Jack Ludlow: Honour

The man declined to move; he merely yelled out the alarm and that brought out of the barrack room under the gatehouse a whole file of running Excubitors, many fiddling with old-style breastplates that had been loosened for comfort. From his cubicle inside the gate it also brought forth their officer who, looking like thunder when he could observe no reason for apprehension, strode right up, passing his now parading guard detail, to stand between the two sentinels.

‘What in the name of Christ risen is going on?’

‘The prodigal returns, Domnus Articus,’ Flavius said, lifting off his helmet, ‘that is what is going on.’

That got a close if unfriendly look, one that slowly changed to recognition as he saw that the face before him was familiar, though last been seen with the spots of puberty still showing. Now it belonged to a grown man, and if unblemished, had been rendered very dark by exposure to the sun and the growth of a trim beard.

‘Is it you, Flavius?’

‘In the flesh.’

‘Then the Sassanids did not manage to kill you?’

‘They tried.’

Domnus stepped forward making as if to embrace Flavius, only to stop and look him up and down. If the men on guard were polished in their accoutrements, then as an Excubitor officer Domnus was positively sleek. Flavius laughed at his fears, that some of the muck on his body might take the sheen off an old comrade, a fellow who had been inducted into the unit at the same time as he.

‘Wait till I have bathed and changed, my friend.’

‘That I will, Flavius,’ Domnus replied, before turning, clearly intent on berating the sentinels. That was cut off by the man to whom they had barred entry.

‘Your men did a fine job, Domnus, don’t you think?’ That stopped their officer and he turned halfway back. ‘Can’t allow entry to any dusty fellow, regardless of who he claims to be.’

The two guards, still seeking to stay rigid, did react, but in such a way it took a very acute look to spot it, no more than a grateful flick of the eyelids. Domnus intended to chastise them and he was not to be entirely deflected, though Flavius suspected his tone was more moderate that it would have been without his intervention.

‘This man is an officer in the imperial military yet I do not see your spears at the salute.’ Both tips shot forward in unison as the shafts were presented on rigid, extended right arms. ‘Better, but late. Come, Flavius, let one of my men see to your horse, for I know our general will be eager to see you.’

‘Not like this, I think.’

‘No, it will be a long time since he smelt the likes of you.’

The comes Excubitorum had many duties, the primary one to ensure that his emperor was never at risk of assassination, but his responsibilities extended to guarding all the high officials in a palace spread over a great area. Justinus took his duties very seriously, and was therefore always, throughout the day, on the move to ensure all was as it should be. When Flavius, bathed and properly dressed in clothing taken from the chest he had left behind two years previously, presented himself at the apartments his mentor occupied, he did not find his patron present, only his nephew.

‘At last, Flavius!’ Petrus Sabbatius exclaimed. ‘I feared that you had got lost or murdered by thieves on the way.’

When you have not seen someone you know well for two years it is natural to look for changes and this Flavius did, though he could discern nothing meaningful when it came to Petrus. He still had a thin frame and face as well as that habit of canting his head to one side when thinking, while his reddish hair was yet untidy. Not a man to smile often, Petrus was doing so now, exposing his unevenly spaced teeth.

‘Not killed by the Persians?’

‘That I never thought would happen. Is not there a guardian angel ever on your shoulder?’

‘He would need to be with you on my side.’

If that was delivered with a smile, there was an undercurrent of spleen to it. Two years previously Petrus, ever the schemer, had put him in mortal peril in pursuit of a political goal that he had declined to share with the person who might have paid the price to see it completed or fail. If they had never discussed it, Flavius knew that if he had died in its execution that would have been, for this natural courtier, a price worth paying to achieve success, namely the removal of someone he saw as a potential future rival to both himself and the man he served.

To say Petrus was his uncle’s right hand was literally true; Justinus was a bluff and honest soldier where his relative was the opposite. He could neither read nor write, therefore he depended on his nephew to both compose his orders and to a large extent see them executed. If the bond between them was strong it was often strained as Petrus pursued goals that were disapproved of by a man of an upright disposition, objectives the nephew insisted were designed to aid and protect his uncle in a polity ridden with intrigue and infighting as courtiers jockeyed for power and the affluence that went with it.

‘You will have written the orders for my recall?’ Petrus nodded; he even had access to the signature stencil Justinus used to sign his orders. ‘So what does Justinus have in mind for me?’

The nephew just smiled, but it was not one of humour, more of supremacy. About to speak again, Flavius was cut off by the entry of the general himself and his opening words, as well as the surprise in both voice and face, spoke volumes.

‘Lord, Flavius, what has brought you home?’

About to reply that it was obviously not at his personal command, he flicked a glance at Petrus to get a very slight shake of the head, added to an expression that told him to be cautious and it was he who spoke.

‘Has it not been too long since he was with us, Uncle, and was his deployment not for a fixed term?’

‘Was it?’ Justinus enquired, looking slightly confused, before breaking into a wide grin, one nearly as wide as the arms with which he stepped forward to embrace Flavius. ‘Well I am glad to see you, boy.’

‘Are we not all glad to see him,’ Petrus added, if less fulsomely.

The hands of Justinus were on the shoulders now and he was looking hard into the face of the youngster. ‘I swear you are the spit of your father, God rest his soul.’

That had the young man drop his head and move his thinking from the very obvious fact that it was not Justinus who had recalled him but Petrus, a notion that presaged something that might be both unpleasant and dangerous. The memory of how his father and three brothers had died because of downright treachery haunted him enough to overwhelm that immediate concern, the reaction not missed by Justinus.

‘Forgive me if it causes you discomfort but I mention it only to praise you. I knew your papa when he was the age you are now, with the pair of us not long joined the imperial army. What a set of rogues we were-’

‘Have you eaten, Flavius?’

His uncle stopped as Petrus butted in, wishing to cut off a flow of reminiscence of the kind he had heard far too often; old soldiers never seemed to tire of their tales of camp life and fighting, as well as what they got up to elsewhere.

‘Well,’ said Justinus, ‘we shall all dine together and you can tell us of your exploits on the border.’

A swift response came from the nephew, to whom the tales of young soldiers were no more enthralling to him than that of their elders. ‘I have another arrangement, Uncle.’

Justinus looked pained. ‘I can guess in what kind of company.’

Petrus merely shrugged; it was an ongoing dispute that had obviously not been tempered in the time Flavius had been absent. Justinus sought for his nephew the same as his parents. Born of a mother who had risen from humble stock to wed a nobleman, it was possible he could marry into the patrician class and become connected to one of those ancient families that had filled the high offices of state for centuries and had deep prosperity to prove it. There were many of that class, if not all, who saw the brood to which Justinus belonged, his wife Lupicina included, as Thracian peasants and barely sought to temper their condescension.