Towelled dry he used the combs provided to dress hair that badly needed the attention of the barber slave that had administered to the Belisarius family. That made him think of those he had left behind, the same bleating sheep he had taken that day his father died to the safety of the citadel. Had they paid a price for his flight? Why had he not seen fit to think on the well-being of the family slaves up till now?
He came out and did indeed follow his nose, to enter a candlelit chamber, hung with huge tapestries of mythical scenes, somewhat pagan to his taste, plus a table laden with food and silver flagons of wine. Justinus was present and so was another younger man, sat sprawled in a curule chair, introduced to him as the elusive Flavius Petrus Sabbatius.
‘We call him Petrus,’ Justinus said, ‘there are so many of your name in the family it distinguishes him, that is if anything ever could.’
‘How can I fault such an introduction, Uncle?’
Petrus tried to hide that the slight barb stung him, Justinus being prone to the very occasional remark that was designed to remind him of his place. That he employed such a tactic now was telling: perhaps he was seeking to bolster his esteem in the presence of this youngster, a youth of good height and muscular, handsome of face and looking so fresh with his reddened skin and damp black hair that the man observing him felt a faint flash of envy.
‘Petrus is my right hand and I depend upon him,’ Justinus added, seeking by a kindly look to make up for his earlier remark. ‘You may trust him as you trust me.’
Flavius was examining Petrus with the same acuity as he was under; the fact that the nephew was sprawled in the chair made it hard to judge his figure, but it looked to be thin and stringy. The hair was red in the candlelight and the head was canted at an angle that hinted at scepticism, as if he doubted what was standing before him.
‘Eat, Flavius, then I will ask you to recount what happened to your family.’
‘You were not told?’
‘We were told they were dead, you too, and I admit to my shame I never enquired after your mother.’ The news she was safe in Illyria seemed to mightily relieve Justinus; he actually acted as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. ‘That is good, though her grief must be acute.’
Obviously they had been fed the same false tale as Flavius had heard from Forbas and he said so, before launching into a description of both the truth of the encounter as well as his adventures since that fateful day. Both men let him speak, very rarely interrupting, this done more by Petrus than Justinus, he seeming to need to be absolutely clear of what was being recounted.
‘In order to come to Constantinople I joined with General Vitalian.’
If he had been sprawling throughout, that made Petrus shift and his voice, hitherto relaxed and quite often languid, was suddenly snappy. ‘You marched with Vitalian?’
‘As a decanus, which goes far to tell us what a less than perfect host he commanded. It was not the finest, yet it achieved its goal.’
Petrus coughed and sat fully upright. He then began to question Flavius about that host, of what it consisted and why so many had flocked to the Vitalian banner. He was treated to all the reasons religious and mercenary, to which he listened with more avid attention than he had shown hitherto.
‘But really,’ Flavius insisted, feeling he was being drawn away from his reason for being here, ‘I did not come to describe to you his motives or that of his forces.’
‘You want justice,’ came the slightly acerbic response, ‘which you saw fit to paint on half the walls of the city.’
It was easy to let the exaggeration pass. ‘I do, and it would please me if you could now tell me if such a thing is possible.’
‘I said in time,’ Justinus replied. ‘And we will not deceive you, it could be some time.’
Now it was his turn to explain, to tell in more detail of how the rising of Vitalian had led to the recall of Petrus as well as to add that if the mission on which Petrus had been engaged was ever to be reconvened, then there were considerations of politics which must intrude. These of necessity being complex.
‘I am not master of that, Flavius.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘You must be discreet,’ Petrus cut in, ‘and never use your family name while within these walls.’
‘You mentioned a Vicinus?’ Flavius asked Justinus.
Again it was Petrus who replied, bringing home that Justinus really did rely on him. The situation was explained in full, as well as the reasoning that would prompt Pentheus Vicinus to have him killed; he did not add that the mere presence of Flavius threatened him and his uncle as well.
‘Sleep now,’ Justinus said, yawning himself. ‘We will talk more in the morning.’
‘Where, Uncle?’
‘My barren cell and my cot, Petrus, where he will be safe.’
‘And you?’
That got a firm shake of the older head; he was not going to say that as long as Flavius was safe, so was he, which impressed a nephew who got the drift; he had worried that Justinus had not thought matters through.
As he was accommodated in the same suite that served Justinus, Petrus had no distance to walk to his sleeping chamber, not that he went there to rest for he needed to think. Was it worth seeking the help of the emperor and trying to persuade him to rid himself of Pentheus? Not with Vitalian queering the field and the man in question the originator of what Anastasius saw as a successful if dishonest policy! Just as the senator had picked up hints of the correspondence between Decimus and Justinus, Petrus had picked up hints about what was to be done about the rebels and Vitalian.
As a person who walked the corridors of the palace when no other duty presented itself, and his uncle was no hard taskmaster, Petrus enjoyed the little surprises this turned up. Often he would hear part of a discreet conversation, at other times come across courtiers in deep discussion, sometimes encountering people in conclave who in public gave the impression of being mortal enemies. It was a game he played and loved, just as he judiciously sought to make connections with anyone that he thought could further his aims.
Naturally he was close to his uncle’s officers, but they were not the only troops in the capital and he never doubted that being able to tell those commanders and their inferiors outside the magic circle of intrigue that was the palace, what was being said, proposed and indeed about to be enacted made him, if not a friend, a warmly welcomed visitor. Knowledge was power and Petrus garnered it like a fish ingesting feed.
He had suspected from the day they were promulgated that the arrangements Anastasius made with Vitalian were false; the emperor might be old and increasingly feeble but he had a core of hard metal that had kept him on the throne and it was one that brooked no opposition. He had made concessions to Vitalian to get him away from the walls of Constantinople, a city that might erupt into serious riot in his support if food got scarce; indeed the populace was so febrile they might decide they were fed up with their present ruler and seek to depose him out of nothing but mischief, which had happened before.
Petrus knew he had to come up with a solution to the presence of the Belisarius boy and one that did not compromise his uncle’s sense of honour. Added to that he had to deflect Pentheus Vicinus, who must have a full knowledge of what he, Petrus, had only picked up by rumour: that an army from Asia Minor, under the command of the imperial nephew, Hypatius, was about to land on the shores of the Euxine Sea, to then march inland and destroy Vitalian.