Vengeance (22 page)

‘A precaution,’ Flavius replied in what was in honesty a guess. ‘He fears a surprise sortie by cavalry.’

‘Gates are being closed again.’

‘You have good eyes Tzitas.’

That got a rare smile from a fellow not accustomed to praise. ‘Have to.’

Vitalian had been joined by his tribunes, all now mounted and clad in their armour, Vigilius included, and they lined up just to his rear looking straight ahead at the approaching embassy, for that was all it could be, given there was not a weapon in sight. Nor were these senators in any rush, walking forward at no great pace as suited their dignity, their servants trailing them bearing trays piled with food.

Vitalian dismounted too and walked forward, lifting off his helmet and picking out the man who led the arrow-shaped delegation. When he was a few cubits distant he threw wide his arms, that replicated by their general, a man he clearly knew, and they came together to engage in a tight embrace, before they thrust apart to stand, arms on each other’s shoulders, deep in what was obviously friendly conversation.

‘Christ be praised,’ cried Helias, ‘I think we have won. Happen they’ll make you emperor after all, Baccuda.’

‘Oh, to be a fly buzzing round that exchange,’ Flavius said, thinking that if Helias was right, he would be within the city by the time the sun went down and once there he would somehow contrive to find his father’s old companion.

‘Try it,’ Helias suggested, ‘they might do us all a service and swat you.’

Flavius glowered as he observed Vitalian take the lead senator’s arm and walk him back towards his own tent, the line of his soldiers melting away to create a path through which all could proceed. The horsemen had been stood down and returned to their lines, likewise the tribunes had dismounted, their mounts led away by grooms, and they now trailed their general as he led the whole into his tent.

Forbas, sensing that any talks would take an age, began to bellow orders that would see his men once more on the training field, but to engage in mock battle when it was clear their leader was talking, as well as knowing that whatever was concluded would affect them all, was purgatory. If that was true of the majority, it was doubly so for Flavius. As time went by, the sanguine hope for a resolution faded somewhat, to be replaced by growing doubt; if they were negotiating and taking so long about it that did not hint at agreement.

The youngster so wanted to be in that tent; growing up in the home of a man in command, he had been privy to, if not everything that happened, a great deal of what went on. As a child he had wandered into meetings to be greeted by his indulgent father and have his chin chucked by those with whom he was in discussion. Older, and certainly in the last few years, he had been able to listen to such exchanges and understand what was being decided, for only very rarely had his father shut the door on them.

Irritated at the time, he realised now that he had been allowed to hear things of no consequence. When the door was closed Decimus must have been in conversation with those he wished to witness against Senuthius, or perhaps laboriously penning his letters to Constantinople, neither of which he wanted to share.

The
flagellum
carried by Forbas hit him a stinging blow across the shoulder, followed by a meaningful look and a command to concentrate on what was happening; the centurion did not need to ask where the youngster’s mind was. It was within that tent and in his head Flavius was engaging in any number of imaginary conversations, ones in which his sagacity naturally triumphed.

‘You’re not a general, Flavius, nor yet a tribune. You are a
decanus
, so for the love of Christ behave like one. Now let us get properly formed and we will start again.’

Flavius looked at those he led; expecting sympathy he could not comprehend why they seemed pleased to see him a victim of Forbas’s whip, a notion which troubled him for a while, until everyone was distracted by the senatorial delegation emerging from Vitalian’s great tent to return to the city.

Curiosity was now at fever pitch; had the talking failed to achieve what everyone now hoped for: a way that would see their aims satisfied, allowing them to return home? For the gloss of soldiering, the excitement that had animated nearly every man when they left their homes, had been rubbed off by experience.

It was an aid to deep curiosity that officers had servants, and like that breed they, with few exceptions, were the kind to adopt a superior and knowing air so that they could draw flattery, or even some kind of gift, before they revealed what they knew. The senior officers would go on the morrow to meet and negotiate in person with Emperor
Anastasius, but General Vitalian had declined to join them.

No great imagination was needed to discern why; the emperor was not to be trusted and once inside the city their commander and the champion of their cause might never get out again. As dawn broke Flavius was up and watching, his hopes riding on the half-dozen officers he saw depart, dressed in finery that he had not seen before, clothing fit for an imperial audience.

T
he 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.