the sky began to glow. ‘Sometimes brothers are a trial.’

‘Never enough to wish to be without them.’

‘Time to go and no more talking till we are well into the woods. There is some sacking and rope in the boat, wrap up that armour good and tight.’

They pushed the boat into the river and clambered in, the brothers of Dardanies taking the oars and plying them with strong and effective strokes. Flavius, as he bound what had come to be his prized possession, making a sling by which he could loop it over his back, sought to catch their eyes, there being enough reflected light off the water to make their faces visible. They made a point of avoiding looking at him; it was as if to do so was to bring down on them and their brother some kind of curse.

The crossing was near to direct and was obviously to a place previously selected, the boat eventually grounding on one of those pebble strands that had been so useful to both he and Ohannes when they had been running from the dogs. Once out, Flavius and the Scythian stood while Dardanies embraced his brothers, then he reached into the boat and produced two swords with sheaths and belts, these quickly tied around their waists, that followed by two spears, all wordlessly handed over, Flavius being sure he saw a shake of the head from one brother, to say that arming he and Ohannes was unwise.

At a gesture they set off, each with a food sack over their shoulders, straight into the seeming darkness of the woods, yet it was not as Flavius first thought a foolish move. The canopy above their heads was quite sparse and so let in, if not light, a view of the mass of stars and, hard on the heels of Dardanies, he knew the Sklaveni was following a route, one that he and his kind had taken before. He gave the impression of having passed along this way often, which had Flavius wondering how many times the Sklaveni had come across the river to use this very path, prior to a lightning foray of the kind that had been commonplace. If he was dying to ask he could not, both for the sake of silence and the notion that it would be an unwise question to pose. Better not to comment, just to remember.