Honour

by Jack Ludlow

  Satisfied that his duties were complete he made for the officers’ quarters where he could strip off his armour, breastplate and greaves, as well as clothing made filthy by a week of campaigning, and enter the baths where he could wash and be afforded a massage. He was on the stone slab, with the hands of the masseur kneading out his aches and pains, when one of his fellow junior officers came by to deliver a message. In his absence an order had come from Constantinople calling him back to the capital.

  ‘A personal order and one that brooks no delay, from no less than the comes excubitorum himself. Our general was so impressed he nearly sent out messengers to fetch you back.’

  ‘Have you not heard?’ came a voice from another stone table. ‘Flavius is a hero who can fly and so swiftly that his enemies are rendered unable to move by the sight of him above their heads.’

  A third voice responded with faux wonder. ‘So that’s why they let themselves be slaughtered within the bounds of empire.’

  There were those amongst the officers garrisoning Dara who resented his connections within the imperial palace, influence that had got him his present posting at such a young age. Men were bound to be jealous in a world where such links provided the route to promotion and wealth. The allusion to the recent fight and that last remark indicated Narses had chosen to accept the story rather than believe it, no doubt to cover his own back as the overall commander. Yet he had seen it as sensible also to let his doubts be known to others.

  It was a febrile world in which he lived, but that was a fact known to him for many years now. The next question was obvious. Why did Justinus, comes Excubitorum and one of the most powerful men in Constantinople, in command of the body that guarded the person of the Emperor Anastasius, want him back in the capital?

  CHAPTER TWO

  There was a great deal about the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire for Flavius Belisarius to dislike; the sheer teeming mass of humanity was easy to resent as his horse sought to push its way through the crowds that filled the streets, all jostling and refusing to give way as they, in no discernible order, moved simultaneously in two directions on foot, in carts, with the occasional palanquin or mounted worthy. Also, if a military barracks in high summer was not a scented place, Constantinople was many times worse, given it needed heavy rain to wash the filth, both human and animal, from its streets and into a sea often rendered deep brown by the effluent.

  Worst of all was the utter lack of regard or respect for a fellow citizen, a natural belligerence in the eyes of those he fought his way through until he reached the Triumphal Way and the open space before the great imperial palace, one so huge not even the population of the city could render it full, where he could dismount.

  Flavius had been inducted three years previously into the military unit responsible for the bodily security of the Emperor and it was men of that body who stood guard at the gates leading into the maze of buildings that constituted the seat of imperial power. As befitted the successors to the Praetorian Guard, they were beautifully accoutred in gleaming and decorated armour, archaic in its design, breastplates and helmets flashing in the strong sunshine, as were the points of their spears.

  Their commander, Justinus, after a year of training, had sent him to the eastern borderlands to hone his soldiering skills and in doing so he had donned the equipment of the units with which he had served, equipment that now showed the wear of two seasons’ campaigning. His padded garment was worn, the surface nearly worn away in parts and lacking any decor. Added to that he had upon him the grit and muck of weeks of travel which, to these finely clad sentinels, made him look like some kind of vagabond.

  Naturally haughty anyway, common soldiers of such an elevated body were not inclined to give any form of greeting to an officer from another unit that came even close to respect. Flavius had also been gone two whole years, time in which the composition of the Excubitors had changed enough to render him unknown to many of those now acting as guards. So his enquiry to be let through to attend upon the comes, if not greeted with mirth, was not taken as anything even bordering on serious, while the response was delivered to a point just above his head.

  ‘Best if you apply in writing, young sir, and if His Excellency approves of you coming to see him he will issue you with an authorisation to enter the palace.’

  Flavius replied in an even tone, partly because of his equable nature but also because of the weariness of the traveller. As if to underline he would brook no delay he held out his reins so that his equally tired mount could be taken care of, an offer declined with a shudder of indignation as it was caught at the edge of the guard’s vision.

  ‘I am here at his express command, fellow, and I tell you that if I will not resort to temper in the face of your refusal to let me pass, I cannot speak for Justinus. He may be a commander known for his consideration but he is also famous for his attention to the behaviour of his men and not shy of the whip.’

  The eyes dropped for an instant to take in the face, as if to acknowledge a commonly known truth, only to be raised again. ‘If I face such wrath it will be for letting you pass.’

  ‘Then I ask that you at least take my name to the guard commander?’

  ‘To say what?’

  ‘That Flavius Belisarius of the Excubitors is returned.’

  That brought the eyes down to stare, to take in the grubby padded coat and the filth that encrusted it, the man’s tone so full of astonishment as to render any respect to his rank absent. ‘You, an Excubitor?’

  ‘I admit to failing to appear as one but I am still part of the imperial guard, so I order you to take my name to your officer.’

  ‘Best comply,’ said the second guard, stood only two paces distant, who had hitherto remained silent.

  The reluctance of his companion was obvious, he having taken a position that he had no wish to relinquish. ‘You go, then.’

  The man declined to move; he merely yelled out the alarm and that brought out of the barrack room under the gatehouse a whole file of running Excubitors, many fiddling with old-style breastplates that had been loosened for comfort. From his cubicle inside the gate it also brought forth their officer who, looking like thunder when he could observe no reason for apprehension, strode right up, passing his now parading guard detail, to stand between the two sentinels.

  ‘What in the name of Christ risen is going on?’

  ‘The prodigal returns, Domnus Articus,’ Flavius said, lifting off his helmet, ‘that is what is going on.’

  That got a close if unfriendly look, one that slowly changed to recognition as he saw that the face before him was familiar, though last been seen with the spots of puberty still showing. Now it belonged to a grown man, and if unblemished, had been rendered very dark by exposure to the sun and the growth of a trim beard.

  ‘Is it you, Flavius?’

  ‘In the flesh.’

  ‘Then the Sassanids did not manage to kill you?’

  ‘They tried.’

  Domnus stepped forward making as if to embrace Flavius, only to stop and look him up and down. If the men on guard were polished in their accoutrements, then as an Excubitor officer Domnus was positively sleek. Flavius laughed at his fears, that some of the muck on his body might take the sheen off an old comrade, a fellow who had been inducted into the unit at the same time as he.

  ‘Wait till I have bathed and changed, my friend.’

  ‘That I will, Flavius,’ Domnus replied, before turning, clearly intent on berating the sentinels. That was cut off by the man to whom they had barred entry.

  ‘Your men did a fine job, Domnus, don’t you think?’ That stopped their officer and he turned halfway back. ‘Can’t allow entry to any dusty fellow, regardless of who he claims to be.’

  The two guards, still seeking to stay rigid, did react, but in such a way it took a very acute look to spot it, no more than a grateful flick of the eyelids. Domnus intended to chastise them and he was not to be entirely deflected, though Flavius suspected his tone
was more moderate that it would have been without his intervention.

  ‘This man is an officer in the imperial military yet I do not see your spears at the salute.’ Both tips shot forward in unison as the shafts were presented on rigid, extended right arms. ‘Better, but late. Come, Flavius, let one of my men see to your horse, for I know our general will be eager to see you.’

  ‘Not like this, I think.’

  ‘No, it will be a long time since he smelt the likes of you.’

  The comes Excubitorum had many duties, the primary one to ensure that his emperor was never at risk of assassination, but his responsibilities extended to guarding all the high officials in a palace spread over a great area. Justinus took his duties very seriously, and was therefore always, throughout the day, on the move to ensure all was as it should be. When Flavius, bathed and properly dressed in clothing taken from the chest he had left behind two years previously, presented himself at the apartments his mentor occupied, he did not find his patron present, only his nephew.

  ‘At last, Flavius!’ Petrus Sabbatius exclaimed. ‘I feared that you had got lost or murdered by thieves on the way.’

  When you have not seen someone you know well for two years it is natural to look for changes and this Flavius did, though he could discern nothing meaningful when it came to Petrus. He still had a thin frame and face as well as that habit of canting his head to one side when thinking, while his reddish hair was yet untidy. Not a man to smile often, Petrus was doing so now, exposing his unevenly spaced teeth.

  ‘Not killed by the Persians?’

  ‘That I never thought would happen. Is not there a guardian angel ever on your shoulder?’

  ‘He would need to be with you on my side.’

  If that was delivered with a smile, there was an undercurrent of spleen to it. Two years previously Petrus, ever the schemer, had put him in mortal peril in pursuit of a political goal that he had declined to share with the person who might have paid the price to see it completed or fail. If they had never discussed it, Flavius knew that if he had died in its execution that would have been, for this natural courtier, a price worth paying to achieve success, namely the removal of someone he saw as a potential future rival to both himself and the man he served.

  To say Petrus was his uncle’s right hand was literally true; Justinus was a bluff and honest soldier where his relative was the opposite. He could neither read nor write, therefore he depended on his nephew to both compose his orders and to a large extent see them executed. If the bond between them was strong it was often strained as Petrus pursued goals that were disapproved of by a man of an upright disposition, objectives the nephew insisted were designed to aid and protect his uncle in a polity ridden with intrigue and infighting as courtiers jockeyed for power and the affluence that went with it.

  ‘You will have written the orders for my recall?’ Petrus nodded; he even had access to the signature stencil Justinus used to sign his orders. ‘So what does Justinus have in mind for me?’

  The nephew just smiled, but it was not one of humour, more of supremacy. About to speak again, Flavius was cut off by the entry of the general himself and his opening words, as well as the surprise in both voice and face, spoke volumes.

  ‘Lord, Flavius, what has brought you home?’

  About to reply that it was obviously not at his personal command, he flicked a glance at Petrus to get a very slight shake of the head, added to an expression that told him to be cautious and it was he who spoke.

  ‘Has it not been too long since he was with us, Uncle, and was his deployment not for a fixed term?’

  ‘Was it?’ Justinus enquired, looking slightly confused, before breaking into a wide grin, one nearly as wide as the arms with which he stepped forward to embrace Flavius. ‘Well I am glad to see you, boy.’

  ‘Are we not all glad to see him,’ Petrus added, if less fulsomely.

  The hands of Justinus were on the shoulders now and he was looking hard into the face of the youngster. ‘I swear you are the spit of your father, God rest his soul.’

  That had the young man drop his head and move his thinking from the very obvious fact that it was not Justinus who had recalled him but Petrus, a notion that presaged something that might be both unpleasant and dangerous. The memory of how his father and three brothers had died because of downright treachery haunted him enough to overwhelm that immediate concern, the reaction not missed by Justinus.

  ‘Forgive me if it causes you discomfort but I mention it only to praise you. I knew your papa when he was the age you are now, with the pair of us not long joined the imperial army. What a set of rogues we were—’

  ‘Have you eaten, Flavius?’

  His uncle stopped as Petrus butted in, wishing to cut off a flow of reminiscence of the kind he had heard far too often; old soldiers never seemed to tire of their tales of camp life and fighting, as well as what they got up to elsewhere.

  ‘Well,’ said Justinus, ‘we shall all dine together and you can tell us of your exploits on the border.’

  A swift response came from the nephew, to whom the tales of young soldiers were no more enthralling to him than that of their elders. ‘I have another arrangement, Uncle.’

  Justinus looked pained. ‘I can guess in what kind of company.’

  Petrus merely shrugged; it was an ongoing dispute that had obviously not been tempered in the time Flavius had been absent. Justinus sought for his nephew the same as his parents. Born of a mother who had risen from humble stock to wed a nobleman, it was possible he could marry into the patrician class and become connected to one of those ancient families that had filled the high offices of state for centuries and had deep prosperity to prove it. There were many of that class, if not all, who saw the brood to which Justinus belonged, his wife Lupicina included, as Thracian peasants and barely sought to temper their condescension.

  Petrus did not care but his uncle and father did, sure that it was the only way to secure the future success of a bloodline ascended to eminence only by the military prowess of the present comes Excubitorum, who had risen through the ranks to become a successful and much lauded general. In his elevation to his present senior position, Vigilantia, sister to Justinus, had risen on his cloak tails and had made for herself an advantageous marriage. She was keen to embed the family in the higher ranks of the populace.

  Their great hope was not in the least interested, openly stating that he found the scented daughters of the patrician class vapid and dull and besides that he was only ever considered marital material by those families on the way down. Either that or they had daughters already passed over for a lack of comeliness or with some obvious physical flaw.

  Torture for Petrus was to sit and dine in the surroundings of such a family, where no chance was avoided to remind the guest of their centuries of high birth. The fathers and brothers would go out of their way to show both learning and erudition by quoting classical texts, as if scholarship compensated for having no worthwhile position in the imperial bureaucracy.

  ‘Tonight,’ Petrus exclaimed, standing up, ‘I will forgo my usual pleasures. How can I not stay to break bread with Flavius newly returned?’

  The youngster looked at Justinus then, to see if he had taken that at face value, which Flavius had decidedly not. Petrus was not one for hearty male companionship either, only truly happy in the company of hard-drinking Excubitor officers, low life and whores, more at ease in the brothels and taverns of the dock area than the villas of the upper orders. If he was forgoing that there would be a reason other than manners.

  ‘That is as it should be,’ Justinus responded forcefully, proving that if he was a good, nay brilliant soldier and as upright as a man could be, he lacked perception when he was being teased by his close relative. Flavius was again treated to another wide grin that followed by a hearty military slap. ‘Look at you, boy, skin and bone on army provisions. You need feeding up!’

  Later, as they dined, Petrus made a good fist of hiding his boredom,
there being no subject to air other than the military one. If he became fully engaged at all it was when Flavius began to talk of Dara and the progress of the building of the fortifications. Anastasius had personally chosen the site, only three leagues from the Sassanid fortified city of Nisibis, the forward base from which King Kavadh had previously launched his attacks on Roman territory.

  ‘Which is what we should do, Uncle, use Dara as a base for aggression not just defence. Otherwise it is a waste of our treasure.’

  ‘Anastasius wants peace,’ Justinus replied, with a tone of weariness that suggested it was a statement not entirely to his liking. ‘And nearing his ninth decade you can see why that would be. He is not one to waste money, as you know, but this to him is a saving on buying off the Sassanids every ten years with talents of gold. He hopes, with such a strong fortress that the Sassanids dare not pass by, to make the game not worth the candle.’

  The response was very animated for a man normally very much in control of himself; Petrus positively spat back. ‘They only attack when Kavadh runs out of the funds he needs to bribe his tribal leaders and keep them from seeking to depose him. What do we do? Pay up and keep him alive as a threat.’

  ‘And if they did depose him would his successor be better?’

  ‘Then kill the whole snake if cutting off the head will not do.’

  ‘To eliminate the Sassanids we would need an army ten times the size of the one we can muster, Petrus, and even then we might not succeed, and could we hold that which we take?’

  ‘Rome cowed Persia once and Alexander ruled there.’

  ‘Then that,’ Justinus exclaimed, seeking to inject a lighter vein, ‘is what you need, another Alexander. It is well to remember when you speak of Rome what happened to Crassus, not Trajan and Pompey. Crassus lost an entire army and his own life fighting Persia and if Trajan and Pompey did better, neither sought to keep what they had won.’