Procopius was behind Flavius again, he knew that without looking, just as he was aware his secretary would be dying for another chance of an introduction that might gain him such recognition; attached as he was to Flavius Belisarius, Procopius was in the presence of the fount of all patronage, a rare event for a man of his standing and one not to be lightly thrown away, as he had hinted on more than one occasion since leaving Carthage.
‘If I may be allowed to insist, Highness,’ Flavius began, only to be interrupted.
‘What could I possibly refuse you?’
Trust was on the Belisarius lips, but could not be uttered here, so he turned and brought forward his secretary, fulfilling what was to him an obligation. ‘I ask you to acknowledge Procopius, who aided me much in my campaign.’
‘A soldier?’ Justinian asked, the air of confusion obvious; anyone senior he would have known of, anyone junior was another matter.
‘My secretary.’
The Emperor looked confused for a moment but it was just a flash across his features. He obviously concluded this fellow was important to Flavius so he proffered a hand to be kissed, which was duly done by a bowing Procopius. The point at which he followed that up by trying to speak was embarrassing and not only to him. Justinian’s hand was so abruptly withdrawn and so swiftly hooked into the arm of Flavius that the pair were moving past him before Procopius was once more fully upright.
‘I am agog to meet this Gelimer and I am eager to hear what you think we should do with him.’
‘I wondered if the treasure we brought home might be of more interest, Highness.’
‘I am never able to fox you, Flavius, you know me too well.’
How often does he say that? How often do I doubt it to be true?
Antonina, less occupied than her husband, had seen the flash of anger on the face of Procopius at being so condescended to and she burst out laughing, which had Theodora curious as to the cause. Her newly returned friend leant to whisper in the imperial ear, words which Procopius could not overhear, but then he hardly needed to for the Empress laughed as well, this after throwing him a quick and sneering glance. Then they followed their respective spouses, leaving him isolated and unsure what to do.
‘You have fought a free campaign, Highness.’
‘So it would seem.’
Justinian had been much impressed by what he had seen aboard the ship carrying the Vandal treasure and that had only been a partial glance at the top layer of deep coffers. Gelimer he had chastised for the murder of Hilderic, asking how he could give orders to kill a man so committed to peace, a king who had opened the Catholic cathedral and appointed a bishop of that faith.
‘A Germanic king is elected to fight, not to make peace or bishops. My brother could not lead our armies, therefore he forfeited the right to his liberty.’
‘And his death?’
‘Falls to you and your army. If you had not invaded he would still be alive. I had no desire to kill him but my brother carried out the deed because you might have reinstated him in my place. Then Hilderic would have killed me. Do not think him a saint.’
‘I have read the terms of your surrender at Medeus and I wonder if Flavius Belisarius here was a mite too generous. Perhaps I should visit upon you that which you had visited upon your elder brother.’
‘Kill me if you wish. I will not plead.’
‘Flavius?’
‘I gave my word, Highness, I would be unhappy to see it breeched.’
The silence was long-lasting enough to induce concern, for Flavius was prepared to argue if the surrender terms he had agreed with Gelimer were not met, given it impinged on his honour.
‘We will decide after the triumph, in which you will be the most puissant prisoner. Then perhaps we will evoke those old Roman habits that my good friend here is so wedded to and invite him to strangle you. Come, Flavius, it is time to take you to my private rooms where we can lay out our plans for that event.’
‘A triumph?’
‘You deserve no less.’
That did surprise Flavius: no one but a reigning emperor had been granted a triumph for decades and no general leading the armies of the Eastern Empire had ever been gifted one. It seemed politic to claim he was hardly worthy.
‘I will decide who is worthy, my friend. Now we must go, for we have little time before the banquet I have arranged to allow those rogues that surround me to welcome you back.’
They were walking now, back onto the quay, leaving Theodora and Antonina gazing lovingly at the Vandal treasure, with Justinian talking in his usual rapid fashion.
‘Does that Gelimer think I will break your word? Does he really think we went to all that trouble to put his brother back on the throne?’
They passed Procopius who bowed once more only to be ignored for a second time in the sand of one glass. All he got was a sympathetic look from his employer and a quick aside.
‘Stay aboard, Procopius, and I will send for you.’
It was a still-smarting secretary, sorting his scrolls before unloading, who got the message sent to him by Flavius, to say that he had secured for him a place at the imperial banquet and enclosing a pass that would get him past the Excubitors and into the palace. He was advised to wear his best clothing and to understand that if he would be very far from the imperial presence it was the best his grateful general could do.
The clothing in which Procopius presented himself to at the Watergate was splendid garb indeed. Honest he might be but the wardrobe of the Vandal royals had fallen to the Romans when Carthage was occupied and he saw no difficulty in borrowing their finery. It was pleasing so attired to be treated with deep respect, not only by the imperial guards but those he was sat next to, who took him for someone much more important than he really was.
When they found he had been with and close to Flavius Belisarius his stock with those same people rose even more, he being a fount of information about the campaign which occasioned many a smile from a man in his element. There was only one person subjected to an infrequent glare and that was Justinian, though care had to be taken not to be too obvious in his loathing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
In all his previous sojourns in the imperial palace, even as an acknowledged confidant of Justinian, even as the Victor of Dara, Flavius Belisarius had not been seen as someone with whom it was vital to be on good terms but now that was utterly reversed. It seemed no courtier or official felt comfortable without some insight into his thinking on matters of policy and those included areas where he had no interest: taxation and the new code of laws being drawn up at the Emperor’s behest.
Strangest of all the questions posed to him was his view on the rebuilding of the massive Church of St Sophia, set alight during the Nika riots and burnt to the ground. The new building was now well on its way to completion, when it would be seen by the citizens as a basilica that would proclaim the glory of God as well as the empire and dwarf anything that had gone before. It would certainly meet the aim of Justinian, to render insignificant the Church of St Peter in Rome, built by Constantine the Great.
‘I am happy for it to be built, Highness, and I am sure it will be a thing of great beauty shorn of its scaffolding, but my opinion on its merits, what is that worth?’
‘Do not think they really care about St Sophia, Flavius, it is merely a ploy to get you to converse with them. In time, the topic of conversation will not be my new church but me and the way I govern the empire, which they will suspect you and I discuss.’
‘Then it will be wasted breath,’ was his reply.