Honour (2 page)

‘Narses is bound to ask, indeed he will scarce believe it to be true, so add that once he has freed himself from the need to assess the damage this raid has caused, I invite him to come and observe.’

‘And if he says he will do so, Your Honour?’

Flavius produced a weary grin and ran a hand though his black and sweat-matted hair. ‘Then you may see my head stuck on a pike above one of the great gates of Constantinople.’

There was no humour in the response, from a person who understood fully what was at stake. They had collectively broken an imperial edict and one that was no mystery to even the lowest ranker, so the chosen messenger knew he was equally at risk.

‘Might fall to us all as a fate.’

‘I will take any blame that comes from this and I have enough influence in the imperial palace to suspect it will be accepted as so. If it does not spare me I believe it will save you and the rest of the men.’

‘Might not believe another, Your Honour.’

‘Do you believe me?’

That got a shrug to an earnestly posed question. ‘You’re given to honesty, we all talk of it.’

‘I thank you for that.’

‘Let’s hope then, Your Honour, that I can lie as well as you can tell the truth.’

The task the fellow left behind was far from easy to fulfil, dead weights being a burden to tired men, but they toiled on till the sun was low so every cadaver, human and equine, ended up on the western side of those imperial markers, spread out to make it appear as though that was where they had died, the Romans being in receipt of a proper burial.

Eyes were cast anxiously to the east but no one appeared; thankfully, it seemed Narses was too occupied to check on the tale he had been fed. In the fading light the last act was an examination of the true place of slaughter. The field was soaked with blood, as would be the place where he had fought himself, so a silent prayer for rain was not amiss, nor a hope that there was insect and scavenging life enough to remove such traces.

The number of vultures now circling was in the dozens and as the sky took on a dark-blue tint to the west, Flavius had his men remount their somewhat recovered horses and, with the booty they had recovered, set off to rejoin the main body.

The operation, a sweep across a defined area of the borderlands completed, Narses led his men back towards the great fortress of Dara, still a place of masons and engineers skilled in constructing defence works formidable enough to hold off anything Sassanid Persia could send their way. It sat above on a trio of hills that gave a commanding view of the surrounding plains. Within the walls lay several wells,
which fed huge cisterns so the water supply was secure and could not be cut off. The storerooms were so large that food and fodder for a two-year siege was stockpiled and maintained, time enough for the empire to mount an operation of relief should Dara be invested.

Flavius Belisarius oversaw the weary mounts handed over to the grooms who would care for them. The men were sent to their barrack rooms, those with wounds diverted to the place where they could receive treatment. He next ensured his men would be fed and the food he saw delivered to the tables at which they would consume it, he having tasted it to ensure it was edible.

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?

T
here 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!’