He had each despatch – those received and copies of those sent over the years – brought to the desk, set by a south-facing window, to be brusquely examined. Some, probably complaints regarding his own behaviour as well as that of Senuthius, made the bishop suck on his teeth, even if the contents could be no mystery.
They were then cast, like the rest, into one of the small canvas sacks fetched for the purpose of removal, and once filled, taken out by one of the quartet of servants the bishop had fetched along, he presumed to whatever conveyance Blastos had used in coming here.
Flavius was gratified to see they were his church servants and unmilitary, not those who formed the bishop’s armed bodyguard whenever he travelled to the limits of his diocese, necessary given how few of his flock agreed with his stance on dogma. He was consulted regarding anything pertaining to the family: deeds of possession for properties purchased as well as a ledger containing a list of domestic accounts; in addition there were two sacks of coins that amounted to a limited spendable inheritance.
Those objects over which he had so recently grieved were put to one side for Flavius to do with what he wished before Blastos turned to the ledger that related to the centurion’s duties and obligations. Likewise, this had a list going back years, of payments and credits. Blastos, after a quick glance and yet more sucking of teeth, tucked that inside his own tunic, the leather bag containing the residue of the imperial funds – a small sum of money indeed – staying by his side.
Increasing frustration was clear to an acutely sensitive observer: much as the bishop tried to disguise it, Blastos was looking for something and not finding that which he sought and it was far from hard to guess what that something must be. Once the chest had been emptied Blastos went to kneel before it, leaning in to tap the sides and the base, even the arched lid, as if in search of some secret compartment, before finally getting back to his feet and looking the youngster right in the eye.
‘Are you sure you have not been through the contents of this chest?’
‘A glance, no more,’ Flavius replied, for to say no would create, not dissipate suspicion. ‘To find my father’s testament.’
‘And where is that now?’
‘In my chamber.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘No.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Certain!’
The cross was in his hand again, this time held out from his chest and aimed at those blackened eyes, the tone of his voice a rumble from deep within his frame. ‘It pains me to remind you that a lie given to me is as blasphemous as one given to God himself.’
That could not be anything but uncomfortable, Flavius being acutely aware of what he had inside his sling. Not only an official despatch but the name of who would lead it, an F. Petrus Sabbatius, as well as when it was intended they should set out from Constantinople. That being a date already past, it could be close to arrival if not actually imminent, something that depended on the eagerness of those tasked to carry out such enquiries.
‘Are there any other places where your father kept papers?’
The way the clerical eyes ran over him, top to bottom, sent a shiver through the youngster; it was as if he was hinting at a personal search, not only of his bedroom but of himself too. Inspiration had him turn to Ohannes, standing by the doorway. He approached the old soldier, seeking by the look in his eye to alert him to what he intended, for he could not chance his voice lest it betray him. Coming close he put his good hand on the older man’s shoulder, while slipping his weak arm just enough out of the sling to show the end of the oilskin pouch.
‘This fellow served as domesticus to my father. Perhaps he knows.’
To get the pouch out of his sling unseen was a risk Flavius felt he had to take. Ohannes must know, given how he acted as the centurion’s body servant and was with him as he carried out his duties, that everything being requested was in this very room, the place from which his master had discharged his duties and one to which, when he set out to face the barbarians, he fully expected to return.
The youngster was holding his breath, released when he discovered he had a shrewd fellow conspirator who, if he was not sure what was going on could, at the sight of the edge of that pouch, make a guess. In an act of pure theatricality, designed to cause a distraction and take the clerical eye off the exchange, the old man tapped his forehead with a pointed digit, as if he was a numbskull, this as his other hand took what he was being given.
‘Master would not have trusted me, young sir, for I am unlettered. He kept his private matters close. Only person who might know is your mama, to whom he was given to share his concerns.’
Spinning round Flavius used his body to mask the Scythian, giving him time to conceal the object in his own smock. He found himself looking into the face of a worried cleric, suddenly contemplating that what he sought might be a hundred leagues away. Then Blastos shook his head, implying that if such a scenario made no sense to him, he was at a loss to know what to do about it. If, as Flavius now supposed, his father’s enemies had found out there was a commission of enquiry on the way, they were obviously in the dark about the make-up of the members as well as when it might arrive.
The sooner it came the more dangerous it would be to both. With time, having disposed of their chief accuser they could, through bribes and threats, so muddy the waters that no one would dare to witness against them and that would mean no allegations could be proved. An even more disturbing thought occurred: they might try to shift any blame for what would appear to be a false set of grievances onto the complainant.
‘There has to be another place your father kept papers,’ Blastos insisted, his expression no longer calm, for the first time overtly flustered, so much so that he was required to be more open. ‘I happen to know that he had a certain amount of correspondence with the imperial capital recently on an important matter.’
‘What kind of correspondence?’
Flavius made this enquiry with his brow furrowed, not sure that, if he was taking a spiteful pleasure from the clerical discomfort, he should be. Whatever, it made Blastos even more uncomfortable and forced him into a hurried and unconvincing excuse.
‘It relates to certain matters we discussed in the sanctity of the confessional, which leaves me unable to tell even you. But I know of their existence as well as of their significance, which leads me to insist that they must be kept in another place.’
‘Then I am at a loss to know where that is,’ Flavius responded, with a catch in his voice that gave veracity to his continued lying. ‘Perhaps my brothers would have known and, as Ohannes here said, my mother, but they are no longer with us and she is far off.’
‘I fear the villa will need to be searched.’
Flavius protested immediately and vehemently. ‘This is a house in mourning.’
‘And I have the good of the empire to consider! You of all people, being your father’s son, would not surely stand in the way of that? I have my men still with me, and so I am able to carry out the task at once.’
Flavius took a deep breath before responding, finding when he did the means to sound very adult. ‘I must refuse, Bishop Gregory, until the proper period of mourning has passed, for my dear mother’s sake if no other.’
‘You cannot refuse.’
‘I do not wish to be difficult but I am, as you were keen to point out, now master of this household. Unless you can show to me an authority that gives you such a right, I will not accede to such a request.’
‘I am here on behalf of the magister militum!’
‘Who will have to give you written permission to act as you suggest.’
Flavius knew he had got it right by the confused expression that engendered; Blastos had no actual authority to act. If there had been the time to send a report of what had occurred to Marcianopolis, and to stand down any support that might be on the way, no reply had come back giving Blastos the powers he claimed, in what was at least a two-day journey on fast mounts with regular changes.