The story as related did not ring true to a man who had known the victim since childhood; it was not the action an experienced old soldier like Decimus would risk – if anything he was prone throughout his career to caution – and that made it suspect. Added to those reservations was the nature of the person who had sent and vouchsafed the information. Bishop Gregory Blastos was one of the twin villains listed in the original exchange of complaints. Whatever the truth, Decimus must most certainly be dead and with his demise went any chance of bringing meaningful charges against his enemies.
When the council gathered once more it was to debate the outcome of General Vitalian’s reaction – the fate of a centurion and his cohort on a distant border would not rate a mention. If the reports were far from good, no one present would have sensed any alarm in the imperial breast; Anastasius was calmness personified, going through the ceremony of arrival and enthronement as if nothing had occurred to disturb his equilibrium.
Watching him, Flavius Justinus was impressed, even if he suspected it was all a performance, a point he made to his nephew, Flavius Petrus Sabbatius, recalled and swiftly returned to Constantinople.
‘The tiger he has by the tail is one of his own devising, Uncle,’ Petrus murmured. ‘Perhaps someone should remind him of that.’
Petrus had been halfway to Marcianopolis when he received the cancellation of his commission and was able to report just how little there was, militarily, between Vitalian and the capital, though only to his uncle, not to the court.
‘Telling him so would be a swift way to forfeit your head.’
‘I doubt he needs me to inform him. You, perhaps?’
Justinus acknowledged that with a nod but no response, this as the emperor’s nephew Hypatius took a step forward and began to speak. Having been the progenitor of the policy now causing alarm he was in no position to withdraw his previous advice, so he was strong in his opinion that an army should be immediately raised to counter any threat.
‘From where?’ Petrus whispered.
‘The Persian border, there’s nowhere else.’
There was no need to continue the exchange, neither uncle nor nephew needing to allude to the risks attendant upon that. Move troops from the east and the enemy might be encouraged to take advantage of a peace known to be very fragile.
‘And if you, Highness, will permit,’ Hypatius was saying, ‘I will undertake the duty of leading it.’
‘But is he capable?’ Petrus asked.
Justinus replied to him in a caustic tone. ‘Of the three nephews, he is the only one who might be.’
‘How much time will that take?’ demanded nephew Probus, following on from a very flowery and self-abasing paean to his uncle’s sagacity. ‘If Vitalian marches swiftly he will be outside the walls long before my cousin can bring forth a host to confront him.’
‘Not perhaps as dim as I supposed,’ Justinus muttered.
‘No great ability of thought is required to draw that conclusion.’
Justinus smiled, the tone used by Petrus being full of disdain, an attitude he applied to all three of the imperial nephews, indeed to a majority of the functionaries who made up the emperor’s council. Few, he thought, had any brains at all but they did have desires and he was adept at sniffing out the wellsprings of their actions. What did they stand to gain from their advice to the emperor? Who were they secretly allied to, set against others with whom they were locked in concealed conflict? A natural intriguer himself, Petrus had the nose to sniff that out in others.
A glance sideways showed Justinus that his nephew’s expression matched his thoughts and reminded the uncle that the youngster of whom he had become fond was, if clever, far from skilled yet in dissimulation, which he had many times sought to remind him was a necessity in the bear pit of the imperial palace. They were so unalike in many respects, Justinus a soldier with a friendly manner when circumstances allowed, Petrus utterly unmilitary, indeed scholarly by inclination. It was that which had brought him into his uncle’s service until he now acted as his confidant.
Their differences extended just as much to their physical appearance; where the older man was broad and muscular, made more imposing by his armour, with an open countenance and a ready smile – many would have said he was bluff and hearty – Petrus, if of the same height, was slight of frame with narrow shoulders and an awkward gait that gave the impression of a man sidling, not walking. He seemed to wear too often a pinched expression, as if he was ever crossed in his thoughts, inclined to bend his head and tug at his untidy reddish hair, inherited from his patrician father, as well as bite his tongue when called upon to think.
‘I ask permission to challenge my cousin Hypatius for the leadership of any host gathered to counter the renegade Vitalian.’
‘God come to their aid if Pompeius is their commander. You could put yourself forward, Uncle. Anastasius trusts you.’
‘To lead a failed enterprise? I think not.’
‘You do not fear Vitalian, do you?’ Petrus asked, a degree of surprise in his murmured tone, to which he hastily added, ‘Not that I think you fear anyone.’
Macedonius, the Patriarch of Constantinople, gorgeous in his ecclesiastical robes, was speaking now and what he was saying brought a grunt from Justinus, he being a pliant individual, entirely subservient to the imperial whim. He was insisting that no concession be made in dogma to any rebellion, be it by Vitalian or any other malefactor, which finally brought from Justinus an angry if quiet rebuttal, one for his nephew’s ears only.
‘The way to deal with Vitalian is to modify the stance on dogma, accept that each man has the right to worship in his own fashion. That is what animates those who follow him; take away that and you remove the threat.’
‘And that, Uncle, is where you are wise and our esteemed emperor is not.’
If the atmosphere while marching south was now slightly strained within the group as a whole that ceased to matter when they came to the via publica from Marcianopolis to Dorostorum, block-paved, well drained and kept in decent repair by a local levy on the surrounding landowners. There they joined with other bands heading for the same rendezvous, called forth on the same purpose, which allowed the trio of Flavius, Ohannes and Dardanies to detach themselves from the others by increasing their pace to meld into the increasing throng, Flavius especially eager for news of the imperial commission, who would have been bound to travel this route.
He knew just where to enquire: every via publica had, at five-league intervals, government funded mansios, places of accommodation reserved for non-military officials or imperial messengers. If they were sparsely spread, at least for anyone on foot, and not open to all and sundry – to get in required official endorsement stating your name and business – the first villa they encountered was fortuitously close to the point at which they had joined the highway.
Flavius quizzed the watchmen at the gates, asking for news regarding any substantial official body that had come north recently and used the accommodation, or merely stopped to refresh themselves, change mounts and eat. With no need for discretion he was able to describe what that of which he was seeking news might look like: a number of court officials perhaps, of high calibre and bearing and most certainly a priest, travelling in some style.
Slipping the man at the gate a copper coin, not that it produced anything positive, eased the habitual reserve of all watchmen; no body fitting the description Flavius gave had passed this way in recent times and further gentle interrogation produced nothing that might even remotely point to that which he sought, while the name F. Petrus Sabbatius was met with a shrug.