‘Then why-’
Justinian cut across him. ‘If I am counselled to show caution I would be a fool to refuse to take heed. When someone reminds you that it was Brutus who helped murder Julius Caesar then you will know that no ruler can ever think himself secure.’
‘Theodora thinks I mean to topple you?’
‘She will not cease to fear that the possibility exists and the oddity is, Flavius, that it is your upright nature that she fears most.’
‘That makes little sense.’
‘It does to her. You cannot rule without making enemies and we have made many and that does not begin to count the greedy. In addition to that we both have a bloodline despised by most of these with whom you share the Senate, Theodora especially.’
‘Mine is not much better.’
That point was ignored. ‘Who would those people turn to when they seek to overthrow the person they conveniently call a tyrant other than the man of shining virtue? Who would the mob proclaim in the Hippodrome if not the most successful general this empire has produced in decades, the paragon who is draped in glory?’
‘I cannot help what people think.’
‘Then apply that to my wife and take comfort from this. If she fears you, then you are far from alone.’
‘Fears me enough to ensure I can be no threat?’
‘I will protect you, Flavius, but there are occasions where I must bend with the wind she creates. I rule but she does so as my consort and we are, in all respects, partners.’
There was a terrible temptation to ask Justinian if he too felt threatened by Theodora — homicidal female companions were not unknown — but that would be a step too far, indeed it was next made plain to him that he had already overstepped the bounds of whatever friendship existed between them, an admonition delivered in a tone that left Flavius in no doubt Justinian meant the words he employed.
‘This subject will never be raised again, for if it is, what you rely on for your freedom to speak will be forfeit. Do not ever seek to have me choose between a subject, which is what you are, and my wife, who is Empress and not just in name.’
‘Would it help if I said I have faith you will keep your word?’
‘Given it is all you have it better be so.’
Justinian spun away to walk back to the palace. Flavius could not help but notice how canted was that head of his, exaggerated by the gold circlet that was his everyday crown. Clearly he was deep in thought and it was far from idle to speculate what they might be.
If the triumph was bogus to the man celebrating it, the crowds that lined the Triumphal Way took it seriously. Even before that there was a surge of well-wishers by the Golden Gate, those who lived outside the city walls, in the farms and villages that supplied much of the capital’s food, who had come to partake in the celebrations. Naturally there were the usual opportunistic vendors selling everything from false Vandal trinkets to Belisarius dolls.
Flavius had been allowed at least to partly dress in proper old Roman armour, a gleaming leather breastplate decorated with gold symbols, the white cloak that denoted his rank, and in his hand the fasces enclosing an axe that had once been the symbol of proconsular praetorian power since the Republic. The huge gates, hitherto closed, were opened to the sound of the imperial trumpets and the roar of approbation came bursting out from several thousand throats.
‘Every shout a dagger in Theodora’s vitals,’ he murmured to himself before he crossed himself and stepped out. ‘Cheer yourself with that, Flavius.’
To walk through these gates on such an occasion was a pinnacle dreamt of by his father, and not just him. Even if triumphs had long been appropriated by pagan god-emperors for their own aggrandisement — no mere mortal would be allowed to share their glory — it had stayed the dream of military men down the centuries and now, even if it was in a diminished form, he was taking what was his due.
Flavius had no illusions; this was as much a show for Justinian as it was for him. The crowd would applaud General Belisarius and shout acclaim, throwing flowers in his path so deep they would carpet the cobblestones. They would jeer and spit at the chained and shuffling Vandals, including Gelimer who came behind. The soldiers, even in such a small number, would bring back the noise of approbation, but it was the treasure the crowd really wanted to see and what they would talk about when the ceremonies were complete.
The carts, escorted by Excubitors, had been piled in such a way that every object of value was visible; the jewelled crucifixes of gold and silver so large half a dozen men would struggle to carry them, open chests of coins, with a fellow by them to dip in a hand and let the glistening objects fall back to rest on the heaped-up pile with that dull clunk only precious metal makes.
Every artefact of value, all the Vandal loot was on display, but last would come the relics, held out by black-clad monks and named as they walked, which would bring genuflection and much pious crossing as those observing thought of their sins and looked to the bones of saints and martyrs to absolve them.
The Triumphal Way ran for a full league and to traverse such a distance on foot and slowly, while acknowledging the cheers, took time. The milion monument came in to view, the obelisk from which all imperial distances were measured, as well as the high wall of the Hippodrome, and behind the edge of the Senate House there rose up the beautiful dome of the still scaffolding-enclosed St Sophia.
Behind the milion the imperial party awaited him and Flavius could not but wonder at the first time he had seen this view and the trickery he had used to get an audience with the man who had become his mentor: Justinus, the then comes Excubitorum, a high official who had no idea he wished to see him or even that he existed.
Now he was coming to face his emperor and to be acclaimed as consul for the year of Our Lord 535, a pinnacle of achievement he could never have dreamt of. There was no other image to fill his mind than that of his father, and he hoped that from the celestial paradise in which his soul must now reside he was looking down with pride on his youngest son.
It was the duty of Flavius to make his way up the steps to kneel before Justinian and there to offer to him the treasure he had brought and the captives he had taken. It was a mark of tremendous respect that the Emperor left his throne and came halfway to meet him and to embrace his general, this to a roar from the crowd that had followed to fill the space before the palace, greater than any so far raised. The crowd did not hear, Theodora who had not moved did not hear and nor did Antonina beside her, the whisper from Justinian as he put his lips to the Belisarius ear.
‘You have no need to bend the knee to me, Flavius, and if I spoke harshly to you previously, never forget that I do hold you as a friend whom I sometimes cannot put before my duty.’
‘Highness,’ was all Flavius could say, given, assailed as he was by memories, he was choking back tears.
‘If my uncle could have been here to see this, his pride would be as great as is mine.’
Pushing Flavius to one side Justinian publicly hailed him and pronounced him Consul, the highest office in the land after the imperial titles, albeit more of a fiction of power than the real article. Then he listed the crimes of Gelimer — the defiance of his imperial will, the murder of his own brother, even if he was absent. The Vandal usurper had the wisdom to take these accusations and the haranguing from the crowd head bowed: he was, after all, not going to be ritually strangled, but was, as promised by Flavius, to depart for a life of comfort in a spacious villa in Galatea.
A monk already primed brought to Justinian the casket containing the bones of St Sebastian, to be held up for veneration before the Emperor announced that in the spirit which these relics were held, they would be returned to Rome, the place from where they had been stolen. That did depress Gelimer.