There was no one in Constantinople to talk to, or at least the one person he wanted to address was behind the walls of the imperial palace, so might as well be on the moon. The notion of waiting to pass someone a note foundered on the element of chance involved; a common soldier might just take his money and pocket it. Could he approach anyone of standing looking as he did, with what he wore, never fine, now showing the signs of weeks of marching, they would likely just brush him aside.
He began to walk, knowing it aided his thinking and all of his perambulations were not on wide avenues; sometimes he found himself in narrow alleyways and felt it necessary to move his sword to be ready for any assault. Nothing of a solution, other than those methods already considered, presented itself. Turning a corner that led from one of the alleys to a small square, Flavius disturbed a group of youths busy painting some message on a wall. His appearance made them go rigid, until, realising he was no threat – he smiled – they carried on with their graffiti.
Giving them a wide berth Flavius could read the message so far, which was that someone called Fronto was a dirty parasite who what? He had to stop and wait till they were finished, one of them grinning as the last word was painted on the bricks, which completed the information that Fronto was a dirty old goat who buggered little boys and should be castrated. Message complete, the group ran off down another alley.
‘Where to get paints,’ Flavius said out loud to himself.
It was back to the Triumphal Way but that produced no results: a place stocking such things as oil and pigments would not be there, but if the citizens of the city were rude the shopkeepers seemed less so, especially when he sought to copy their distinctive accent so as to sound local. Whatever, he was directed to a place in some backstreets where he found the requisite workshop.
‘Vermillion?’ asked the skeletal creature who owned it.
‘As bright as you can make it, and a brush as well.’
‘Best tell me what it is you want to paint, for that affects the mix ? need more lead and oil if it is outside, not that it will last, thank the Lord and our sun, or I would not be long in trade.’
Flavius, looking at him, reckoned he would not be long anyway; he had a hollowed chest, a hacking cough and translucent skin, patterned with very obvious blue and protruding veins.
‘Which is cheaper?’
‘Indoor,’ came the surprised response, ‘as you would expect.’
‘Then make it that.’
‘How much do you want?’
That flummoxed Flavius; he had no idea, in the end electing to have the smallest amount he could. The man mixed it for him in a clay pot; better that than trying to get the blend right himself and making a pig’s ear of it. Pot under his arm, the top sealed with a bit of ragged oiled animal skin and twine, his chosen brush secreted away, he made his way back to the Forum of Constantine to sit, eating more of his sausage and cheese, while contemplating his plan.
Not having slept as much as he would have liked, it was hard, with the sun beating down, to stay awake, but on a single slab stone bench every time he started to drop off the action of his body jerked him awake. It felt like eternity till the sun dipped so that it was hidden behind the Walls of Theodoric, the sky turning from gold, to red, to copper and eventually to the first sight of starlight.
That had Flavius up and moving, making his way towards the palace, gratified to see what he suspected must be the case, that the entrances if not the outer walls were lit by flaring torches. He had contemplated having one of those for his own purposes only to discount it as likely to attract too much attention, but he needed to be near enough to them to employ the very edge of their spilt light. By now it was dark, the sky an inky black and a mass of starlight that came to his aid; not only did it cast dark shadows but where it illuminated it was sufficient to see, if not clearly, then enough.
The reports of the praefectus urbanus, handed in overnight and taken to Petrus, who would compose a precis of them for his uncle, made no mention of an excess of graffiti, huge red letters painted not only on the walls of the palace, but on those of the baths as well, so glaring a red they were impossible to pass by without their being remarked upon. It was not long before there was a buzz of conversational noise about what the daubing meant.
The first person to whom it was reported went white, the blood draining from his features, and if he had reacted calmly matters might have rested there. But Pentheus Vicinus had the family temper as well as a sudden grip on his heart of fear and he left his house in something of a hurry to go and see for himself, that alone causing comment among his family and servants.
That someone of his eminence should stand before the painted letters registered with the guards as damned strange. When stood down they had to go and look at what had so exercised the senator, who had been seen yelling and demanding the graffiti be removed. When later they were breakfasting they were given to asking their comrades if they knew what it meant, so that when Justinus came to join them, as he did most mornings, the word was flying around the room and was overheard as he passed.
‘What did you say?’
The soldier leapt to his feet to reply, the way his commander had posed the question making that seem appropriate.
‘It’s everywhere, sir, bright red, painted on the palace walls and those of the baths as well.’
‘Anyone else seen it?’
‘The guards just stood down asked if any of us knew what it meant.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Asleep I should think, sir.’
‘You finished eating?’
‘I am sir.’
‘Then go and rouse them out. Then find my nephew and ask him to join me outside the Excubitor Gate, the guards too.’
Justinus was moving so fast he did not see the chest-thumping salute, nor with his mind in turmoil did he hear it either. Striding through the palace and out to the gate he was trying to make sense of something that failed to add up. What was the name of his old friend doing, as reported, plastered all over the walls and demanding justice?
The sight of the letters, roughly painted, with dripping lines running from every one, did not provide enlightenment as to the way, but it struck home. He might lack the skill to read but the name Belisarius was one he had seen many times recently, the last time as he signed the commission’s orders prepared for him by Petrus.
‘Uncle.’
‘Tell me it says what I think it does.’
‘Justice for Belisarius.’
‘Now tell me what it means?’
‘Unless you believe in spirits, then someone has daubed the walls with it.’
Justinus became aware of two soldiers, wearing no armour and only their tunics, shifting nervously from foot to foot and wondering why they had been dragged from their beds, as well as in what way they had transgressed, which might give them a clue as to what punishment they could be in for. The command to rouse out and attend on the count had come with no other explanation. At a gesture they approached, with Justinus pointing a finger at the wall.
‘This, d’you see it done?’
‘No, Your Honour.’
‘Didn’t really notice it till one of the senators came along and started yelling blue murder.’
‘Which senator?’
‘No idea, sir.’
‘Had to be Vicinus,’ Petrus whispered. ‘That is a name and a demand that would rankle more with him than it does even with us.’
‘But what does it mean?’
‘It is a message, to Vicinus perhaps …’
‘Could be to me?’
‘Why to you?’
‘You read me the reports of what happened on the Danube.’
‘And I recall you chose not to believe them.’
‘What if this is someone trying to tell me I am right?’
‘It will make no difference,’ Petrus responded, gesturing for the two guards to back away out of hearing.