‘And if I no longer feel qualified to provide it?’
‘I have offended you, I know, Procopius, but our association is one of many years’ duration, I hope prolonged enough to allow that you fulfil a function I have always found of value. Justinian has presented me with a dilemma and I am at a loss to be sure of how to respond.’
‘Since you trumpet your loyalty to the empire and he rules it you do not have a choice. He commands, you obey.’
‘So we go back to the east and leave the final act here to another?’
‘We, Magister?’ The slow shake of the head preceded the blow. ‘I fear there is much to do still in Italy that I feel required to oversee. It is also true that you might prefer to depend on another to carry out those functions which you have entrusted to me in the past.’
If Flavius was at a loss as to how to respond he was never going to plead, nor would he refer to what had remained unspoken: what Procopius would have gained if he had taken the Goth crown and the imperial title of Western Emperor. His secretary was ambitious, which was fitting, and if they had never discussed where his association with Flavius might lead, it had never been much of a mystery.
Despite his reservations about the motives of Justinian, Procopius knew that the Emperor reposed a certain faith in the man he served. Not enough, he would maintain, to imperil his position or even slap down his wife but sufficient, barring some terrible failure, to ensure that his favourite general would always hold lucrative and powerful commands and the concomitant of that was a position of importance would likewise fall to his secretary-cum-legal advisor.
How far that could lead was again never openly alluded to, but surely at some point Flavius Belisarius would move on from being a field commander to some great office in the imperial bureaucracy, despite the malice of Theodora. Again Procopius would rise with him, yet such an elevation always lay on the edge of a cliff; close to the actual seat of power it was possible to fall much more rapidly, so it never held the true promise of security.
There was little doubt now that Procopius had engineered the offer of the Goth crown. That, to him, solved all the possible future problems he could envisage. No longer a mere legate of Justinian, Flavius would treat with him as an equal and perhaps even threaten his diadem and behind that would sit his trusted factotum, free to dream that one day he himself might even hold the highest office of state, not just in Ravenna, but in Constantinople.
‘If I cannot feed your ambitions, Procopius,’ Flavius concluded sadly, ‘I can only assert my allegiance. Oblige me by calling Vitalius to my presence, so I can begin the handover of my command. I hope you serve him as well as you have served me.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was not a single vessel that set sail for the east but a substantial flotilla, carrying Flavius, Antonina and also the general’s comitatus, his personal fighting retinue who went wherever he was active, their care delegated to Solomon. To ease his mind and temper, his wife had been accommodated with her retinue of servants on a vessel of her own, while Theodosius and his coffers had been allotted a separate galley to keep them apart.
Cabasilis he kept close partly to probe for any hint that his recall had to do with the offer of Goth kingship, not that he had any fear of the consequences, his conscience being clear. Yet he had enemies in Constantinople, rivals for military position, like Narses. Then there were the relatives and associates of the executed Constantinus. Such voices would seek to dismiss any claims to probity.
On balance he had to accept the reasons given for his recall were true. With Justinian preoccupied with what was happening in Italy, Khusrow would be well aware that the troops and commanders needed to stop his depredations simply did not exist in Asia Minor. He had cut through great swathes of territory, almost unopposed, to invest several cities, this at a time when envoys from Constantinople were present and negotiating with him.
It was also obvious that Khusrow was fired by a high level of greed rather than a desire to take and hold ground. Cities invested had been obliged to buy their way out of being sacked with a levy of several hundreds of pounds of gold. Those places that refused and Khusrow did assault provided him with hordes of slaves he was eager to ransom. Not that Khusrow was satisfied; a demand had been sent to Justinian seeking more gold as a bribe not to repeat his success.
There did not seem, either, to be any intelligence of what he planned to do next year, a question to which Flavius would have loved an answer. Cabasilis had neither information nor an opinion, which left Flavius, for the first time in many years, with nothing to plan for; he was in the dark and would remain so until he heard from Justinian.
It was a strange feeling to be unoccupied; there were no commands to issue, nothing to reconnoitre, no despatches to be sent to inferiors. He was thus reduced to the level of a sightseer, walking the deck and observing the shore from which fleets rarely parted the sight of even in summer. At this time of year, with the possibility of equinoxal tempests, the sailing master kept a sharp eye on the clouds and the sea state, ever ready to run for one of the many sheltering bays that dotted the coastline of Greece.
Introspection had previously been held at bay by the daily requirement for activity. Now, on a slow and broken voyage, Flavius had the freedom to assess his actions and if he had previously thought about the battles fought prior to this watery interlude, and his competence as a commander, he had never done so with so much absorption.
The balance was in his favour, of course; he was leaving behind a well-beaten enemy but that did not stop critical analysis of the mistakes he knew he had made. In this Procopius came constantly to mind, he being ever ready to find excuses for any setback suffered by his master, always able to find a scapegoat on which to pin the blame.
The loss outside the walls of Rome Flavius saw as his worst defeat and the excuse Procopius conjured up then would not hold in a mind bent on honest and critical examination. He had not been driven to it by more ambitious minds bent on glory or a quick result: even if he had been persuaded and allowed his own judgement to be compromised, even if blame could be attached to the broken infantry and their incompetent commanders, there was no question as to ultimate responsibility.
Added to that was the thought as to how it might have ended in disaster, with his forces locked out of the city by the refusal of the Romans to open the gates. In talking with Witigis, whom he had treated with honour, Flavius had found out why, when they had the Byzantine forces at their complete mercy, the Goths had not attacked.
‘The crowds of men on the walls, thousands of them.’
‘And?’ Flavius had enquired, confused.
‘We feared a trap and with good cause, given the number of times you sprang one on us.’
‘But those lining the walls were not fighters.’
‘They looked as if they might be to me and those who I looked to for counsel. We concluded that once engaged we would be so locked into battle as to prevent any safe withdrawal, and once those men emerged we could be overwhelmed.’
‘I am told I am lucky,’ Flavius sighed. ‘Perhaps, after what you have told me, Witigis, there is truth in that.’
‘It gives me no joy to say to you, Flavius Belisarius, that it takes more than luck to win on the field of battle.’
‘You were a worthy opponent,’ was the reply, a fitting one and true, given to a man with whom he had become less of an enemy.
‘Not worthy enough.’
At night, as the galley ploughed through the Mediterranean swell, the wind whistling in the rigging and, when that fell away, the row master’s mallet beating out a slow tattoo, Flavius was too often subject to the recurring nightmare that had plagued him since the day his family had perished, their deaths played out in an ever-shifting vision of blood, pleading and his own uselessness.