The sudden burst of loud singing, being in Latin, had him spin to place it, the tune itself being one he recognised, having heard it many times as he walked the lines of his encamped soldiery. The words were filthy, raucous and ultimately blasphemous but that mattered less than the nature of the source. Flavius waited until he had been provided with a pitcher of wine before he moved towards the now silent singers, picking up the tones of their rough exchanges, traded insults that created much amusement.
The table was too crowded to allow him to sit, each bench fully occupied by a set of scarred individuals, all in some kind of apparel that identified them as military: tunics, a breastplate or two and the odd removed helmet. Experience told Flavius that there would be a hierarchy, if not in rank then in personality; there always was in any group of soldiers and the man with the loudest voice, sat at the head of the table, seemed to be that and was thus the object of his stare.
At first the reaction to that was a look of fury, for the gape would seem like a challenge. That only lasted a second before the eyes began to narrow and the man leant forward slightly to add a keen look. Those same eyes soon went wide and so did the fellow’s mouth, whatever he was about to emit silenced by the finger at the mouth of Flavius Belisarius.
The reaction had been observed by his companions, which brought a small oasis of silence in the noisy room, one that allowed Flavius to ask for permission to sit, which was quickly ordered by the man at the table head and obeyed by his companions, several of whom were now staring open-mouthed at their new companion, who placed his pitcher of wine on the bare wood and spoke in Latin.
‘It is a poor guest who does not come with gifts.’
‘A Greek habit, Excellence,’ intoned the leader, ‘from ancient times.’
There was wit as well as shrewdness in that response; the man was saying to Flavius that his presence in such a place, added to the manner of approach, smacked of dangerous subterfuge.
‘You would honour me more by not using titles or names.’ That got a sharp nod followed by a glare that encompassed the whole group of eight men. ‘You would also honour me by naming yourselves, since to my shame, though I seem to recognise several faces, I cannot put a tag on them.’
They tumbled out, each spoken in a near whisper. Colonus, Euphrastes, a pair called Brennus, and the rest he missed. It was Colonus who had the air of leadership Flavius sought, and with politely phrased requests he moved until they were sat close.
‘I heard you sing in Latin.’
‘It is our tongue, General.’
‘Do I sense Illyricum in your accent?’
‘It takes a sharp ear to detect that.’
‘Not to one raised by Illyrian parents, Colonus.’
The whole table had gone quiet, which was inclined to attract more attention than any amount of noise. Again Colonus showed a shrewd appreciation, making a loud toast, taken up by his fellows, that followed by a bark to keep talking. Then he brought his head close to that of his one-time general.
‘I am bound to ask why you are here.’
‘As I must ask what is known of my troubles.’
The pause was of no great length, but it was significant and made more so by what followed. ‘Word is you sent your lad Photius to murder a fellow who was …’
‘Dallying with my wife,’ Flavius said, finishing a sentence with the words Colonus was clearly too embarrassed or cautious to utter. ‘So it is common gossip?’
‘Aye.’
‘And?’
‘Not a man at this table would not do likewise, though they would strike the blow themselves.’
The tone of that alerted Flavius to the undercurrent of what was being implied: that if he was being cuckolded, then it was a matter he should have sorted out himself and not given over to another.
‘If I was to swear, Colonus, that no such order was given, would you believe me? I would not imperil my soul by cold-blooded murder.’
‘It would be a fool who doubted the word of-’ The sharp headshake stopped the indiscretion; even whispered, Flavius saw the use of his name as dangerous, which allowed Colonus to finish with, ‘a man such as yourself.’
‘You served me in Italy, I think.’
‘The whole table did, though we came with Narses.’
It seemed politic to enquire more, and to include his companions in a recollection of their service. There was also a possibility that these men formed part of the Narses comitatus, and if they did their loyalty to the eunuch would be absolute. That fear was laid to rest by some of the choice insults aimed at the man who had brought them to Italy from Illyricum and to comparisons with their better treatment once he had gone home.
They had been withdrawn not long after Flavius himself departed Ravenna and now formed some of the garrison of the capital, none too happy since there were no spoils in such a duty. Such general information flowed for a while, but Flavius was aware that Colonus was no longer taking part, and in a lull the man who had been identified as the senior centurion posed the obvious question.
‘I need help, Colonus, and I am prepared to pay a sum you would never chance upon even if you took Croesus himself prisoner.’
‘Then it is help that comes with great risk.’ Flavius nodded and Colonus fell silent for a while. When he did speak he again showed that he had a brain. ‘This duty has to be about your stepson.’
‘He is in prison – I want him freed and I cannot do that by mere pleading.’
‘By violence?’
‘That would be to invite certain death. He is beneath the palace and even if I know you to be hardy fighters you cannot take on the whole regiment of Excubitors.’
‘Then it has to be bribes.’
‘I would say so.’
Colonus fell silent again, though he again waved his hands to have his companions keep up their faux enjoyment. To concentrate his mind Flavius produced a soft leather pouch, which when he laid it on the table, testified to the weight of its contents by the telling thud.
‘We could take that and do nothing.’
‘You could, Colonus, and that also tells you I am short on alternatives.’
‘And how do I convince you that is not a waste?’
The glance at the purse meant no further explanation was required.
‘Are you free to visit the barracks at Galatea?’
‘I am when off duty.’
‘Tomorrow?’ A nod. ‘I will be there visiting the wounded I sent back from Dara. I will not be hard to find for a centurion wishing to pay his respects to a man who once led him in battle. There we can talk freely and I can advise you on how you can do that which is barred to me. If you are not there, then I will know this was a waste. If you are, what you see is but a down payment on a far greater sum.’
Flavius was halfway to standing, and aware of the combined stares of men who had once more fallen silent. Still he addressed Colonus, and softly, his hand over the leather pouch.
‘One piece of advice from a fellow soldier. It would be wise to share your good fortune with some of your companions. This is no task for one man.’
There was no need to add more and the look in the other man’s eyes said plainly he understood.
Flavius Belisarius had no need to explain his presence in a military camp, least of all the near permanent base at Galatea. It was there Colonus found him, to be introduced to Solomon who would from now on be the Illyrian centurion’s point of contact, and that at arm’s length. He was given a sketch plan of lower floors of the palace and it was established that the way to get Photius free would require a combination of money, guile and perhaps some physical force.