Much of the day had already gone so, with the sun beginning to sink towards the level of the treetops and using the boat Ohannes had acquired by terror, they set out, Flavius laying low in the bow. Dardanies and the Scythian did the rowing, harder against the flow of the river, the latter with his previous cack-handedness until instruction had him working his stick with competence if not skill.
The Sklaveni knew the river well and was good at identifying landmarks on both banks, asking a stream of questions about the time they had taken to cross. That neither knew, just as they had no precise idea as to from where they had set off. With little to aid him and the light fading and it being useless to search in darkness, that first evening produced no result.
Once more beached on the northern shore, they made their way back to the hut, Ohannes and Flavius to spend the night under guard, Dardanies going off to wherever it was he resided, returning before dawn. They were soon once more out on the river, working from the point at which they had previously abandoned the search. Spotting one of the watchtowers that had lined the river since the time of Hadrian, Flavius knew they had gone too far, so they reversed their course.
‘It would aid us to be closer to the shore,’ he suggested.
Dardanies was wary and with good reason, given he did not know what Senuthius had set in motion – everything he could muster, he supposed, given that, according to his young captive, he might stand to lose the same should Flavius Belisarius survive.
‘He must know by now that you did not go south but either crossed the river or are in hiding on his side. Why else would he seek to reward us for your capture?’
‘We have seen no one looking.’
The reply was brusque, with a sharp nod towards the densely wooded shore they were presently passing. ‘That does not mean they are not there.’
It was a flash of sunlight, suddenly breaking through a gap in the tree canopy, that caught one of the decorative motifs on Flavius’s breastplate – a glint, no more, and in time a blink of the human eye. This had the youngster pointing, his voice less excited than his motion as he nailed the contradiction in the Sklaveni’s reservations.
‘How are we to get possession of it if we do not land?’ Flavius said, as he cast his eyes up to examine the trees, several of them oaks, prepared to exaggerate what he could see and identify. ‘I think I see the very tree there!’
The oars being swiftly backed, the boat came to a standstill, the sticks used to keep it in place as the wooded bank was examined. They were searching for any movement, acutely aware that if they had been spotted, to observe any would be unlikely; anyone wishing them harm would stay still until they landed. It was also true there was little choice, so Dardanies having checked with Flavius, at a word the oars were lifted and dipped, and very gently employed to take them close to the shore.
‘Take up my spear,’ Dardanies said, he being armed, obviously directed to Flavius since he was not rowing.
The youngster lifted it and for a moment he exchanged a look with the Sklaveni and it was one full of meaning. Were you really nowhere near my father and brothers when they were cut down, it asked? Will you keep to your task when taking Ohannes and me south or will you seek to kill us as soon as you are out of sight of your elders, and thus get vengeance on Rome?
‘Ever thrown a spear from off of a boat before?’
‘No.’
‘Then brace yourself well and aim high, for it will move under your feet.’
Those words broke the spell, which had Flavius, spear on his good shoulder and feet braced by the timbers, looking hard at the shore until he used the point for a second to indicate the now visible breastplate stuck in the roots of the riverside trees.
‘There!’
‘Pull hard on my word, then lift clear!’
Dardanies snapped this command to Ohannes which, when carried out, propelled the prow towards a strand of pebbles. He immediately shipped his oar and took out his sword to leap ashore as soon as the keel ground on the stones, there to stand ready to fight if anyone appeared. After a pause he turned to put his finger to his lips and to show them the palm of his hand, thus ordering silence and stillness, a pose he held for what seemed an age, until some birds began to sing.
They would have been alarmed at their noisy arrival, but with the boat and its occupants still, their tweeting sent a sign to tell all three that no one else was moving within the woods, that driven home by the sudden silence as soon as Flavius came ashore to look for his pile of pebbles, his feet crunching on the stones. He found them quickly and gestured to Dardanies that he had done so.
‘Then find that damned sack,’ the Sklaveni growled, relieving him of the spear. ‘And be quick.’
Which Flavius did, climbing as quickly as pain allowed, the sack grabbed from his hands as soon as he came back to the ground; he also waded into the water to retrieve his breastplate.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Justinus had heard no more of what the Emperor Anastasius had imparted to him nor did he show either by gesture or voice that he was in any way put out by the decision, merely sending word by fast messenger to his nephew that he should return to the capital. In the words used there was no expression of approval or regret and he went about his duties as if nothing had been said.
It was axiomatic at court that the suppression of any personal feelings was the only safe way to behave and if he felt sure that their conversations on the subject had been just between Anastasius and himself he could never be certain: no man could keep such a throne without being himself an intriguer.
There was rising tension within the imperial palace, growing daily, with news coming from southern Moesia of the activities of Vitalian, who had within the areas he controlled – those within reach of the army he commanded – removed several Monophysite bishops despite a direct instruction from the magister militum per Thracias not to do so. Not that the writ of that official, unpopular both as a satrap and a person, carried much weight with a count of the foederati, general to a strong body of mounted barbarian mercenaries.
Justinus was present in his official capacity as the council gathered to discuss what action to take and it was with a creeping sense of disquiet he listened to men who knew nothing about a man like Vitalian propose solutions that could only inflame matters. Chief among them were the three nephews of Anastasius – he had lost his only bastard son to a Hippodrome riot – who tended to compete with each other in order to ingratiate themselves, each vying to be named his successor.
It was instructive to watch such born courtiers – patricians by both birth and habit – deploy their arguments, each one showing a sensitivity, not to the problem under discussion but simply seeking to discern the effect their words had on their uncle and thus a reflection of their standing. The emperor had the unusual physical trait of different-coloured eyes, one being blue the other green – which had earned him the sobriquet Dicorus – said by some to be a sign of the devil, by others of divine approval, these in a face now lined with the ravages of age, loose flesh on the neck and jowls, the nose grown more prominent as had the sagging ears.
Yet it was an expressive face, so the slightest intimation that anything they put forward met with disapproval brought an immediate switch of tack; if a rival seemed to have struck a chord then that was the line taken by all. The rest of the imperial council – dozens in numbers and all men of shifting principles and profound self-interest – tended to let these nephews make the running until they could pick up which way the wind was blowing; it was then time to advance an opinion.