Vengeance, page 28
He began to walk, knowing it aided his thinking and all of his perambulations were not on wide avenues; sometimes he found himself in narrow alleyways and felt it necessary to move his sword to be ready for any assault. Nothing of a solution, other than those methods already considered, presented itself. Turning a corner that led from one of the alleys to a small square, Flavius disturbed a group of youths busy painting some message on a wall. His appearance made them go rigid, until, realising he was no threat – he smiled – they carried on with their graffiti.
Giving them a wide berth Flavius could read the message so far, which was that someone called Pronto was a dirty parasite who what? He had to stop and wait till they were finished, one of them grinning as the last word was painted on the bricks, which completed the information that Fronto was a dirty old goat who buggered little boys and should be castrated. Message complete, the group ran off down another alley.
‘Where to get paints,’ Flavius said out loud to himself.
It was back to the Triumphal Way but that produced no results: a place stocking such things as oil and pigments would not be there, but if the citizens of the city were rude the shopkeepers seemed less so, especially when he sought to copy their distinctive accent so as to sound local. Whatever, he was directed to a place in some backstreets where he found the requisite workshop.
‘Vermillion?’ asked the skeletal creature who owned it.
‘As bright as you can make it, and a brush as well.’
‘Best tell me what it is you want to paint, for that affects the mix – need more lead and oil if it is outside, not that it will last, thank the Lord and our sun, or I would not be long in trade.’
Flavius, looking at him, reckoned he would not be long anyway; he had a hollowed chest, a hacking cough and translucent skin, patterned with very obvious blue and protruding veins.
‘Which is cheaper?’
‘Indoor,’ came the surprised response, ‘as you would expect.’
‘Then make it that.’
‘How much do you want?’
That flummoxed Flavius; he had no idea, in the end electing to have the smallest amount he could. The man mixed it for him in a clay pot; better that than trying to get the blend right himself and making a pig’s ear of it. Pot under his arm, the top sealed with a bit of ragged oiled animal skin and twine, his chosen brush secreted away, he made his way back to the Forum of Constantine to sit, eating more of his sausage and cheese, while contemplating his plan.
Not having slept as much as he would have liked, it was hard, with the sun beating down, to stay awake, but on a single slab stone bench every time he started to drop off the action of his body jerked him awake. It felt like eternity till the sun dipped so that it was hidden behind the Walls of Theodoric, the sky turning from gold, to red, to copper and eventually to the first sight of starlight.
That had Flavius up and moving, making his way towards the palace, gratified to see what he suspected must be the case, that the entrances if not the outer walls were lit by flaring torches. He had contemplated having one of those for his own purposes only to discount it as likely to attract too much attention, but he needed to be near enough to them to employ the very edge of their spilt light. By now it was dark, the sky an inky black and a mass of starlight that came to his aid; not only did it cast dark shadows but where it illuminated it was sufficient to see, if not clearly, then enough.
The reports of the praefectus urbanus, handed in overnight and taken to Petrus, who would compose a precis of them for his uncle, made no mention of an excess of graffiti, huge red letters painted not only on the walls of the palace, but on those of the baths as well, so glaring a red they were impossible to pass by without their being remarked upon. It was not long before there was a buzz of conversational noise about what the daubing meant.
The first person to whom it was reported went white, the blood draining from his features, and if he had reacted calmly matters might have rested there. But Pentheus Vicinus had the family temper as well as a sudden grip on his heart of fear and he left his house in something of a hurry to go and see for himself, that alone causing comment among his family and servants.
That someone of his emmence should stand before the painted letters registered with the guards as damned strange. When stood down they had to go and look at what had so exercised the senator, who had been seen yelling and demanding the graffiti be removed. When later they were breakfasting they were given to asking their comrades if they knew what it meant, so that when Justinus came to join them, as he did most mornings, the word was flying around the room and was overheard as he passed.
‘What did you say?’
The soldier leapt to his feet to reply, the way his commander had posed the question making that seem appropriate.
‘It’s everywhere, sir, bright red, painted on the palace walls and those of the baths as well.’
‘Anyone else seen it?’
‘The guards just stood down asked if any of us knew what it meant.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Asleep I should think, sir.’
‘You finished eating?’
‘I am sir.’
‘Then go and rouse them out. Then find my nephew and ask him to join me outside the Excubitor Gate, the guards too.’
Justinus was moving so fast he did not see the chest-thumping salute, nor with his mind in turmoil did he hear it either. Striding through the palace and out to the gate he was trying to make sense of something that failed to add up. What was the name of his old friend doing, as reported, plastered all over the walls and demanding justice?
The sight of the letters, roughly painted, with dripping lines running from every one, did not provide enlightenment as to the way, but it struck home. He might lack the skill to read but the name Belisarius was one he had seen many times recently, the last time as he signed the commission’s orders prepared for him by Petrus.
‘Uncle.’
‘Tell me it says what I think it does.’
‘Justice for Belisarius.’
‘Now tell me what it means?’
‘Unless you believe in spirits, then someone has daubed the walls with it.’
Justinus became aware of two soldiers, wearing no armour and only their tunics, shifting nervously from foot to foot and wondering why they had been dragged from their beds, as well as in what way they had transgressed, which might give them a clue as to what punishment they could be in for. The command to rouse out and attend on the count had come with no other explanation. At a gesture they approached, with Justinus pointing a finger at the wall.
‘This, d’you see it done?’
‘No, Your Honour.’
‘Didn’t really notice it till one of the senators came along and started yelling blue murder.’
‘Which senator?’
‘No idea, sir.’
‘Had to be Vicinus,’ Petrus whispered. ‘That is a name and a demand that would rankle more with him than it does even with us.’
‘But what does it mean?’
‘It is a message, to Vicinus perhaps . . .’
‘Could be to me?’
‘Why to you?’
‘You read me the reports of what happened on the Danube.’
‘And I recall you chose not to believe them.’
‘What if this is someone trying to tell me I am right?’
‘It will make no difference,’ Petrus responded, gesturing for the two guards to back away out of hearing.
‘Of course it will.’
‘No, Uncle, what is done is done and even if you find those reports are false, that something dastardly has been done, what can you do about it? Decimus Belisarius alive and enquiring into his complaints had a rationale. But the one thing that cannot be in doubt is that he is dead. To risk raising how that came about is to expose yourself as having championed his cause, which will make an enemy of a man who, thanks to his actions with regard to Vitalian, has suddenly got the ear of the emperor.’
‘Why do you always analyse matters in terms of intrigue?’
‘It keeps us alive.’
‘Us?’
‘You too, Uncle. I have never sought to advise you.’ That got a look of disbelief; Petrus never let up with his opinions. ‘But I would counsel it is unwise to rely on any popularity you might think you enjoy with Anastasius. He is as devious as an emperor must be to keep breath in his body, and not beyond sacrificing a friend if it suits his aims.’
‘So?’
‘Leave it, say nothing and if it is in the praefectus report, maybe even remove it.’
‘Sometimes, Petrus, you go too far.’
If Justinus had hoped to chastise his nephew, he utterly failed. ‘I will not be guided on the best way to stop you endangering yourself.’
If it was not stated it was in his eyes; if you fall, Uncle, I fall with you.
‘Your Honour, there’s a young fellow at the gate who says his name is Flavius Belisarius.’
The speed with which Justinus moved surprised the messenger, one of his excubitor rankers; their commandant was a measured man in everything he did; rarely if ever, outside the training arena, did he break sweat. Now, and for the second time this day, he was close to running, eager to get to the gate to first find out if it was truly the son of Decimus and secondly, if he was, to spirit him inside the palace – few as possible must know he was here, perhaps not even Petrus.
There could be no doubt whatsoever he was the one who had daubed the walls; the youth’s clothing, grubby leggings and dirty smock were streaked with red paint. He had a sword, a spear resting point down and some kind of sack over his shoulder. Justinus marched up, sizing him as he went: the height, taller than Decirnus, the black hair long and untidy, then there was the direct look in the eyes. The spear must have worried the men set to guard the gate for they moved to create an angle in which they could watch that weapon.
‘How am I to know you are who you say?’
There was no blinking in those deep-brown eyes, just a steady gaze that hinted at self-assurance; how could the older man know that not for the first time in his life this youngster’s knees were shaking?
‘I need to know who it is I am talking with.’
‘I don’t think you are in any position to demand anything.’
‘I did not think I demanded, sir,’ Flavius replied, in an emollient tone. ‘If you are not Count Justinus, I would be obliged if you would take a message to him.’
‘Which is?’
‘That his correspondence with my father, Decimus, is safe.’
Justinus stood stock-still for several seconds, before growling as he spun round, ‘Come with me.’ Flavius heard him mutter to the guards as he passed them not to say a word to anyone, then he had his arm taken to be bustled in through the gate and, with a sharp turn, down some stone steps into a cold, stone-walled basement. There were several heavy wooden doors with grills, all wide open, the one closest showing a bare cell with a bench and a cot into which he was shepherded.
‘Wait here.’
Flavius, who still had his weapons and possessions, was confused – more so when the older man swung the door shut but did not lock it. He was gone for a short while before returning carrying a large set of keys.
‘I want you to stay here, Flavius, until the palace settles down for the night, then I can take you to somewhere more comfortable. I have to lock the door, not to keep you in but to keep anyone else out. No one must know you are here and if anyone but me comes through this door I suggest kill them, for they will be here to assassinate you.’
‘Who are you?’ Flavius pleaded, his voice cracked.
Justinus moved close and took him by the shoulders, looking deep into his eyes. ‘I was told you were dead, that my old comrade Decimus had died with all of his sons.’
‘You are Justinus?’ That got a nod. ‘My brothers were killed fighting bravely alongside our father and by the downright treachery—’
‘Save that till we can talk properly,’ Justinus interrupted. ‘I must go back to my own guards and not only command their silence but ensure it by threatening them with hellfire and damnation. There are currents within these walls that you will not understand, heaven knows I struggle myself, but you ,are in my care now and, once I fetch you from this cell, no one will harm you without they need to harm me too and I have command of over a thousand spears.’
Flavius began to cry, as a month of anxiety seemed to fall away, unaware that Justinus was mulling over what he had just said; no one was immune from harm in an imperial palace.
‘I have a better idea. The door locks from the inside; you do that when I go and if I do not return before dawn tomorrow, get out of here, get out of Constantinople and change your name.’
Justinus had a heavy gold chain round his neck, which he removed and handed to Flavius. ‘Use this to fund your travel, sell one gold link at a time and the medallion last.’
‘Am I allowed to know who would threaten me?’
‘The name Vicinus will suffice and it is a problem of your own making. It was he who was first alerted to your name being daubed on the walls. If I thought you dead it is possible he will know you are not, just as he will know what a threat you represent to his family.’
‘I want Senuthius dead, I want vengeance for my family.’
‘In time, perhaps, first let us keep you whole.’ Justinus smiled. ‘I have no sons of my own. Perhaps, if God wills it, you may come to fill that gap. Now, once you have locked the door, get some rest, for when I come for you it will take many an hour to tell me everything that has happened this last month.’
‘Why was the commission recalled?’
‘It was the decision of Anastasius; he feared to stir up more trouble in an area that might go over to Vitalian.’
‘Can we arraign Senuthius, can I see him pay for his crimes?’
‘One day,’ Justinus replied, but he was no longer looking the youngster directly in the eye. So Flavius was unsure if he was being told the truth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Justinus had to tell Petrus what had happened and how it had come about, even if he did so with a lack of enthusiasm, certain that his nephew would object to bringing Flavius Belisarius into the palace. His reluctance extended to another truth, the knowledge that he had come to rely on his sister’s son as a means of finding his way through the labyrinth of imperial politics. In the field Justinus, fighting the enemy, was a master of his craft, not least because it was easy to see who your opponent was: in his present post, outside his actual duties, he often felt uncertain.
Open recognition of friend or foe did not exist in the great palace of the richest and most extensive empire in the world, a building in which an invitation to dinner could result in a painful poisoned death, where a smile could be a prelude to betrayal or a firm embrace the act that preceded the secret knife. It was not easy to admit that, being just a simple soldier loyal to his polity, and a man who saw his word once given as binding, he lacked the gifts needed to ensure his own security and continued employment.
Being a natural intriguer, Petrus seemed to thrive in this cesspool for he enjoyed the game. With no official function other than to act as secretary to Justinus, he had ample time to observe the behaviour of others, as well as the aptitude to cultivate even people he saw as potential enemies. He was adept at evaluating motives even if they were hidden by men skilled in subterfuge and he could manoeuvre for an advantage that his uncle did not even know existed or was beneficial.
‘Here? In the palace?’
‘Out of sight, in one of the punishment cells to keep his presence a secret.’
Petrus wanted to tell his uncle then that there were no secrets in this building, which was as much a palace of gossip as it was the seat of imperial governance, but there was no point. He had felt a clutch at his heart on hearing that Flavius was alive and that it was he who had daubed a message on the walls; a moment when he saw the angel of death hovering over his body and it had taken all his guile to keep hidden from his uncle the terror that assailed him. Thankfully, having delivered his lightning bolt, Justinus seemed lost in thought, which gave Petrus time to control his breathing and begin to think matters through.
‘Who saw him?’ he demanded.
‘The two guards at the gate, and the man they sent with the message. All three have been spoken to and issued with dire warnings.’
‘The gaoler?’
‘Knows nothing, I took his keys without explanation.’
‘No one else?’
Justinus bridled slightly at that third peremptory query, in what, it seemed to him, was turning into an interrogation. ‘Are you aiming for the post of imperial inquisitor?’
‘Forgive me,’ Petrus responded, knowing it was necessary to be less aggressive. ‘If I feel the need to advise you I would not like to make an error through ignorance.’
‘He’s a fine-looking youth, Petrus,’ Justinus said wistfully, diverting his own anger and a potential point of dispute. ‘Even shabbily dressed you can see his father in him.’
‘Am I permitted to a how did he survive, how did he get here?’
‘No idea,’ came the sighed response. ‘But he is the son of Decimus, for certain.’
‘You are sure?’
‘He mentioned the letters, said they were safe.’
Those documents had been a concern Petrus had carried in silence, never mentioning it as a factor he and his uncle should be anxious about. That correspondence in the wrong hands could not do other than create difficulties, how much so being uncertain. Once Petrus was apprised of the death of Decimus, his elliptical enquiries directed at anyone who might know of the matter appeared fruitless.
They had produced nothing to indicate the scheme to curb the activities of Senuthius Vicinus had become known to anyone outside those already within the circle of knowledge, yet there was a residual disquiet that someone had found out something and acted upon it. That was in the past; Petrus knew he had now to deal with the present.
