If his old tribune had aged that was as nothing to his leader. Vitalian seemed to have shrunk; though not tall, his once square shoulders were slightly rounded, the face cratered and the cheeks sunken, far from the commanding visage Flavius remembered. Also, he displayed an attitude that spoke of a burden too heavy to carry, not of a cause full of promise. With an acute eye, as they rode into the main encampment, Flavius had sensed decline; there was no feeling of fervour in the dull looks he got from those armed men he rode past and even the segment occupied by the camp followers, gimcrack huts and tents, seemed to be on the perish.
He was afforded no chance to address Vitalian alone; the rebel commander met the dismounted messenger flanked by two of his sons, Bouzes and Coutzes, now grown to full manhood and obviously, by their attitude and bearing, now raised to positions of command. This trio was surrounded by Vitalian’s senior adherents, each of whom led their own groups, men Flavius also remembered from his last visit to this camp and it was evident that these were fewer in number than hitherto. Yet when Vitalian spoke, it was with a well-recalled strength of voice; if he looked diminished he did not sound so.
‘So, my old comrade Justinus has grabbed the diadem?’
‘Justin was the choice of the old imperial council, then presented to the citizens and acclaimed emperor in the Hippodrome.’
‘By a mob that would be as quick to tear him limb from limb.’
‘They were ecstatic, General. He is a good man and will make a fair-minded ruler.
‘Justin?’
‘His Imperial Highness wishes to be seen as the ruler for all citizens of empire, Greek and Roman.’
‘Barbarians too?’ Flavius nodded for it was a pointless question. ‘Just as well, given his bloodline. You’ve changed, Flavius Belisarius, grown up.’
‘If I may come to my purpose?’
There was a pause before Vitalian acceded to that, giving the impression that he knew what was coming — it could not be otherwise — and it not being fully welcome. A new emperor would only send a messenger on one resolve, to secure an end to this rebellion, and Flavius could understand the feeling that acceptance of such could be seen as capitulation.
But any impressions he had were of no account; he had his instructions and he delivered them as he should. The dispute on dogma was laid to rest, there would be no further repression of Chalcedony and any bishops or priests deposed from their diocese or churches by Anastasius would be reinstated forthwith. Vitalian and his officers should come to Constantinople where Justin would offer them the hand of amity as well as an amnesty for past misdeeds.
‘Or lop off my head?’ Vitalian grunted, his head turning to make the point to those around him. ‘To be set on a pike atop the Golden Gate, perhaps.’
‘If you believe that, then is it not my head that will adorn your gate? The Emperor wants this rebellion to end and not just for reasons of dogma but also of a remembered friendship. He desires to welcome you back into the fold where he assures me he would welcome your close counsel.’
‘Assures you, Flavius? My, how you have risen, and of such tender years too.’
He’s playing a part, Flavius thought, pretending to this gallery that there is an alternative when the whole impression of this encampment is one of a failed enterprise, it being nothing like it had been before, with boundless enthusiasm for a righteous cause. Even in extremis, when Hypatius and his army threatened, there had been an air of purpose. If he had inspired rebellion before, could Vitalian raise himself to do so again and for a fourth time? Flavius felt in his bones he could not.
‘And if I decline?’
‘General, I carry no threat. I have not been ordered to deal with such a consequence for the every simple reason that Justin cannot conceive it would be necessary. He invites you to the capital and will meet you in person.’
‘Outside the walls?’
Flavius knew where that question came from; on the first investiture of Constantinople, Anastasius had invited Vitalian and his officers to enter the city to treat for an accommodation. His subordinates had agreed and emerged impressed, safe and loaded with gold, as well as committed to the lifting of the siege. Vitalian had not, on the very good grounds that had he done so none of them would have emerged alive.
‘That is for His Imperial Highness to decide.’
‘It shall stick in my craw to address him so.’
That was a relief, for if it was not couched as such, it hinted at acceptance. ‘I think you will find it easier than you suppose, for he wears his station lightly.’
‘And when am I to be afforded this privilege?’
‘It is at your convenience but it is hoped that you will return with me and my men.’
‘Like a prisoner?’
He was playing to the crowd again and it was time to neutralise that. ‘The offer of amnesty applies to you, sir, and those you choose to lead your men.’
‘To counsel him?’
‘Perhaps to fight for the empire and not against it.’
‘Posts for all.’
‘Possibly.’
‘I would want that assured.’
‘Then I repeat, meet Justin and let him be the one to convince you, since I cannot commit him to anything other than my mission allows.’
‘You come in peace, Flavius, and will be treated as an honoured guest. But you must wait for your reply till I have discussed the offer with those who counsel me.’ His head spun to one side. ‘Vigilius, you have played host to this young man before, oblige me by doing so once more.’
‘My men and their mounts? They must be catered for before I am given comfort.’
That got the first smile; he was a good general who took care of his own men and he was clearly happy that Flavius felt likewise. ‘Vigilius, make it so.’
That his Excubitors were nervous was natural; they were ten men wearing imperial uniform, surrounded by what were still enemies and numerous, men who might not wait to ask what dogma they subscribed to before cutting their throats. Vigilius, once their horses had been fed and watered, with a couple of willing, young camp followers brought forth to groom them, led them to a communal tent, close to a long, low, wooden hut that was the general’s own quarters, then surrounded that with guards. Once food was brought to them and that dished out Flavius could do no more.
It spoke a great deal that Vigilius then led him to a tent of his own, albeit a beautifully appointed one, richly furnished, he being the son of a wealthy senatorial family, already with guards outside as befitted his rank. To still be under canvas after all this time drove home how temporary the whole rebellion was. Vitalian might hold sway over much of Northern Thracia, he might be able to tax its citizens and recruit its men, dispense justice and enforce its edicts, but there was no permanence. What he had here counted for little; what he needed lay in Constantinople and try as he might he could not get at it.
Food was brought to this tent as well, to be eaten off fine plate and washed down with good wine. Flavius found himself subject to gentle interrogation and if there was some genuine interest in his time fighting on the Persian frontier that was only a mask to allow Vigilius to probe into his reasons for being here and what he had left behind. The tale he told of the rise of Justin to the purple was only partially true; the devious machinations of Petrus were not mentioned so it was made to sound as if there had been no opposition to the elevation and no alternative candidates.
His host had never met Justin/Justinus and had, it seemed, barely heard of him, so much delving arose related to the imperial character, and as Flavius described him he was aware that it sounded too good to be real. Yet the man was a good and successful soldier and so honest he had difficulty in telling a lie without blushing. He had been loyal to Anastasius when he was alive and revered his memory now, even if it was plain he had never agreed with the policy against Chalcedon.