by Jack Ludlow
It might be the right of the citizen of empire to approve of an imperial candidate and it might be the task of the Church to bless it. But when it came to coronation it fell to the person taking office to see himself crowned and that was a moment to test the resolve of any man. To be the Roman Emperor, to have total sway over half of its territories and a titular supremacy over the old western polity, to be the focus of all law-giving and the arbiter of religious dogma, was a burden to be considered before being accepted.
Flavius watched the hands reach out then stop, the crowd falling into utter silence as the thought occurred that the man so gloriously clad in purple and gold might in fact deny that which was being offered to him. Some may have thought it to be merely dramatic show, a deliberate heightening of tension. Flavius knew the hesitation was genuine: Justinus lacked the pride to be sure of his right but he was still of strong mind. Decision made, those hands reached out, lifted the crown high, and then slowly he placed it on his head.
Had there been a roof on the Hippodrome it would have lifted at the roar which greeted the new Emperor Justin – his Roman rendering was held by Petrus to be too unpleasant to the ears of a population mostly of Greek extraction. Nor was it to be the Empress Lupicina, a name that identified her barbarian roots, her Roman leanings and was redolent of the pagan cult of Lupus, her crowning met with cheering if at a less fulsome volume.
She was acclaimed as Empress Euphemia, taking the name of a well-known martyred saint and seeking to imply, to those who would bow to her from this moment on, her aim was for their welfare. She personally venerated Saint Euphemia, something they would come to know by her actions and pronouncements. That she was a good choice would too become widely accepted for here was a woman who hated imperial pomp as well as patrician condescension, hence her refusal to previously take up residence in the palace. Deeply religious she would use her office to carry out good works.
Justin the First stepped forward to speak of his desires of peace, harmony and prosperity, the common tropes of any ruler seeking to ingratiate himself with his subjects. He wanted the empire’s enemies thwarted and her friends cossetted, none of these causing excitement by folk expecting largess. But there was to be no distribution of gold; instead public works too long held in abeyance would be commenced, a better supply of water and a more swift removal of the city’s filth would be put in hand, for it was not his policy to bribe those who were in anticipation of it but to improve the way of life for all.
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 so
ldier, 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.
After a decade of imperial inaction the Centurion Decimus Belisarius had finally got what he wanted; the promise of a high-ranking official commission to investigate the crimes and misdemeanours of his adversary and one kept secret even from the Emperor’s own court officials. Somehow Senuthius Vicinus, the rogue in question, must have got wind of it and his reaction was to contrive a plan that removed the messenger and thus the threat.
Lying on his cot Flavius reprised what happened next; he had been forced to flee from his family home in the company of his father’s aged domesticus Ohannes. A one-time fighting soldier, he had ensured the last surviving child did not suffer the same fate of the rest of his family, for Senuthius saw security only in the wiping out of the entire Belisarius clan. It was a blessing his mother had been absent visiting relatives when her family was destroyed for she too would have faced death, and escape with her in company would probably have been impossible.
Now he recalled the visit he had made to her and the tears they had both shed as he recounted the details of what had occurred. Not that she was unaware; he had sent Ohannes to her with the sad news so he was at least spared being the first to say the words and by the time he met with her, grief had mellowed to stoic acceptance. Happily, despite being deeply religious, she had never hinted any disapproval of the way he had seen to the remains of her husband and sons, which was seen by many as blasphemous.
On the site of the deadly encounter Flavius had built and lit a funeral pyre in true Roman fashion, sure his father would have approved, for he was strong for the virtues of the great millennial empire. That brought his ruminations full circle; it had been Petrus who had created the circumstances that got Flavius his revenge, Petrus who had given him the means to bring down Senuthius.
Rising from his bed and falling to his knees he began to pray for the souls of his lost family and he decided to include Petrus. Surely, given his nature, his way of living and his scheming nature, he required much intercession with the Almighty. Only when his supplications were concluded was it possible to sleep.
It was refreshing to be back in the saddle, spotting places and landscapes that had marked his passage south serving as a ranker under the rebellious Vitalian. Ohannes had been by his side much of the way, chastising, moaning and occasionally praising his young charge. There was a warm memory too, underscored with guilt, regarding a girl he had met, one of a group of camp followers; the warmth came from his first introduction to physical love, the guilt from a feeling he had abandoned her to pursue his own cause.
Their route, the Via Gemina ran along the shores of the Euxine Sea, which, when it was in sight, brought with it a welcome breeze that took some of the heat out of the air. Reaching Odessus they turned inland toward Marcianopolis, the landscape changing from an open vista to one often enclosed by thick woods, dotted with areas where these opened out to show fields of corn stubble. Often there were small groups of dwellings around a set of farm buildings and a villa.
They were now in country over which Vitalian exercised total control, for the imperial writ did not run in these parts, a region where, Flavius suspected, there would be no meaningful law. The man he had come to see was a rebel and his interest lay in ensuring the security of his fighting men; enforcing order on the surrounding countryside was a secondary consideration and would only concern the security of supply.
Nothing drove home more the state of affairs than the lack of traffic and when they did come across anyone moving towards the coast the party took time to assess them before coming on, passing with the minimum of exchange based on caution. Rebellion brought on lawlessness as the worst elements of the citizenry sought to profit from disorder so it was necessary to be guarded; no more resting in comfortable mansiones, no delightful and gratifying baths and no more changes of mounts.
What they rode was what they had so the animals had to be husbanded and cared for. Now it was a half-riding, half-walking progression with two men up ahead looking out for trouble and swords and spears to hand. Even divested of their fine Excubitor armour these ten men and their officer presented a tempting target if spotted by a large band of brigands, albeit one that could fight.
In the high heat of midday it was necessary to find shade and a stream, to unsaddle the mounts to let them drink as they wished and graze while Flavius and his men likewise rested. Where possible, when they camped for the night, it was within sight of one of those villas-cum-farms and their presence was not usually welcome, they being quickly identified as imperial soldiers and thus dangerous folk to be seen to be helping. Any objections had to be brushed aside; such places had feed to sell for both horses and humans and wells to access for much needed water.
The hilly country closer to Marcianopolis made more manifest that which they had already encountered; in the wooded valleys there was no farming and in high summer no trails of woodsmoke in the sky to hint at dwellings of any kind. The trees were taller, and being in full leaf and untended they formed a canopy that joined above their heads to create a tunnel. Likewise the actual pave was in poor repair, with blocks missing and in some cases whole sections gone, looking to have been washed away in winter storms.
The feeling you are being watched, once it takes hold, is impossible to shake and Flavius had felt it for the whole morning. There were signs, though they could be animal not human; sudden rustlings in the undergrowth not far from the road, the occasional startled bird that cawed as it was disturbed and flew to safety, added to that the particular sound a frightened pigeon makes as in escaping danger its wings flap against a surround of leaves.
Even in such dense woodland, where the sun did not penetrate, it was hot, and worse, it was humid. So walking the horses so as not to tire them out increased the feeling of vulnerability. Also, the need to find a resting place just off this badly maintained road was just as paramount, the problem being that if they existed,
and they did, they tended to be tight glades with trickling streams that made the feeling of enclosure acute.
‘Leave the riding horses saddled,’ Flavius ordered, looking aloft at the patch of sky afforded them by the surrounding trees. ‘Lead them to water and let them drink in pairs. Likewise we eat and drink two at a time, with the rest to stay armed and alert.’
‘I don’t like it much either, Your Honour.’
‘Too quiet?’
‘That, and the itch in my neck.’
Karas, the decanus who had spoken, was no spring chicken; he was an experienced soldier with a face the colour of leather, eyes surrounded by wrinkles and he acted as second in command. Flavius had learnt to have great respect for his abilities on the ride north; he kept the rest of the men up to the mark and was not slow to remind them that they belonged to a unit that formed the elite of the imperial army, with a responsibility to behave like it.
‘Thoughts, Karas?’
That made the decanus blink; he was unaccustomed to have his views sought never mind listened to. Before he replied his eyes ranged around the surrounding trees, given there was no need to allude to what was being asked.
‘It’s not bears or cats.’
‘Human, then?’
A nod. ‘If there is a threat out there it is not large or well-armed, nor is it mounted.’
‘They would have attacked us on the road.’
Karas nodded. ‘So it won’t be blood they’re after but what we carry on the pack animals, for they will have seen our weapons. A horse round here and to a peasant will be of value an’ all, Your Honour, never mind their loads.’
‘A night raid?’
Again the eyes ranged around the enclosing woods, forests that the locals could very likely move through without giving away their presence. ‘It will be if we are camped and sleeping in a place such as this.’