Honour (5 page)

‘Reverse your spears,’ Flavius whispered, even if Justinus was too far off to hear even normal speech. ‘The points will catch the starlight.’

The other problem was the noise of their feet, for all were wearing regulation sandals and they had metal studs. To avoid the chance
of Justinus looking round, Flavius dropped back as far as he could while still keeping the general in view, albeit only as a sort of outline, fortunately aided by his light-coloured garments.

They were back in the more populous part of the city now, where the streets narrowed and the higher buildings created gullies of gloom, forcing Flavius to hurry in order to keep the outline in view. He was reasoning the whole thing as a waste of time; the city was dark, few of the citizens prepared to waste precious oil to stay out of their cots, though there was a glim of a lamp from the occasional window of some night owl.

‘Is that a lantern, Your Honour?’

Flavius cursed himself; he had allowed his attention to wander, partly because of the stifling heat trapped in by the tenements but more by the thought he might look like an old woman and a misguided worrier to the men in his unit. Indeed they would chatter, and the escapade, even if it never came to the ears of Justinus, would be all over the barracks before the next day was out. He could not say this was not his idea!

‘Where away?’

‘Saw just a flash, low down at street height, quick doused.’

‘Sure?’

‘Not certain.’

Flavius did not have to order an increase in pace, he only had to move faster himself for his men to pick up their own. His spear, hitherto shaft uppermost, was reversed with the needle-sharp point forward. The first shout echoed in the narrow street and at the sound of that Flavius broke into a run, the noise of which also echoed and had Justinus turn to see the cause.

In doing so he failed to see the figures emerging from the black
walls of the tenements, they being clad in the same dark clothing. Flavius yelled for his general to take guard and luckily Justinus did not hesitate, perhaps because he heard footsteps too close, perhaps because of the tone of alarm of the youngster’s yell. Still running, Flavius cast his spear right over the head of Justinus, unsure whether it would do any harm.

What it did do was strike the cobbled roadway to send up a shower of sparks and the clang of contact. The other sight was the flash of what looked like a sword blade, he hoped that of Justinus, so he called to his men to cast, which they did at full pelt and being trained it was done with care and accuracy, evidenced by a couple of howls that Flavius hoped were wounds.

Justinus had the sense to retreat towards what he must now know to be support, his sword swinging wildly with no other purpose than to hold at bay his opponents. Such creatures could not be blind or deaf, they could hear and no doubt see that those rushing to close with them were trained fighters and if their numbers were an unknown they would have to be many more to contest with such people.

That they melted away with the same speed with which they had appeared was initially to be expected – black clothing against dark walls – but as Flavius swept past Justinus he did so into a vacuum empty of humanity; those who had attacked his patron had disappeared in an area riddled with narrow alleyways. Panting, sweating, and angry, Flavius stopped his men and called on them to surround their general. It was inside a square of his imperial guards, with Flavius Belisarius out in front, that the
comes Excubitorum
returned to the palace.

‘Y
es, I denied your express wish, Uncle, but you must acknowledge that my suspicions were correct.’

‘I would be interested to know where these suspicions come from.’

‘An ear to the ground, or what lies beneath it.’

‘Home to your spirit is it not?’ Justinus was angry, but Flavius as a witness to this exchange was unsure if the irritation was really aimed at Petrus or at himself for being wrong. Nor would he acknowledge to having been in any real danger, claiming to have been faced with ‘A bunch of ill-bred vagabonds that I would have seen off without aid from anyone.’

‘Flavius?’

‘I saw little, just some shadowy figures and they melted away as soon as we made our presence known.’

‘Cowards,’ Justinus spat.

‘It could be he saved your life!’ Petrus rarely raised his voice to Justinus and that he did so now caused a degree of astonishment and he was not finished. ‘What do you think would happen to me and my
family if you are slain? What of your wife, the Lady Lupicina? Do you think we would be left at peace to mourn? No, Uncle, if we were not slaughtered like goats we would be hounded from the city to what? A life of poverty and ridicule?’

‘I know everyone depends on my holding my place.’

Petrus dropped the angry tone, his voice becoming emollient. ‘To those who care for you, that you hold on to, your life is of more account and I say that is still at risk.’

There was no need to ask if Petrus thought there would be other attempts on the life of the
comes Excubitorum
: that was implicit in the words he employed. It was what to do and how to guard against it that filled his thinking.

‘You trust Flavius?’

‘That does not deserve an answer.’

‘Then as his commander, I request that you detach him and his men from normal duties to act as a personal bodyguard until the matter of the succession is resolved.’

‘It ill becomes you, Petrus, to speak of the Emperor as if he is already dead.’

Flavius expected Petrus to mention Amantius but that was not forthcoming. Instead he spoke of the imperial nephews, insisting that each would have some support but the real danger came if any two of them combined.

‘It cannot be anything other than a temporary alliance, but it will serve to get one of them the purple. After that, if the winner has any sense, he will cut the throats of his rivals.’

‘They may all align behind one,’ Justinus suggested, though without much conviction: as he said before, he had seen too much of them and their rivalry to reckon that possible but plainly the
whole subject concerned him. ‘What do I do if they begin to murder each other? Do I stand aside or interfere?’

‘Be concerned about your own skin not theirs,’ Petrus ventured, before his head canted to one side. ‘Truly it would be a tragedy if the imperial succession was dragged into another bloodbath.’

‘If Anatastius had chosen it would have been clear.’

‘You wish he had anointed a successor?’

‘I do, and I say that even if I think his nephews to be poor candidates. The empire can withstand a fool but not a weakling. If matters are as you say, is the whole thing to be decided in the Hippodrome?’

‘It has happened before, Uncle.’

‘And rarely has it given us good governance. An emperor created by acclamation of the mob is ever in fear of being deposed by the same creatures that forced his elevation.’

Flavius felt he lacked real knowledge of what was being discussed, though he was as aware as anyone on the number of successions that had been mob-inspired, either by acclamation of a favoured candidate or the repudiation of one put forward by the powerful. Justinus and Petrus had talked of it at table in a way that saw succession problems as normal. There was a certain level of conversation regarding the fickleness of the mob in the officers’ quarters based on the very real threat that out of control at a time of imperial interruption they were a danger to everyone, Excubitors included.

Even well-armed, you could not hold off a fired-up mob of thousands intent on imposing their will, so a massacre of the military was far from impossible. Yet it was raised there too in such a way that it seemed to be accepted as a feature of life in the imperial capital, which to him bordered on the absurd. He wondered if it might take years to understand the ramifications of the various polities that vied
for supremacy in what should be a stable state but was not.

If the Emperor had supreme power it was held on to only by his ability to balance the many conflicting interests of the citizens of empire and nowhere was that more manifest than in Constantinople itself. It was hard enough for a young man who had spent little time in the city to get a grip on even the most basic rivalries that excluded those of a religious hue, that between the factions known as the Blues and the Greens. Originally split by competition over chariot racing they had mutated into groupings more intent on the protection of their rights than watching their teams compete in the Hippodrome.

At its very simplest the supporters of the Blues tended to come from the old patrician families and the Equestrians while the Greens had their enthusiasts among the mercantile classes but these were, as definitions, too loose. What was true and disturbing was the ability of either faction to bring onto the streets or into the seating of the chariot arena a multitude of supporters too fevered by some cause or other to easily control.

‘Then you would see that as undesirable, Uncle?’

That question brought Flavius back to the present, as did the reply of Justinus that lamented the way the military units based in the city often stood aside when the Blues or the Greens rioted, they too being split by the same conflicts over allegiance. He accepted that having been chosen, a new emperor needed the support of the people and that was, by tradition, granted to them in the Hippodrome. But the person being acclaimed should be presented to them as the choice of the higher officers of state, not someone who merely appealed to their most base passions.

‘Then we must do what we can to ensure that such an outcome is avoided.’

‘You’ll need more than an ear under the ground to foresee that, Petrus, perhaps a celestial presence might suit the need.’

‘Excellency.’ Justinus swung round to face the messenger, a man whose doleful expression gave notice of what he had come to impart. ‘The physicians attending upon His Imperial Highness fear the end cannot be far off, having heard the rattle.’

‘I will come at once.’

Justinus gave both Petrus and Flavius a searching look then grabbed his helmet and placed it under his arm; he would need to be properly dressed to attend upon his dying master, a man he had esteemed even if he had thought his religious policies misguided. Anastasius and he shared an Illyrian place of birth and could, when the need arose, converse in their local language so the Excubitor commander had acted as something of a confidante. If there was a difference in age it was not so great that memories could not be shared of a life vastly more simple and rustic than that to which they had both risen.

‘Uncle, take your sword too.’

That stopped Justinus; he had the right, unlike others, as the head of the imperial bodyguard, to bear arms in his master’s presence. Was it fitting to do so now when he would be attending upon a soul parting from its corporeal body?

‘Indulge me,’ Petrus insisted, ‘and if not for yourself take the precaution for your family.’

The hesitation was brief, before Justinus nodded and strapped on his weapon. Then he was gone. As soon as he had disappeared Petrus moved to key open a casket and produce a scroll, which he immediately held out.

‘Flavius, please go to barracks and alert the officers listed here to take up their places at the entrances to the palace. See them carried out
then come back here and rejoin your own
decharchia
.’

‘Did Justinus prearrange this?’

‘No, Flavius, I did.’

‘And the instructions regarding Amantius, or rather his candidate?’

The look that got was one of a man wondering if the person he could see before him could be so dense. ‘There are none.’

‘Why?’

‘Amantius is the Emperor’s chief eunuch and will be where his station demands at such a time, by the bedside as a witness to his demise.’

‘But the man he has chosen—’

‘May hanker till he draws his last breath. Do as I ask, Flavius, and if you have questions save them till later.’ Seeing the younger man still hesitate, Petrus was firm. ‘I say to you what I said to my uncle. Our fate depends upon this and I add that it would not be unbecoming at such a time for an Excubitor officer to be seen running.’

Too confused to argue, Flavius left the room, not running but walking fast. The officers’ quarters of the Excubitors lay within the main gate that led out to the Triumphal Way and as he entered it was clear that some form of alarm had already been disseminated: there was no one lounging about as per normal, no sound of clicking dice or general banter.

Many were deep in conversation and some were, without haste, donning their armour, Flavius soon to realise they to be the very names he had listed on Petrus’s scroll. The sight of him was telling; each nodded silently, hastened their preparations and without a word to anyone, departed. These were the fellows who were the boon companions of Petrus, men often to be found in his company in the low dens he loved to frequent and into which he had introduced
Flavius. The next sound he heard, as he departed to join Petrus and his own body of ten spears, was of those same officers rousing out their men.

‘Splendid,’ was the response when he reported, spoken by a man agitated but seemingly relieved. ‘If all do their duty the palace is sealed off as are the necessary apartments.’

‘I would deem it a favour, Petrus, to be told what it is you are up to?’

‘Sit.’ Flavius looked at the doorway, really to what was going on well beyond it. ‘Anastasius has not yet left us.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I have not heard his servants wailing.’

‘Which they will do?’

‘Of course.’

Flavius nodded. ‘For the loss of their master, it is fitting.’

‘For the loss of their places and the weight of their purse,’ Petrus scoffed, ‘and the privileges that go with it, not least the right to pilfer. A new emperor means a clean-out of slaves and attendants.’

‘They cannot all be thieves.’

‘They are.’

‘Do you see good in anyone?’

‘What I see is what I see,’ was the enigmatic reply.

As if it had been preordained, that was followed immediately by the sound of wailing, low to begin with but rising to a keening crescendo over a very short period.

‘Now the real adventure begins.’

Petrus stood and indicated that Flavius should follow him. With the armed men he led at their back, they made their way towards the imperial apartments, passing any number of sobbing slaves and servants, even the odd official, not that the sight of such distress
seemed to affect Petrus, who now had a knowing smile on his face, as irritating as it was mysterious.

There was no doubt that a great deal of planning had gone into what was now happening, but to what end? The drinking companions of Petrus knew what tasks they had to perform without Flavius having to say a word, and what did sealing the palace imply? A threat, but from whom? At the great double doors to the suite of Anastasius stood two Excubitor rankers, spears at the ready, with eight more present and fully armed. It took a quiet conversation and order from the officer who commanded them to allow Petrus and Flavius entry and they had to part from their own escort.

‘No longer needed,’ Petrus said. ‘The only armed man in here is Justinus.’

The set of rooms was spacious, many chambered and endless, but they were empty and silent, all the close retainers and body slaves of Anastasius having been ejected, the only sound to emerge as they passed through various rooms being that of the priests praying and singing for the soul of the departed, which rose to be clearly audible as they passed the imperial bedchamber.

They carried on until they were outside the private council chamber, the place where decisions were taken by the Emperor and his closest advisors in secrecy, in truth the room from which the empire was run, though the Senate was allowed to act as if they made the necessary resolutions. Petrus, sliding to the side of the open double doors, silently indicated they should take station out of view.

‘They will pray now,’ he whispered, ‘but the bargaining for the succession will begin very shortly.’

‘Would it not be blasphemous to act so soon?’

The equally soft point got a quiet snort and a hissed lecture.

‘There can be no hiatus. Word will spread that Anastasius is dead, to a populace that has been waiting weeks for it to happen. All the factions who seek advantage in that will be preparing to act but they will hold back to see if first, those who should decide on the succession, the men of the council, do so.’

‘And if not?’

‘Prepare for riots, looting and murder as scores are settled. The Blues and Greens will be at each other’s throats within days.’

‘Why are they allowed to be as they are?’

‘Why does the sun rise of a morning, Flavius?’ Petrus whispered as the praying ceased and a commanding voice spoke out.

‘Sad as this day is, it falls to us to have a concern for the public peace.’

‘Urban prefect,’ Petrus whispered. ‘He will have to deal with any trouble.’

Next came another voice, hoarse but firm. It took a few seconds for Flavius to recognise it as that of Amantius, it being so very much stronger than what he had heard in that cubicle. He now knew the man’s official title to be that of
Magister Officiorum
, the functionary who controlled access to the Emperor when he held an assembly to hear complaints and grievances.

As such he was a real power, for he could deny as well as grant an audience, which explained all that gold Flavius had collected from his villa. The best way to get through his screening was to bribe him. It also gave reason to his concern on who should succeed: he wanted to keep his place, and if anything, enhance it as the power behind the throne.