‘Not very subtle,’ Bouzes observed as they watched the envoy’s caravan depart.
‘It’s not meant to be. It does no harm to remind our foes I once beat them.’
The scouts sent to observe the movements of the enemy reported that, after only a few days, they were heading east and their direction would bring them into conflict with Justus. Flavius issued orders to the imperial nephew to get out of Khusrow’s path, with an additional threat to send him back to Justinian in chains if he disobeyed. Then he brought together his own forces but made no move to advance and impede the enemy.
Those same watchers observed the Sassanids throw a bridge across the Euphrates and only then did Flavius move, to make his presence felt on their rear and chivvy them on. He too crossed the river to maintain the pressure. A message came from Khusrow claiming to have met his part of a bargain never agreed, to which Flavius responded by requesting he keep moving east.
Once out of Byzantine territory he then undertook to send the news to Justinian with a request that the ambassadorial demand be met, as long as no Byzantine property was damaged by the retiring army. To save face, Khusrow demanded a hostage; Flavius was happy to oblige for he had achieved his entire aim, and that long before the campaigning season was complete.
He had chased Justinian’s enemies out of the imperial lands and it had cost not a drop of blood or a speck of gold. Task complete, Flavius retired with his army to Edessa in Mesopotamia, central to his area of responsibility, sure that his enemy would retire to Persia.
Khusrow, no doubt to save face, took advantage of the lack of Byzantine pressure to sack the city of Callinicum, this before he announced his intention to observe the peace, which brought from his opponent a rare outburst of fulmination at the perfidy of the Sassanid dynasty.
The sight of Solomon approaching the gubernatorial palace of Edessa, a sorely missed man, had Flavius examining his expression long before they were close to each other. Not wanting to betray even a clue as to what had happened, his master was surrounded by high-ranking officers as well as his bodyguard, the domesticus merely nodded in a manner which was enough to tell his master that Photius was free, a whispered explanation later explaining it had taken four attempts before it had been successful.
‘His health?’ he asked once they were alone.
‘Damaged, Magister. The tormentors worked on him hard.’
The excuse of another more private hunt was contrived and both men set out with a small group of Flavius’s personal followers at dawn so their general could rendezvous with his stepson, not that they were given a chance to observe the meeting, being halted well away from the church in which he was hiding.
What Solomon had said did not do any justice to the truth. Photius was gaunt and if his face was much scarred it could only be guessed at how wracked had been his body, less fulsome than it had been, obvious when they embraced, indicating skin and bone. Even his voice was different, no longer strong but hoarse, that matched by a tearful Flavius who knew what he must say and had no joy in the delivery.
‘I cannot take you back into my service, Photius.’
That got a wan smile. ‘I would scarce be of use to you and know I must continue my journey, Father.’
‘To where?’
‘Jerusalem, where I will seek sanctuary in a monastery in the hope that my mother and her evil twin will leave me in peace.’
‘Never have I wanted to harm her more.’
‘Yet I know you. You will leave her punishment to God.’
‘I beg you write to me. No name but I will know it to be you.’
Solomon had removed himself and father and beloved stepson spent a full glass of sand quietly talking, recalling better times until finally it was time to pray for a better future. Photius would wait until Flavius and his party were well away from the tiny chapel before moving on, all his stepfather could do as a last gesture being to make sure he did not lack for funds.
‘My needs will be little now. No weapons or armour, or even a horse. A donkey at best, that and a plain garment.’
A final embrace, a parting without looking back and no doubt an escort wondering why their normally buoyant general was silent and seemingly cast down in despair, which lasted even when the sun went down and they made their way by the moon and stars. Flavius arrived back in Edessa well after midnight to find the palace a blaze of light and, given the varying guards assembled outside, full of his senior officers.
Bouzes was outside and he spoke as soon as Flavius dismounted before the stairway. ‘Word from Constantinople, Magister. The plague has reached the city and is raging.’
That did not surprise Flavius, but the concerned expression on the face of Bouzes hinted at more. ‘One of the afflicted is Justinian.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The implications of that did not require explanation; both men had seen too much death at the hands of that affliction to be aware of the potential consequences. From the first signs of lassitude they had seen men develop the swellings that presaged a serious illness rather than minor distress. Then came the shaking as even on a hot day a man could complain of being chilled, followed by pain in fingers, nose and toes as they turned black, another sign only too familiar to a fighting soldier who had seen his comrades require limbs to be removed after a battle to save their lives.
Strong men cried in agony at the pain they were subjected to from limbs that grew increasingly stiff. Those close by them, men in their ten-man decharchia or their camp wives, knew the disease to be entering the fatal stage when they began to cough up black blood or dark spots appeared on their yellowing skin. Sometimes those close by, fearful for their own lives, tossed such victims into the specially dug plague pits before the final signs of life were extinguished.
The other obvious worry was time; if the Emperor had fallen victim to the plague, the time taken to get the news to Edessa might mean he was already dead and the implications again required little discussion: the imperial throne was empty and there was only one person well placed to act upon that.
‘In your absence I called a conference of senior officers and we agreed that the Empress Theodora should not be allowed to promote a candidate.’
‘It sounds like Zeno and Anastatius all over again,’ Flavius said, with a slow shake of the head.
‘Can you not see it bodes ill for you, Magister?’
‘Worry less about me and more about the empire, Bouzes.’ Then he lifted his eyes and looked at his leading general. ‘Where does Justus stand in this?’
‘With all of us. He knows the Hippodrome will never acclaim him. He is too young and lacks support. But you …?’
That got a wry smile. ‘Whoever thought it could become a habit, turning down imperial titles?’
‘We cannot let Theodora choose Justinian’s successor.’
Again the point was driven home; without her husband Theodora had little bordering on no power, added to a raft of enemies who would be only too eager to extract retribution for the way she had used her influence to impoverish and isolate them. Her fate would not be mere removal from authority – she was too much loathed by the mob for that – so it would take little for those who hated her to whip up the kind of multitude that would see her torn apart.
That she would naturally stop at nothing to avoid, added to which the path to safety was no mystery. When the Emperor Zeno died his consort felt equally at risk, although she had fewer high officials antagonistic towards her. With no obvious candidate to succeed Zeno she had married handsome Anastatius and had him commended then accepted in the Hippodrome.