Vengeance (5 page)

Flavius conjured up an image then, of his father’s elation as he read something that would lay to rest years of frustration. Had he, when he led his men out to fight, carried a private hope that this would be the last time he would be obliged to leave his quarters to put down an incursion that had likely come about in retaliation for some act of Senuthius?

Had he, perhaps, looking into the future, had his mind on his long-cherished hope of which he made no secret: that with an end to raiding from within the empire and some diplomacy, added perhaps even to a proper treaty, lasting peace and security could be brought to both banks of the River Danube?

‘The Bishop Gregory is here to see you, Master Flavius.’

Flavius turned to acknowledge the slave who had been sent to tell him of this visit, realising that he was one of those whose manumission he had this very morning examined. This was not the time to tell him; that must wait for a formal reading of the testament.

‘Be so good as to ask Ohannes to attend upon me?’

As the slave went to do as he was bidden, Flavius, with some
difficulty and a serious amount of pain from his shoulder, slipped out a hand from his sling to retie the bundle as tightly as it had been on discovery and reseal the letters in the oilskin pouch. Lacking a place to hide it, for he felt by instinct it needed to be kept as undisclosed now as it had been when his father was alive, he slipped that into the black sling that once more held his arm.

T
he youngster was determined to avoid wearing his emotions on his sleeve, to present a calm demeanour when within he was seething with hate and a desire for bloody revenge. How easy it was to imagine behaving in that fashion, given his lack of years and a quite natural apprehension in dealing with a man many years his senior and one his father called a natural and practised dissembler. In deep and resonant voice, Gregory Blastos offered his condolences for both his loss and that of his absent mother.

He then made an enquiry as to the state of his damaged shoulder, very obvious in its sling, but no remark followed regarding the equally evident blemishes on his face, now two proper black eyes. His tone then became that of a man of position and maturity, addressing what to his mind was no more than a callow youth and one, moreover, who had quite seriously sinned against God and his church, much being made of that funeral pyre.

The cleric, given he glanced several times, was obviously wondering at the presence of Ohannes, who was standing just inside the door, silent and stiff of face. One reason was the trust now reposed by Flavius in his father’s retainer, added to his fear that he would be unable to control his desire for revenge; the old soldier was there to stop him committing violence or even murder.

Added to that was the fact that he would never allow himself to be alone with a known pederast, a man who had, by repute, trouble controlling his hands. The Belisarius brood had been a handsome lot, none more angelically so until puberty than Flavius and even that had not rendered him ugly: he was tall for his age and well proportioned and he worried that under the clerical pomposity and strictures there might be a degree of unwelcome attraction.

‘What you did was blasphemous, if not idolatrous, and it is only sympathy for your understandable grief that stops me from acting to chastise you as I would another, though I must insist that you do suitable penance when your period of mourning is complete.’

Flavius replied with a blatant lie, one accompanied with violently shaking knees, which he reckoned was plain to see under the embroidered smock that barely covered them. Likewise his voice, hoarse anyway, seemed to have within it an added and obvious tremor, which he sought to cover with a bowed head.

‘I thank you for that, Your Eminence, I acted in haste and heartache.’

‘Understandable,’ the bishop murmured softly, smiling, lips now shiny and wet. He moved a couple of paces closer, a hand held out towards the good shoulder, which made Flavius shift quickly to one side to keep a space between them.

The youngster was not in the least sorry for what he had done but
it would be folly to challenge the divine who represented the authority of the patriarch in this part of the province, a man who, with no father to protect Flavius, could bring down on him a punishment he would have no means of avoiding. At a word from this slimy Greek, Flavius could spend the rest of his days in a salt mine.

Why had Blastos waited so long to come calling? Was it to emphasise his own standing in relation to the status of a mere imperial centurion? In the two days since he had set light to that pyre the youngster had received a whole host of citizens expressing sympathy, some the smaller landowners who had been part of the militia gathered to repel the barbarians.

In times past the same men had often come to the very room in which he received them to complain about some act of Senuthius that diminished their pride or their purse; now they were keen to make plain they had only acted on the field of battle as that same figure dictated. In accepting their condolences, as well as their excuses, Flavius had wondered how much of what they said was true conscience and how much a mere pretext to salve their guilt.

Now he felt, in some cases, a sense of embarrassment; within the list his father had sent to Constantinople were the names of people who had come to offer him their condolences, which had Flavius castigating himself for his notion of them being false in their feelings. He could not prevent, at that point and with those thoughts, his good hand straying into his sling to feel the outline of the pouch of documents secreted there. If he saw the movement and wondered, the mind of Blastos was elsewhere.

‘Numbers obliged us to bury the victims of the recent incursion in a communal grave and they have had a Mass said for their salvation. But we must say another for the departed souls of your father and
brothers that are, thanks to your actions, in deep peril of eternal damnation. Now, as it is my duty, I will confess you and grant you absolution.’

If Flavius had been nervous prior to that he was rendered doubly so now: could he in confession, before taking in the blood and the body of Christ, fail to tell when asked of what he had found? Would he, in failing to be utterly truthful, damn his own soul?

‘Leave us alone,’ Blastos hissed at Ohannes, there being no need to explain why.

Dread of God’s wrath disappeared somewhat, Flavius wondering if he had things other than damnation to worry about. In truth such fears were misplaced; Bishop Gregory Blastos carried out his clerical duties impeccably, listening to the young man’s filleted confession without interruption, imposing upon him as penance a strict regime of prayer and repentance, before producing a small box containing bread and a vial of consecrated wine, both properly administered.

The bishop then began praying sonorously above his kneeling body and bowed head, asking that he should be granted forgiveness, yet all Flavius could hear throughout was his father’s voice cursing this man, his blasphemous depredations and filthy behaviour. It was necessary to hold to the truth that if God was omnipotent and could see everything and everyone, to the innermost thoughts of their soul, a blessing from Gregory Blastos might well be meaningless.

One hand dropped from where it had been placed, on the top of his head, to softly caress his cheek and then seek to cup his chin. Flavius shot to his feet and looked the bishop in the eye, which must have contained a measure of his fury at what was being inferred. His glare was greeted by a smile and a shrug added to a soft injunction that to a troubled youth sounded like a threat.

‘I am sure in time we may be friends, Flavius, closer than your grief allows us to be at present.’

Still wary, Flavius moved to the doorway and called on Ohannes to return, to take up his position by the doorway, wearing the same unfriendly expression with which he had previously fixed their visitor. Both the act and the look seemed to mildly amuse the bishop, who had begun to relate how busy his church had become since what he called ‘that unfortunate event of two days past’.

‘So many victims, you understand. Many of those who have come to pray for the souls of those we lost have also asked that the Lord bless you with the means to overcome your sorrow.’

‘For which I am bound to give them thanks.’

‘A goodly number are curious as to what you will do now.’

‘What can I do but take my mother, if she comes here to grieve, back to the place of her birth. There is family there, after all, and given my father’s appointment is no more—’

‘Ah yes,’ Blastos interjected, taking hold of the large and expensive cross that adorned his chest. ‘We will sadly need to send to Constantinople to have another come to protect us, as well as the men to do so, perhaps in greater numbers than we have hitherto been granted.’

The word ‘sadly’ struck a totally false note; Flavius could not believe Blastos cared a sliver for the men lost of whatever rank or relation, so again he was left fighting to stop himself from raining curses down on this swine’s head. When he did speak, he croaked a question he had been dying to ask since the bishop arrived, not that he anticipated an honest answer.

‘Do you feel that Senuthius acted as he should?’

That brought a deep, almost animal growl from the throat of
Ohannes, which got him a look of utter disdain from a man who thought the views of such a fellow to be worthless. The bishop then looked at Flavius, eyebrows raised, as if he was surprised to be in receipt of such a question.

‘I mean as commander of the militia.’

‘How is a mere priest to know? Such things are the province of fighting men, which my calling dictates I cannot be.’

‘You were present.’

‘In the capacity of my office, no more, to bless those going into battle.’

‘Which was as good as over before Senuthius sounded the advance.’

Up came the hands in a gesture of futility, added to a furious shake of the jowls, leaving the youngster with a distinct impression he had pushed Blastos into an area in which he was far from comfortable. It was as if such an enquiry was unexpected, yet how could he come to this house and not anticipate something of that nature to be raised?

‘Yet you must agree that I am entitled to ask for an explanation?’

‘I am not sure I understand the nature of what you are asking.’

‘He stood unmoving when it was clear that battle had been joined.’

Blastos turned away to address a wall, thus breaking eye contact. ‘Senuthius stuck rigidly to the standing arrangements he made with your father.’

Much as Decimus Belisarius hated the senator he had a need to deal with a man upon whose support he depended if any incursions lay beyond the capabilities of the cohort he led, trying as it was to do so. If nothing serious had happened for years, precautions had to be taken against such an occurrence and plans laid to counter it. Flavius could easily recall when such meetings had taken place, they being
ones from which his father returned in a foul mood, making little attempt to hide from the family his frustration.

‘Then why did those plans fail?’

The already deep voice dropped an octave. ‘My son, only God will ever know.’

‘Yet surely you, of all people, know the mind of Senuthius Vicinus?’ There was flattery in the way Flavius said that, as if it was too obvious to be denied, yet more spooned on as he added, ‘Are you not also his very close friend and confidant, indeed his confessor? I find it impossible to believe he would act in a way he had not yet discussed with you.’

The reply was yet again addressed to the wall and the voice, for the first time, showed a hint of real uncertainty. Blastos was pinned by his own vanity; he could not admit that he had no knowledge of the thoughts of a man who was his patron and one he wanted everyone to believe was his equal and friend. If the truth was not obvious to the bishop, it was to anyone with eyes to see; he was in no way the senator’s equal, more a lackey than a companion.

‘I do not say that your father and Senuthius always saw eye to eye, but in this matter they were in full agreement. I seem to recall, though it’s some time ago, four years if am a-minded right, what was planned. That should there be another serious attack, the imperial cohort would seek to get between the intruders and their boats to secure the riverbank and hold it while the militia under Senuthius drove them onto their swords, though, of course, knowledge on what was intended had to be kept to the very few who needed to know, so you would not have been aware of it. I doubt your father told anyone, he being a man who knew how people gossip and was well able to keep things close to his chest.’

Having delivered this statement Blastos turned back to face the youngster, looking him full in the eye, which caused Flavius acute discomfort: Belisarius senior had certainly never told him what was planned and as for keeping quiet about things? Blastos missed the sense of that reaction, concluding very quickly that his listener was unconvinced, that more was required, so he carried on, his voice sounding less than wholly confident.

‘If I understand little of war, I do know it is all confusion once battle is joined. Something took place that could not have been foreseen, something that caused your father to alter his tactics. It saddens me to say that if you look for the cause of this unfortunate event, it is there you must go.’

The temptation to scream was near to overwhelming; how could he so blatantly lie? Sound alone would have told Senuthius what was happening and that he needed to react. Even with his lack of years it had been obvious to Flavius, so why was it not obvious to him?

Gregory Blastos now fixed him with a steady look, of the kind that was meant to imply enough had been said on the subject and that he was too young to understand the ramifications of matters better judged by his elders. It was time to move on, Blastos demanding to know if he had sent word to his mother.

Such an abrupt change of subject threw the youngster; obviously the bishop was keen to get away from a discussion he found awkward, and much as the son wanted to pursue it, there was little point. His mood, after that last insult to the memory of his father and brothers, was so far from collected he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. The short pause before he replied in the affirmative was necessary to steady both his racing pulse as well as his bitterness.

‘Have you asked her to return?’

‘I must leave it to her to decide. If she wishes to gaze upon the very spot of our misery then I will go and fetch her, for it would be unbecoming that she should travel alone with her grief, and that I have told her. What I have written will provide a poor substitute for the truth.’

‘Truth?’ Blastos asked, as if such a thing was untoward.

‘How bravely they died.’

That got a nod, but not one that seemed to acknowledge the sacrifice. ‘When do you think you will depart to join her, for you will have no reason to remain in Dorostorum?’

There was something about the way that was posed, as if it was only of passing importance, that set Flavius even more on edge, the deliberate lack of emphasis added to the lacklustre look in eyes that were now fixed on a spot just above his head, implying not indifference but calculation.

Revelation came without any need to examine from where it emerged and nor did Flavius question the certainty of his conclusion. There had been less than clear hints from those who had earlier come to offer condolences regarding what had happened on the day of battle that, if they had made him curious, had not coalesced into any firm view.