‘If the foederati cannot eat, Highness, they are scarce going to rebel,’ claimed Hypatius, the nephew Justinus reckoned most likely to succeed his uncle.
‘You suggest we deny them rations?’ Anastasius mused, in a way that showed it an idea that appealed to him, for while it would irritate Vitalian, it might not inflame matters to the point of a complete break.
‘Or the funds needed to purchase them,’ added the younger brother Pompeius, who had been advocating a totally different and more drastic point just moments before.
‘Not deny, Highness,’ Hypatius remarked, giving his brother a sideways glance full of bile. ‘Restrict. Empty bellies will provoke them, occasional hunger may not.’
‘And what if you are wrong?’ argued nephew three, the youngest and the dimmest. Probus was obviously thinking that clear blue waters between his cousins and himself might serve him well. What he got from Hypatius was a sneer and a winning rejoinder.
‘I cast only an opinion, Probus. I leave our emperor to take a decision that falls to him and I would not so traduce his wisdom to even suggest he might be in error.’
‘I meant-’
‘His Highness knows what you meant.’
‘We cannot be seen to give ground,’ Pompeius interjected, seeming to be clear now which way matters were likely to proceed, ‘to any general who opposes imperial edicts.’
Anastasius nodded very slowly, then looked around the glittering audience chamber, at his dozens of non-related courtiers, none of whom had as yet voiced an opinion and it looked as though none would, which Justinus found curious. Within that overstuffed body lay every vice known to man, but if they lacked sexual or financial morality they did not want for a degree of dexterity. It seemed obvious to the comes excubitorum that Anastasius was inclined to accept what was being proposed by Hypatius, to his mind like throwing a flaming torch into a vat of heated oil.
Sense dictated that some of them oppose such a dangerous policy but they seemed, by their lack of expression, to be in some way endorsing it and it was not difficult to find a reason why. For some, they knew they might be looking, in Hypatius, at the next emperor, so to rebut him was unwise. For others, who would reckon the nephew to be foolish, letting him have his head with a futile policy might be a good way to diminish him, given they would have views of their own on the succession, in several cases candidates from their own family.
Thus it was in the Roman Eastern Empire and it was no different in the West, now ruled by the barbarian Ostrogoth Theodoric, a man without an ounce of Rome in his being. There was no certainty to succession here or in Rome and even being strong militarily was not enough, so mere blood ties offered no guarantee. Any number of conflicting centres of power came into play on the death of an emperor so that it seemed more sheer chance than guiding principle decided the succession, Anastasius himself being a prime example.
‘Let it be so,’ declared the emperor after a long pause, indicating that he had given it due consideration. ‘It will do good to let the foederati be reminded of who it is who provides their meat, be it on the Persian border or in Moesia. If they do not like it let them go back from whence they came, where they will likely starve.’
That decided, a cacophony of noise erupted, as each man present sought the floor to propose to the emperor their full support, following on to advocate some project or point of their own outside the main discussion.
Lanterns were brought to the gloomy hut – if it was still day outside little light penetrated – and with them came that same trio of elders, this time with a monk in tow. Religion on the northern bank of the Danube was diverse, folk worshipping both their own pagan gods in a form of animism and Christianity as they chose, with no overarching authority to tell them who was right and who was damned. Fear of the latter and no certainty in either was inclined to have many of them worship both.
This divine, a disciple of St Basil, had for his faith travelled all the way from Syria across the empire, to preach to the pagan Sklaveni, while also administering to those he and his predecessors had converted, for this was a land the bishop of the southern bank left alone. He could read and write in both Greek and Latin, as well as now speak in the local tongue, so it was to him that the contents of Flavius’s sack were passed, read out to men who were probably not literate.
‘I could have done that for them,’ Flavius said when he realised what was happening.
‘Who says they would believe you?’
‘They would only have to look into my eyes to see I am telling the truth.’
‘Not those eyes,’ Ohannes jested, with a circular roll of a finger.
The testament of Decimus Belisarius was immediately handed over to Flavius, as soon as the monk had told the elders of its contents. Such things were of no interest to them, in stark contrast to the information contained in the letters to and from Justinus, evidenced by the noises emanating from the tight listening conclave, loud enough, given Flavius and Ohannes were sitting well away from the gathering, to cover a whispered conversation.
‘I think at least one, if not two of them have recognised their own names. My father listed those with whom he had dealings.’
‘Happen,’ came the laconic reply.
Yet again a question occurred to Flavius, one, like so many others, he realised he should have asked before. ‘Do you recognise any of them? You said you came over with my father when he dealt with them.’
‘I was never part of their talking, Master Flavius, that was done out of my sight. All I recall is that they were too mean of spirit to feed me even a bowl of meal.’
Voices were being raised. Flavius once more sensed dispute and Ohannes was in agreement, for both could guess there was more than one way to take advantage of what these barbarians had acquired. How much, for instance, would Senuthius pay to have a list of the charges against him as well as those who might bear witness in his possession? What if they gave him both the letters and the youngster who had spirited them away?
Throughout the ongoing arguments the monk sat silent – having finished his reading his opinion was not sought – yet both prisoners perked up when they heard him interject, softly but insistently, mentioning a very recognisable name to both prisoners, that of Bishop Gregory Blastos.
That the monk was held in some regard was clear by the way he was attended to, no one interrupting, but it was doubly frustrating for Flavius not to be able to understand what was being said. Here was a man he did not know and he had heard that, as a breed, monks could be just as saintly or just as venal as any other person who took to preaching the Gospels. The name Blastos recurred time and again but so even was the voice it was impossible to make out from his tone either approval or condemnation.
Then the discussion opened out, once more encompassing those tribal elders, voices rising and falling as views were expressed and countered, with the monk now listening in silence for what seemed an age, as if weighing up the case. Finally he spoke again, crossing himself as he did so, what he was imparting being received with nods from his audience. Eventually Dardanies, who had taken no part at all in the discussions, was spoken to and sent over to talk to them.
‘It has been decided that these letters must stay with us.’
‘No!’
Dardanies shook his head. ‘You do not have a choice in this, it has been decided.’
‘Why?’
It being Ohannes who had asked, the Sklaveni turned to him. ‘There is more than one reason. In your possession and once over the river …?’ That unfinished remark was followed by a shrug.
‘We might be taken?’
‘Which means that for us these letters are lost and so is any use they might be to the tribe.’