Petrus Sabbatius, who was busy writing out orders for his uncle, came out with a sneering aside when this was relayed to him. ‘I would not be surprised to find the man employed to sponge his arse after an evacuation is his most important counsellor.’
‘Then it would be a patrician,’ Justinus replied, the person designated to attend upon imperial ablutions being a much sought-after role. ‘Not that such is always a good thing, high birth does not always come with brains.’
Petrus passed him a completed Order of the Day, which the uncle wrote on using his signature stencil, his reply acid. ‘Half of them struggle to wipe their own backside.’
That got a laugh; if they were equally unimpressed by the standard of the patricians of the Roman Empire, it was ever Petrus who came up with the diminishing invective. Not that those who had risen to high office through long imperial service were much better – all were self-serving – which made the task of the ruler a balancing act.
When the common people complained that Anastasius was a weathervane on policy, they did so without knowing of the competing interests he was required to deal with. He might be an autokrator in Greek but few could rule in any way they wished without facing the risk of being bloodily toppled and the most fearful enemy was within the city walls, not without.
‘I dined with a good number of your officers last night, Uncle.’
‘I can imagine where.’
Petrus shrugged; he had a well-known taste for seeking entertainment in the less salubrious parts of the city and in that he had much in common with the inferior officers of Justinus. The whole excubitorum corps was in receipt of better pay than common soldiers of the empire, as well as better rations, but in terms of officers it had become, under Emperor Zeno, a sinecure for those with means of their own and with money never a consideration they were liberal in their spending.
Like every port in the world, the area around the Constantinople docks was full of brothels and places of entertainment where morality was not on offer. Justinus was no prude; he had visited such taverns and coarse establishments himself but Petrus was drawn to them like a moth to a flame. Polite dinner, of which he was obliged to be a part as the son of a wealthy patrician noble, bored him rigid and so did court formality. To many an observer he was an unsuitable helpmeet to a man seen as upright but that took no account of his very telling suitability in one vital regard: the trust engendered by blood.
‘I wonder when they speak highly of you, if it is only because they are in my presence.’
‘Very likely not the case, for in all my years I have learnt to have faith in soldiers who are not afraid to tell me they are discontented, while those who remain silent and husband their grievances are not the ones on whom it is wise to turn your back.’
Training schedules were handed over for each company and the stencil was employed once more. ‘How happy you must be in the field compared to in the palace.’
‘Why?’
‘There is not a soul here on whom I would turn my back,’ Petrus replied, with some venom.
‘Not even me?’ Justinus asked, grinning.
‘That is not a question deserving of an answer. All I will say is, that if your inferiors were telling me their true feelings, I am humbled by being related to a paragon.’
‘Humility does not suit you, Petrus.’
Said humorously it was not entirely taken that way, causing the nephew to hunch his shoulders and begin to tug at his hair. Justinus knew Petrus to be by nature an intriguer, which he was not. He was not a fool and had the means to survive in the hothouse of imperial politics, but there was no notion to become deeply involved in that quicksand, with its shifting alliances and deep feuds.
Petrus loved it; he was a mine of information on everyone who mattered and a great number of those who probably counted for nothing at all. Every thought he had passed on to Justinus, who was grateful, given it saved him from expending too much energy on the subject himself. In a place where no one person seemed to trust another, these two, very different in age, outlook and personal habits, through ties of blood as well as affection, had an unbreakable bond, which if it had started as an older man educating a young aspirant, had moved on from there to a point of near equality.
‘And what do you take from all these paeans to my character?’
Petrus stopped pulling his hair and looked directly at his uncle. ‘I take it they are deeply loyal to you.’
‘Good,’ Justinus replied, having a good inkling of what lay beneath that statement. ‘Then Anastasius is safe.’
‘It is as well to add to that, Uncle,’ came the cooed response, ‘that he is also very old.’
‘As a refrain, Petrus, that is tending towards the tiresome.’
‘Forgive me for bringing it to the fore again, and I will cease to mention the emperor’s age or his declining health if I have a necessary aim to lean on. Just tell me under which one of his nephews you think you will be able to survive and prosper and I will bend all my wiles to help secure his elevation.’
‘I wish you to pen me a letter, Petrus,’ Justinus said, in an abrupt change from what was an uncomfortable subject on which to speculate, for he distrusted them all. ‘It is to be one of condolence to be sent to the widow of my old comrade, Decimus Belisarius. She has lost much.’
‘Do you wish to mention you are distrustful of the report on the engagement in which he perished?’
‘Does it matter? He is dead. All his sons died too, Petrus, one of whom Decimus named after me. Four of them, is that not a tragedy?’
Petrus shrugged, he being less affected by what had happened, having no personal connection to the family. When he had penned the replies to Belisarius, he had seen it as his duty to point out to his uncle that the main subject of the complaints had a powerful relative at court, a man whom it might not be politic to upset.
Justinus had waved such considerations aside; the senator and ex-consul Pentheus Vicinus, now holder of the title of magister praesentalis – the palace had as many designations of rank as people – would never know how the commission had come into being, it being a secret between his comes excubitorum and the emperor. Petrus had felt constrained to argue that in a palace where secrets were rarely kept for long, no matter how hard they tried to keep it so originally, the truth would emerge as soon as the commission took effect and that there would be repercussions.
‘If only a half of what Decimus has accused this Senuthius Vicinus of is true,’ had been the reply of Justinus, ‘then he would be better advised to pull a cowl over his head to hide his disgrace at sharing blood with such a villain.’
Tempted to tell his uncle he was being naive, Petrus had kept his counsel.
On the last day of the march, Flavius had an odd feeling of freedom, added to the waking sensation of triumph, for which he chastised himself. Yet it could not be gainsaid that having only himself to be concerned about induced a feeling of relief, rapidly countered by conscience: he had to set against the emotion what he owed to Ohannes and, after him, Dardanies. Then there was Apollonia, to be looked forward to when they made their next camp.
The sun shone on the army of Vitalian, while a cool breeze came in off the sea to make pleasant what could have been sweltering and the whole host seemed in good spirits, which held until they espied what it was they would have to overcome, the walls of Constantinople being enough to chasten the most fevered pilgrim. The host was called to Mass, as they were daily, but this time to show anyone watching from the battlements that this was a pious army marching in God’s cause.