Vengeance

CHAPTER SIX

If the request for access to the chest had been put with a contrived air of regret the perusal and removal of its contents was carried out in a very different manner. Blastos, even if he could not miss them, made no remark regarding the deep, fresh cuts around the lock, in itself an act that underlined the suspicions of the new head of the household. The bishop merely stood to one side as Flavius opened it, before relieving him of the keys.

He had each despatch – those received and copies of those sent over the years – brought to the desk, set by a south-facing window, to be brusquely examined. Some, probably complaints regarding his own behaviour as well as that of Senuthius, made the bishop suck on his teeth, even if the contents could be no mystery.

They were then cast, like the rest, into one of the small canvas sacks fetched for the purpose of removal, and once filled, taken out by one of the quartet of servants the bishop had fetched along, he presumed to whatever conveyance Blastos had used in coming here.

Flavius was gratified to see they were his church servants and unmilitary, not those who formed the bishop’s armed bodyguard whenever he travelled to the limits of his diocese, necessary given how few of his flock agreed with his stance on dogma. He was consulted regarding anything pertaining to the family: deeds of possession for properties purchased as well as a ledger containing a list of domestic accounts; in addition there were two sacks of coins that amounted to a limited spendable inheritance.

Those objects over which he had so recently grieved were put to one side for Flavius to do with what he wished before Blastos turned to the ledger that related to the centurion’s duties and obligations. Likewise, this had a list going back years, of payments and credits. Blastos, after a quick glance and yet more sucking of teeth, tucked that inside his own tunic, the leather bag containing the residue of the imperial funds – a small sum of money indeed – staying by his side.

Increasing frustration was clear to an acutely sensitive observer: much as the bishop tried to disguise it, Blastos was looking for something and not finding that which he sought and it was far from hard to guess what that something must be. Once the chest had been emptied Blastos went to kneel before it, leaning in to tap the sides and the base, even the arched lid, as if in search of some secret compartment, before finally getting back to his feet and looking the youngster right in the eye.

‘Are you sure you have not been through the contents of this chest?’

‘A glance, no more,’ Flavius replied, for to say no would create, not dissipate suspicion. ‘To find my father’s testament.’

‘And where is that now?’

‘In my chamber.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘No.’

‘You are sure?’

‘Certain!’

The cross was in his hand again, this time held out from his chest and aimed at those blackened eyes, the tone of his voice a rumble from deep within his frame. ‘It pains me to remind you that a lie given to me is as blasphemous as one given to God himself.’

That could not be anything but uncomfortable, Flavius being acutely aware of what he had inside his sling. Not only an official despatch but the name of who would lead it, an F. Petrus Sabbatius, as well as when it was intended they should set out from Constantinople. That being a date already past, it could be close to arrival if not actually imminent, something that depended on the eagerness of those tasked to carry out such enquiries.

‘Are there any other places where your father kept papers?’

The way the clerical eyes ran over him, top to bottom, sent a shiver through the youngster; it was as if he was hinting at a personal search, not only of his bedroom but of himself too. Inspiration had him turn to Ohannes, standing by the doorway. He approached the old soldier, seeking by the look in his eye to alert him to what he intended, for he could not chance his voice lest it betray him. Coming close he put his good hand on the older man’s shoulder, while slipping his weak arm just enough out of the sling to show the end of the oilskin pouch.

‘This fellow served as domesticus to my father. Perhaps he knows.’

To get the pouch out of his sling unseen was a risk Flavius felt he had to take. Ohannes must know, given how he acted as the centurion’s body servant and was with him as he carried out his duties, that everything being requested was in this very room, the place from which his master had discharged his duties and one to which, when he set out to face the barbarians, he fully expected to return.

The youngster was holding his breath, released when he discovered he had a shrewd fellow conspirator who, if he was not sure what was going on could, at the sight of the edge of that pouch, make a guess. In an act of pure theatricality, designed to cause a distraction and take the clerical eye off the exchange, the old man tapped his forehead with a pointed digit, as if he was a numbskull, this as his other hand took what he was being given.

‘Master would not have trusted me, young sir, for I am unlettered. He kept his private matters close. Only person who might know is your mama, to whom he was given to share his concerns.’

Spinning round Flavius used his body to mask the Scythian, giving him time to conceal the object in his own smock. He found himself looking into the face of a worried cleric, suddenly contemplating that what he sought might be a hundred leagues away. Then Blastos shook his head, implying that if such a scenario made no sense to him, he was at a loss to know what to do about it. If, as Flavius now supposed, his father’s enemies had found out there was a commission of enquiry on the way, they were obviously in the dark about the make-up of the members as well as when it might arrive.

The sooner it came the more dangerous it would be to both. With time, having disposed of their chief accuser they could, through bribes and threats, so muddy the waters that no one would dare to witness against them and that would mean no allegations could be proved. An even more disturbing thought occurred: they might try to shift any blame for what would appear to be a false set of grievances onto the complainant.

‘There has to be another place your father kept papers,’ Blastos insisted, his expression no longer calm, for the first time overtly flustered, so much so that he was required to be more open. ‘I happen to know that he had a certain amount of correspondence with the imperial capital recently on an important matter.’

‘What kind of correspondence?’

Flavius made this enquiry with his brow furrowed, not sure that, if he was taking a spiteful pleasure from the clerical discomfort, he should be. Whatever, it made Blastos even more uncomfortable and forced him into a hurried and unconvincing excuse.

‘It relates to certain matters we discussed in the sanctity of the confessional, which leaves me unable to tell even you. But I know of their existence as well as of their significance, which leads me to insist that they must be kept in another place.’

‘Then I am at a loss to know where that is,’ Flavius responded, with a catch in his voice that gave veracity to his continued lying. ‘Perhaps my brothers would have known and, as Ohannes here said, my mother, but they are no longer with us and she is far off.’

‘I fear the villa will need to be searched.’

Flavius protested immediately and vehemently. ‘This is a house in mourning.’

‘And I have the good of the empire to consider! You of all people, being your father’s son, would not surely stand in the way of that? I have my men still with me, and so I am able to carry out the task at once.’

Flavius took a deep breath before responding, finding when he did the means to sound very adult. ‘I must refuse, Bishop Gregory, until the proper period of mourning has passed, for my dear mother’s sake if no other.’

‘You cannot refuse.’

‘I do not wish to be difficult but I am, as you were keen to point out, now master of this household. Unless you can show to me an authority that gives you such a right, I will not accede to such a request.’

‘I am here on behalf of the magister militum!’

‘Who will have to give you written permission to act as you suggest.’

Flavius knew he had got it right by the confused expression that engendered; Blastos had no actual authority to act. If there had been the time to send a report of what had occurred to Marcianopolis, and to stand down any support that might be on the way, no reply had come back giving Blastos the powers he claimed, in what was at least a two-day journey on fast mounts with regular changes.

‘His need is enough.’

‘Forgive me, Bishop Gregory, but you must know that no one can act in such an arbitrary fashion. If I learnt anything from my father, it is never justified to exceed the bounds of the law, and he stayed true to that even when he had the unquestionable authority of his command.’

‘I have God as my authority.’

Flavius crossed himself but the look he gave the bishop told him that too was insufficient. Blastos tried bluster but he could not carry it off for he lacked the means to be convincing and, realising that to be true, his expression became increasingly concerned as he sought a solution. No doubt Senuthius was waiting for the successful finale to this visit.

‘Then I must seek what I need and will do so.’

If they exchanged a mutual glare both knew one fact so obvious it needed no airing: Flavius could be allowed no freedom of movement.

‘Until then I command that you stay within these walls and that you touch nothing you may find. I will leave people here to ensure that is obeyed, and as a precaution I will also take from your stables what mounts you have.’

‘There is only one now,’ Flavius responded with a look of gloom. ‘Mine.’

‘A fine beast, I recall, which will serve to cover the first stage of my messenger’s journey.’

Bishop Gregory Blastos did like to think of himself as the equal of Senuthius Vicinus; only rarely was he disabused of this comfortable notion, so when he arrived at the villa of the man he held to be an associate and equal he was, even if concerned, ill prepared for that which he ran into: a torrent of highly personal abuse for his very obvious failure to find any evidence that either had cause for concern.

With anyone else he might have stood his ground, but not with the senator, who, despite the girlish pitch of his voice, never had trouble in making the cleric wilt. With his height and girth, he oozed power enough to match his temper.

‘No doubt you were too busy slavering over the Belisarius brat to properly carry out what you were sent to do. All that would be needed to put you off the task you were sent to carry out is a flick of those long, dark eyelashes of his and you would be billing and cooing like a pigeon.’

‘The lad has two black eyes and a damaged shoulder …’

‘As if that would stop you! It probably added to your dribbling.’

This dressing-down did not end there; Senuthius went on to list the ways in which his sexual preferences and inability to disguise them made him a fool, to point out that as a representative of God he was an embarrassment to his entire flock, delivered in a voice loud enough to carry throughout the largest dwelling in the borderlands. Worse for the clerical pride, it was done in front of the children of the house, a boy and a girl, golden-haired, plump and well-fed twins, who had not yet seen ten summers, their mere presence made doubly galling by the way their expressions seemed to mirror their father’s disdain.

‘It may be there is nothing …’

Blastos got no chance to plead that excuse; the large senatorial frame actually shook with irritation, and given Senuthius had a belly large enough to testify to his prosperity, it was obvious even under his richly threaded garments.

‘My cousin smells a rat in the imperial court and Belisarius has to be the cause. When he says I should be on my guard, I am not fool enough to ignore his advice, even if you are!’

‘But he has no idea what we have to guard against.’

‘We?’ Senuthius growled. ‘You, Blastos, have only to concern yourself that you do not end up in a remote dungeon for pederasty and the selling of forgiveness for gold. It is I who is at real risk and by that I mean everything I own, and for what – acting as my duty as a father and a citizen dictates?’

The senator then waddled over to embrace his children, standing between them and laying his hands on their shoulders, his voice becoming soft and mournful as he spoke. It was well known he doted on his offspring, which stood in sharp contrast to the way he had treated their late mother, a woman who had needed all her skills with paints and powder to hide the regular bruises inflicted on her by her violent husband. Sometimes she was so badly beaten as to be unable to appear in public for weeks and there were those prepared to readily believe that her death had not been from any natural cause.

‘These two innocents could be left as paupers by the malice of that Belisarius swine, and that I will not allow to happen.’

Quickly Senuthius bent to kiss each plump child on the head, before quietly telling them it was time to be about their evening studies, so as to be ready for their schooling come the morning. He watched them depart the main room of the villa with a look most men reserved for a favourite mistress and only when they had gone did Senuthius bellow for his domesticus. His senior household servant came scurrying into the room within seconds, to find his master talking to the bishop in a less irate tone, a haughty gesture having the man wait by the door.

‘We know letters were sent out under the Anastasius seal and not from the office of the imperial scribes. Some other hand composed them and in such secrecy that the only fact my cousin could glean was that they were to be delivered by a special messenger to Dorostorum, and since they did not come to you or I, they had to be for Belisarius. He would not throw them away, therefore they must be in his house, unless they went up in that stupid pyre his son built.’

The thought that they might have been consumed by the flames cheered Blastos up somewhat, until Senuthius dismissed the notion as not only fanciful but too risky to assume. The man rambled on as he waddled back and forth with that particular gait all men use who have been heavy from birth, the feet splayed wide to accommodate thighs that could not easily pass each other.

If he was telling the bishop things they had discussed before, Senuthius was in reality talking to himself and not without a dose of his habitual self-pity, based on the notion that the malice of lesser creatures would ever see his actions in the wrong light.

For all his strength and prominence locally and his ability to buy gubernatorial silence in what was a distant and little regarded corner of the empire, Senuthius knew that he operated too often outside the laws to feel entirely secure, hence his ongoing feud with the man who had the task of enforcing imperial edicts. If he had seen Centurion Belisarius as an irritant, the man had, until recently, been no more than a flea to his great beast and one moreover without influence where it truly mattered.

If that had changed, due to the shifting nature of power in the imperial palace, as related to him by the same relative who had hitherto nullified any complaints against him, it could leave him exposed. The emperor was a man to be swayed by the last voice that had his ear, and in many ways that had been an asset in the past: the people who had counselled him, when contacted by his cousin, were easily won over either by conviction or bribery. The former came from the feeling that as long as the border was kept secure at low cost, how peace was maintained seemed of little account, the latter requiring neither explanation nor principles!

What had hitherto been simple had grown more complex and the foremost cause was religion, or to be precise the interpretation of dogma, and that was fuelling a division that had existed since anyone could remember, made really serious by the action of Anastasius in promulgating the supremacy of the Monophysite position. If rumour came slowly to the borders of the empire, those that had recently emerged were worrying indeed.

The only substantial force of soldiers in the Diocese of Thrace, indeed between Dorostorum and the capital, barbarian foederati, were under the command of a general called Vitalian and he was threatening revolt to overturn the imperial edict. If that came to pass, the first city to feel the brunt of insurrection would be Marcianopolis and the magister militum, Conatus, a serious part of the Vicinian network of support.

But it was in Constantinople that such things really mattered and there too they had taken a less than encouraging turn. Conflict at court between the soldiers of empire, who had to fight its battles, set against civilian courtiers who had as their prime concern the costs of doing so, was endemic. Military campaigns against powerful enemies required the hiring and feeding of mercenaries, the empire having centuries ago lost the ability to man its forces with its own citizens. The preferred method of the palace officials, seen as a cheaper one, was to buy peace in ingots of gold where a threat could be considered serious; outside that parameter, as on the northern border at Dorostorum, trouble was ignored.

The military had acquired increased influence recently, thanks to their victories in the recent war with the Persians, and in the febrile politics of the Byzantine Court that had brought several of the commanders into positions of increased weight. If the conflict had ended, there was an uneasy peace on the eastern border and a major fort being constructed at Dara, meaning the soldiers, being still needed, constituted a substantial body of power.

Fighting men being no more upright than their civilian counterparts, the senator’s cousin had assiduously sought to find out whom he could bribe and whom he could either sideline or diminish by the kind of base rumour that swirled around such a shifting polity. Yet the admission was open: there were those who might be beyond such attempts, and a further concern came from the fact that the centurion Belisarius, having served so long and in so many campaigns, could have a bond with some of these soldiers that might be unbreakable by any means.

This was then fuelled by the rumours of secret communications. Uncertainty created anxiety and with good reason; to fall from favour in the empire was not just to lose land, wealth and power – it just as often meant a loss of your very life and if not that, a public blinding that would leave the victim a begging imbecile with nothing but a gutter in which to exist.

The thought of such a fate, added to the notion of his children being rendered destitute, so terrified Senuthius that Blastos was subjected to a stream of sorrowful self-indulgence as his host went from listing what he saw as his virtues, through a paean to his qualities, followed by a lament as to what he would forfeit.

The bishop had been subjected to such tirades before and so he knew what was coming; Senuthius was working himself up to a pitch in which he could justify whatever action he deemed necessary to protect himself. It had been the same when the hint first came of some kind of unknown imperial communication with the centurion, culminating in the only safe course of action, which was to eliminate that part of the threat within his reach.

The voice went from whining through to firm resolve and then rose as it had on previous occasions to a solution. Senuthius always started quietly until anger began to take over, to go through growling then protestation before rising to what was a spitting crescendo of bile. He would not be brought down, would not see everything for which he had striven eaten up by imperial wolves on the word of a man like Belisarius, consumed with nothing but malice and jealousy for his position.

It ended with him screaming imprecations on that name, one fist thumping into his other hand with increasing force as he worked himself into a frenzy that had the imperial centurion lambasted as a traitor and an ingrate, a liar and a thief, quite missing the paradox as he damned with equal vehemence his public probity. Finally red of face and perspiring, Senuthius stopped, took several deep breaths and coming close, addressed the bishop in a soft voice, though not one without a degree of tension.

‘The Belisarius villa must be torn apart, stone by stone if need be, and that brat who survived can be racked and his flesh charred until he reveals what he must know. You must go to your pulpit and damn the whole family as heretics. Use that stupid pyre the boy built as a sign of their sacrilege, Blastos. Tell your flock of the rituals carried out in secret within the walls of that house, of blood sacrifices to pagan gods and the desecration of the symbols of Christ our Saviour. We know, do we not, how they will react?’

‘You wish to engineer a riot of the faithful?’

The question was posed without passion; if the notion of what was being proposed troubled the bishop he made no mention of it, just as he had so recently acquiesced in the plan Senuthius had hatched to rid himself of the imperial centurion. Desperate times required remedies to match.

‘Led by men I will provide,’ Senuthius replied, gesturing to his domesticus, a witness to the entire exchange. ‘But we must ensure that, in any confusion, they and only they get within the walls.’

‘To search?’

‘To find! Let that brat wish he had died along with his father and brothers if he does not lead them to it.’