It was instructive to watch Petrus. His smile, as his uncle spoke, went from full and genuine to a sort of rictus, an indication perhaps of his disagreement with what was being proposed or just that it was being done at present. The smile disappeared completely when the peroration ended on the subject of religion.
‘We have had a decade of conflict over that which should not divide us, for I believe each man should worship according to his own conscience. I will therefore reverse my predecessor’s edicts on the Council of Chalcedon. All bishops displaced for their adherence to that creed shall be reinstated but no divine or citizen holding to Monophysitism will face denunciation or removal.’
It was time to observe the Patriarch, primary exponent of the latter and a major cause of the religious split, which had dogged the reign of Anastasius. He showed a mixture of anger for his views being denied followed by relief that he was not to be eased from his office.
‘To that end, a message will be sent from me to my old comrade in arms, General Vitalian, telling him of my decision and seeking that he, now that his cause is no longer in existence, will lay down his arms and come to be by my side, where his counsel will be of more value than his present quest.’
The lips of Petrus Sabbatius were moving but he was talking to himself and not happily so. This statement had come out of the blue and it was one he clearly hated the thought of, not on grounds of religion, for Flavius knew that was not a matter of great concern to him. Was it just that his uncle had acted without consulting him, had shown that when it came to ruling he intended to do it from his own heart and not from the head of his nephew?
His peroration complete, the newly crowned Emperor Justin took the plaudits of the crowd and with a wave, departed the imperial box. But he spoke over his shoulder to issue an order.
‘Petrus, write the message to Vitalian. Flavius, you will take it to him and you set off tomorrow. This matter has to be laid to rest quickly.’
‘Uncle-’
Whatever Petrus intended to say was immediately cut off as his uncle stopped and turned to face him.
‘You must address me properly, nephew, I cannot have you call me “uncle” in public when others are obliged to call me “Highness”. And if you are going to question my right to make a decision, let me tell you that I am not beyond banishing my own family for the good of the empire. You have engineered this, and I am not full of joy at what you have done, but I hope it is not an act you are given cause to regret.’
‘Highness,’ Petrus replied, adding a deep, slow bow, which went some way to hiding his confusion.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Flavius Belisarius rode out the next morning at the head of a decharchia of cavalry, each of his men having an extra pack mount, carrying the despatch Petrus had written, or rather had dictated to him, the contents checked by another clerk before the newly named Justin the First used his freshly created imperial stencil and the Great Seal of his office that he had inherited to render it official.
As a messenger on imperial business Flavius had the right to command even senior officials to facilitate his passage, not that he anticipated the need. The roads of the Roman Empire, if not always in as good a repair as they should be, were very often straight for several leagues and lined at regular intervals with comfortable mansiones specifically for the use of people on official government business.
Sprawling as it was the empire depended on these roads to function, routes where riders bringing despatches could change mounts and if the news was desperate, ride on without resting to sound the alarm. Most officials travelled more slowly and comfortably in a slave-carried litter, staying overnight to bathe the dust off their bodies, to have their clothing brushed and cleaned and to be fed in a fashion that suited their rank. If they had needs of a sexual nature, these could be discreetly catered for.
Luxuriating in a bath, attended by two young slave girls and well beyond the point of gratification, Flavius was thinking about Petrus and the way he had reacted to his uncle’s behaviour. No amount of logic seemed to be able to shift his sense of grievance.
‘He resents the manipulation,’ had been the explanation Flavius had volunteered for the new coolness between them.
‘And where,’ Petrus had demanded, with a well-canted head and a look of superior knowingness, ‘would he be without it?’
‘Perhaps if you had confided in him-’
‘Confided in him!’ came the shout, before Petrus had suppressed his vocal anger, well aware it could be overheard, giving a clear indication that his newly constrained status was troubling him. ‘We would have been nowhere, or in the depths of the dungeons.’
Feeling the need to be emollient, Flavius advised that time would ease matters but he knew well, as he sat in this bath, that Petrus would not see it that way. He had focused particularly on the pardoning of Vitalian to vent his spleen, worried that the rebellious general would be a schemer — being one himself he hated that anyone else should employ such methods — and that once within the palace he might wonder at why a man who once served him as a junior military commander should now lord it over all he could survey.
‘But how can I advise caution,’ had been the plea, ‘or even a special guard against the secret knife if the man will not listen to me anymore, tell me that?’
Climbing onto the warm tiles, to be dried by gentle towelling, Flavius deliberately forced his mind to concentrate on his task. How would he be received by a man he knew and had fought both under and alongside? Vitalian was a fine soldier, an excellent commander of his barbarian foederati, fighters mainly from north and east of Germany and fierce with it, men he would have to find a way past before he ever got to their general.
Once he had ensured his soldiers were likewise being catered for it was an unfortunate thought to take to bed, or was it the oversized meal he had felt obliged to consume? Someone had gone to the trouble of cooking it and the man who ran the mansio put such store by appreciation. The night was warm and humid, his stomach was full and thus his reveries were wide-ranging and finally deeply disturbing.
Flavius had a recurring dream-cum-nightmare in which he was fighting hard alongside his family on the banks of the River Danube. Yet he was simultaneously not part of the contest, able to hover above it and scream hopelessly that a blow should be parried or back should be covered, useless because no actual sound seemed to emanate from his mouth. Neither his father nor his brothers reacted to the aid he tried to give them and if the details varied the ending was ever the same as a horde of devilish fiends, slavering four-footed beasts able to ply swords and axes as well as their fearsome teeth, cut into his family and dismembered each one by one.
The limbs would struggle to rejoin only to be further mutilated and eyes would plead to the last remaining son to come to their aid. Flavius always woke up drenched in sweat and near to tears, the last image prior to wakefulness the florid, fat and grinning face of the villain who had betrayed them to the raiding Huns. Looking out of a window at an inky-black sky dotted with stars did not bring relief, only a wonder at a fate that had in reality allowed him to witness, if not the actual event, the way they had been overcome without his being able to have any effect on the outcome.
Then came the question to which there was no answer. Had his father realised why he had been abandoned to defeat and death along with the men he led? Had he told Flavius’s brothers how close he was to bringing down his venal and wealthy nemesis, a senator of the empire and a lawbreaker of staggering proportions, but one who nevertheless had such strong support in Constantinople he had been able to frustrate efforts to bring him to justice for years.