Vengeance

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The delegation from Vitalian would be met by a mounted escort and brought along the Triumphal Way, no doubt an object of much curiosity to a crowd of citizens. Justinus had been ordered to parade the entire excubitor corps in order to greet the delegation, which meant his soldiers had spent hours in special preparation and all were inspected before they were deployed, not only lining the avenue that led from the Triumphal Way to the palace gates and the portico of the entrance that also served as that for the imperial senate house; inside the building they were spaced along the corridors, their breastplates freshly oiled and polished, the plumed-ridge helmets gleaming, especially the silver decorations that marked them out as bodyguards to the emperor.

The even more gorgeously accoutred officers were there at intervals, and thanks to the duties they had been obliged to undertake to ensure their sections were up to the mark, none were bleary-eyed from a night of debauchery. Their commander had taken station on the portico steps and was there to greet the rebels, as was Pentheus Vicinus. The very obvious fact of Vitalian’s non-presence was already known, which had caused Petrus to praise the general’s wisdom for not, as he put it, ‘Laying his head in the lion’s cage, with a beefsteak for a helmet.’

Anastasius was likewise dressed for the occasion, the sparkling jewel-studded imperial diadem upon his brow, the garments he wore purple, the devices upon them traced out in heavy and awesome amounts of gold thread. His throne, of worked precious metals surmounted by imperial eagles, sat on a raised dais, as did he until the embassy from Vitalian entered the audience chamber, at which point he stood and stiffly descended the steps to greet his visitors in a show of friendship and seeming humility, that answered by deep bows.

‘How did we come to this?’ he asked, his old voice, rather reedy now, full of sorrow.

‘Because you are an aged dolt,’ Petrus whispered, so low no one could hear him.

‘We shall talk,’ Anastasius continued, ‘and being of goodwill I am sure that what divides us can be bridged.’

He followed that by a clap of his hands, which brought into the chamber servants bearing trays on which there were gifts, objects of gold and silver, cups, chains that had talismans and medals attached, these distributed by the emperor with his own hands to men for whom, judging by their expressions, such wealth was overwhelming.

‘A few small tokens of my esteem and be assured that should we resolve our differences there will be much for you to take back, not least to General Vitalian, who by your presence clearly trusts you to judge if what we conclude meets the needs of those you lead. I ask you to accompany me to a less public place, where we may speak our minds freely and I adjure you to pay no attention to my imperial dignity.’

‘We would never assume to offend that, Highness,’ said Vitalian’s second in command.

‘Then let us proceed to talk, Diomedes, for I sense in you a man who is looking for conciliation.’

Petrus was whispering to himself again, as Anastasius swept out of the audience chamber, trailed by a group of courtiers, which included Pentheus Vicinus. ‘Flatter one, divide from the others, who will seek your favour, you old goat.’

If there was a slur on the imperial character in his musings, there was also a bit of admiration. It had been a fine gesture to get up from his throne and come down to meet Vitalian’s representatives, but where they might have seen humility Petrus saw nothing but condescension.

It was telling no one else departed from an audience chamber now cut off from what was being discussed, a place that became a buzz of useless speculation. Every possible outcome was aired, including the notion that all that waited in private for these men was a bloody execution. This had many an eye searching for the comes excubitorum, who by his absence added fuel to that kind of conjecture.

Justinus had departed but in the other direction, to stand down those troops who had no need to maintain their station in the heat of a day that would, as the sun reached its zenith, turn unbearable, with the caveat to his officers that they must stay fully dressed and be kept standing by in the cool of their barracks, given he had no idea when they would be required to parade again.

‘And change the men in the corridors every double glass. Added to that I want a messenger outside my quarters and one to keep watch on the room in which they are talking. If anyone emerges I need to know, and if the emperor leads it will be everyone back to their stations.’

‘You do not see, Uncle, that is one of the things your officers esteem you for, your attention to the well-being of the guard.’

‘Only one thing, Petrus?’

His nephew smiled, which reminded the older man that when he did so it was not an expression to warm many a heart. With its sideways lift it tended to look like the precursor to something sly or insulting.

‘If I was to tell you all of what they say it would bring you to the blush, given you so hate anything that smacks of flattery.’

‘As long as they do as they are commanded I rest content, I need no more.’

‘I am sure they will obey whatever order you choose to give them, now or …’

That got Petrus a hard look, for it hinted at the future not the present. ‘Perhaps I should gift a few with a good lashing, just so they know I am not easy prey.’

‘I know one or two of your officers who take pleasure in such things and are willing to pay for the service. Give it to them gratis and they will be yours forever.’

‘Has it ever occurred to you to mix with people with a higher set of morals, or indeed any at all?’

‘It has occurred, Uncle, but then I recall how dreary such people are, and so I do not seek their company.’

‘Your mother complains to me often that I do not rein you in.’

‘Do you wish to?’

Justinus smiled. ‘We are all judged in the final accounting by God, Petrus. If you wish to go to perdition in your own way, who am I to prevent you.’

‘For which I thank you: having one father is bad enough, two would be … shall we settle on Hades, where perhaps I will be allowed to atone and then proceed, cleansed, to paradise.’

There was jocularity in that, but Justinus knew that underneath the displayed cynicism his nephew could display the attributes of the deeply religious. Given that sat uncomfortably with the way he lived his life, his uncle could only assume the young man was conflicted, wishing to stay pure but unable to resist temptation. Also Petrus was ambitious, though that too tended to fluctuate between what he saw as his duty set against those moments when the seizing of opportunity became his priority, tempered by the fear of acting in a manner seen as precipitate.

The way he assiduously courted the officers of the excubitor might just be for the purposes of entertainment in what he saw as good company. Yet there was possibly another motive and his normally sanguine uncle sometimes allowed darker thoughts to enter into his thinking, the notion that if there was an altogether deeper purpose, it might not be inimical to his own well-being.

‘So, Petrus, what will Anastasius offer these men?’

‘You think I know, Uncle?’

‘I have often thought you can read the imperial mind.’

‘Difficult,’ Petrus chortled, ‘given the singular lack of comprehensible text.’

‘Let us test your appreciation against what transpires.’

‘Am I being tested?’

‘You may decline to respond if you wish, I have no right to demand anything of you in this regard.’

Justinus, having pricked his vanity, looked down to hide his smile at a set of papers compiled by his nephew that he could not read, covering the move by reaching for his stencil. This was an object made for him by Petrus so that he could sign his written orders. Sometimes as he ran the quill through the stencil he wondered if he should employ another scribe, perhaps even just to tell him that what his nephew had written was what he had dictated, only to dismiss it ? that was a route to not trusting two people, added to which a palace scribe would go gossiping all over the place, which was no way to keep hidden from anyone what he thought.

‘He will seek time, offer them concessions, ply them with gold and try to convince them to persuade Vitalian that there is no longer any purpose in revolt.’

‘Expensive?’

‘Cheap for an old skinflint who has amassed so much gold that the treasury struggles to contain it. He must have ten times what Zeno left him.’

‘Well,’ Justinus replied, ‘let us see if you are right.’

He reached for his galea, polished bronze with patterns of silver and gold, embedded with flashing coloured glass, having become aware of a certain amount of commotion, running footsteps and folk calling out. His supposition that something had happened in the negotiations proved correct when, after a loud knock, one of his officers opened the door.

‘The emperor is preparing to come out, sir.’

‘Alone?’ asked Petrus mischievously of a man he knew well, which got him a grin.

‘No blood, more’s the pity.’

‘The guards,’ Justinus barked.

‘Are all in place in the audience chamber and the corridors.’

‘Make sure the rest are ready to line the avenue.’

‘Sir!’

Petrus had it to the last dot, a fact not known to the likes of Flavius for a whole day. A time in which, having seen their officers return and observed that they came laden with what could only be imperial gifts – they were hidden from sight by sackcloth – they all spent hours wondering what had been agreed, if anything.

The only distraction from that came by seeking diversions, most of his men in the temporary taverns and brothels set up between their camp and the walls, in Flavius’s case by a visit to Apollonia for what had become the swift and excruciating pleasure of relief, given half his day was spent in anticipation.

‘You do not seem happy to lay with me?’

‘I am,’ she insisted in a husky voice that was less than convincing, avoiding his eye by pulling him down in a close embrace.

He did not truly believe her; the coupling they had just engaged in was nothing like the first time. Yet Flavius was reluctant to challenge what she said by pointing out the difference between her eagerness then and what seemed close to meekness now, convincing himself that to speak would hurt her feelings. It would be a long time before he admitted the truth to himself: that his own desires and gratification were of such paramount concern as to overcome any feeling of selflessness.

‘Now we know where he sneaks off to.’

The voice of Helias had Flavius jumping to his feet and pulling at his leggings to cover his nakedness, leaving a confused Apollonia on her back wondering what was going on.

Tzitas spoke next. ‘Do you think he’d spare us a go?’

‘He might,’ was the hopeful response.

‘What in the name of the devil are you doing here?’ Flavius demanded, as Apollonia, embarrassed if not actually shamed, rolled on her side and pulled down her smock to conceal her nakedness.

‘Just out for a saunter, Decanus.’

He wanted to shout at Helias, indeed both of them, for they were grinning like a pair of baboons, but it is hard to stand upon your dignity when you have just been spotted with your leggings round your ankles and your bare arse visible to the world. As he tried to speak, he heard a sob.

‘Look what you have done,’ he barked.

‘Not half of what you have done,’ Tzitas snorted, ‘and even less fun.’

‘This was not fun,’ he cried reaching down to comfort Apollonia, only to realise how stupid that sounded. With his back to his tormentors he spoke softly to her. ‘Go back to your mama. I will come tomorrow and make it up to you, I promise.’

She was up and running so quickly he could not catch her smock to restrain her, so he turned around and glared. ‘I’ll make you pay for this.’

‘We’d rather pay for what you just had, Flavius.’

He wanted to strike Helias, they were of a height and he was unsure what stopped him. Possibly, he was to tell himself, because a superior does not physically strike an inferior; if he needs to punish him there are official ways to secure that. It did not always hold water; there was always the nagging suspicion that he had backed away from a scrap he might not win, for if he had struck Helias there was no doubt in his mind that the ranker would have fought back.

Just then the horns blew to summon every man in the camp and since Helias and Tzitas were already running he could do nothing more than follow. It was not Forbas this time ? the call to assemble came from Vitalian himself and so they lined up in front of his oration platform, eager to hear what he had to say, knowing it had to do with their purpose.

On the same platform stood all of his senior officers, those who had gone to meet the emperor as well as the many who had not, and Flavius examined their faces seeking to get some kind of drift of what was to come. Then Vitalian spoke, in his strong carrying voice, to tell them that Anastasius had seen the error of his edicts on dogma and had agreed terms, which he then outlined: freedom to worship according to Chalcedon, all bishops removed from their diocese to be reinstated, a gift of money from the imperial treasury ? enough to get them back from whence they came.

That made the examination of those behind Vitalian more acute, as Flavius sought evidence of disagreement; had the emperor really given way so easily, was he not secure enough behind his great walls to defy the host before them? While he was speculating on this his fellow soldiers were cheering and he realised how relieved they were and had to be open about his own emotions. For all his bluster about looking forward to battle, he had harboured no great desire to attack the defences of Constantinople and die seeking to overcome those walls.

Some of those to the rear of Vitalian looked downcast; clearly they were not in agreement and his own tribune Vigilius was one of them. How much he would like to ask him why ? which would not happen, it being a good way to a flogging for his temerity. In any case, the mood of the host was obvious and it was some time before their general could make himself heard again. Eventually the cheering died away, calmed by his outstretched arms and their gestures for silence.

‘If we have not fought a great battle we have won an even better victory. Collectively we have imposed upon a man the truth that citizens of the empire will not stand by for tyranny. Anastasius now knows how much we love our God and also knows how we choose to express that love. Jesus was born of man and is divine. He is the Son of God and he came into this world through the agency of his mother Mary.’

That got a chorus of amens; it was not just the priests that fell to their knees in supplication.

‘Let that be proclaimed loudly as we march back to Marcianopolis, a triumphal parade that will commence at dawn tomorrow, for we have no longer any need to remain in this place. Our work is done!’

The cheers deafened again, but that last exhortation concentrated the mind of Flavius; he had no desire to go back north, unless he went with a body that would gain him justice for his family, but where to go? Then it came to him: the gates of Constantinople would be open as soon as Vitalian’s host broke camp. He would enter the city and there seek out his father’s old comrade, Justinus, so he could impress on him the need to act.

The assembly was not dismissed; a cart came down the road that separated the main camp from the officers’ tents, filled with sacks, and orders were shouted that each century should form a line to be rewarded with several pieces of imperial copper, a gift to cement his goodwill from Anastasius himself. Judging by what he overheard, Flavius guessed that most of the coin would stay here and be spent within sight of the city; those enterprising traders were in for a profitable night.

With his two copper folles clutched in his hand he went in search of Apollonia. He needed to tell her of his plan and also to say that soon he would be going north again. Flavius approached her camp, only to run straight into the curator of the foresters and, judging by the glower on his large, round face, what he was going to tell Flavius was not pleasant.

‘Did you set out to dun me you little shit?’

Flavius put a meaningful hand on his sword, to tell this squat brute what might happen if he resorted to violence, before saying, as innocently as he could manage, ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Don’t fanny me. That fellow you paid me to employ showed a leg this morning and disappeared.’

The manufactured look of surprise and confusion felt utterly unconvincing and the voice seemed no better. ‘Disappeared?’ An angry nod, met with a questioning look. ‘Are you certain he has not just gone for a stroll?’

‘Stroll! With his sword, spear, and shield! I should have known anyone coming with that lot was not to be trusted. But if I have been slow, it was ’cause I expected to be paid for my service, which I take leave to say you will seek to avoid now. Well, if you think-’

Flavius stopped that tirade by pressing the two bounty coins he had just received into the man’s hand. ‘I am as surprised as you, Curator, but I must accept responsibility. He was a man I trusted, but it seems that was misplaced. I cannot have you suffer for my error, so please take what I have given you as my recompense, though I am sure money is of no interest to you, it is more mortification that animates you.’

Angry as he was there was no way to gainsay that and maintain any worth, self or otherwise. The ox-like brute looked at the coins in his hand and took long enough about it to allow Flavius to slip by him and flee. At the place occupied by the camp followers the news had been spread of what was to come and it was not something to make everyone ecstatic, though the harpies were enjoying a bounty. Many here lived off the existence of the host and they would march back with it to uncertainty.

Apollonia was one of those, as was her ‘father’ Timon and the woman he had taken in as a wife, really a pair of hands he could exploit and live off while toiling not himself. The sudden visit of Flavius caught him out; normally Timon fled when the youngster came for Apollonia. He was lying on a straw palliasse, his great gut bare as usual and sticking up, but that did not last.

At the sight of Flavius he rolled over and with some difficulty got onto his stout knees. The struggle to actually rise was too great, which left him looking up with a pleading look seeking mercy in his eyes, unable to actually speak when Flavius asked where his paramour was. That only got a finger to direct him.

He found her with her arms, up to her elbows, in water, scrubbing against the rough side of a tub to get clean some stranger’s garments, her mother, stick-thin and looking like a crone, toiling likewise. The look she gave him as he dragged her daughter away was full of hate, something that again only made sense long afterwards – when he knew that she would pay the price for what he was about, and with pain.

Apollonia he led to the woods where they had enjoyed their trysts and he explained to her what he intended to do, but he told her not to fear, once his business was complete he would seek her out and rescue her from Timon, all this listened to with his eyes on the top of her blonde hair and bowed head. Then he embraced her and that stirred in him feelings that needed to be dealt with, his conduct, as he pressured her gently to the ground and indulged his pleasure, taken with the passivity that had become habitual.

Sated, Flavius rolled to lie beside her, where he reiterated his promise, and wiped the tears from her eyes that he knew to be sorrow at their parting. There, with her head crooked in his arm and talking of an imagined future, he fell asleep and when he awoke it was to the blast of the horns sounding dawn. There was no sign of Apollonia and his first thought, one that shamed him when he recalled it, was to ensure his purse was still tied to his belt and there was something within to clutch at.

He had intended to gift Apollonia that which he had received in bounty but sleep had taken away the chance to give her any of his own money in its place; now there was no time, for the camp might break and the host might begin its march to the north before he had retrieved his weapons and, from the century baggage cart, his prized breastplate, still in its sackcloth wrapping.

‘She will manage till I rejoin her,’ Flavius reassured himself as he ran, ‘and then she will see the last of that swine Timon.’