Jack Ludlow - Triumph

The former was more troublesome, added to the possibility that Theodora, known to employ spies, was having him watched. Never had fame seemed to him so much of a burden. Flavius had never much cared for the kind of public approbation with which he was regularly assailed in the streets of the city on being recognised.

To walk the Triumphal Way as a successful soldier, a conqueror and newly appointed consul was one thing; in such a circumstance a cheering crowd was to be expected. To be applauded for merely passing by seemed crass, he being unware that it was the very fact of his walking amongst the citizenry without pomp or protection that added lustre to his reputation for humility and probity.

He was at least relieved of the presence of Antonina, who preferred the royal apartments close to the Empress against residence at the seaside villa, not for reasons of comfort but because Theodosius was once more in Constantinople. Her behaviour was once more a standing rebuke to his soft nature, as if the imprisoned stepson was not an even greater running sore.

To do anything himself was impossible; even to plead for clemency was likely to produce an effect directly contrary to that aimed at, and in this he had to face the combination of the Empress and his wife. Antonina in particular was determined that Photius should be punished for his attitude to her over many years. She had openly advocated, he had been told, thankfully to no avail, that the torture he had suffered should be continued.

His only hope was old comrades. The city was full of men who had served with him, the kind of middle-ranking officers that he had always taken care to look after so that they too would attend to the needs of those they led. Anyone of high rank he could not approach, they being inclined to put their career way ahead of any perceived debt they owed to their one-time general, an understandable response, if one he found frustrating.

To meet the men he needed to talk with required the kind of subterfuge at which he might be a master on the battlefield but was anathema in normal life. He was obliged to leave the villa not only in darkness but in a covered wagon, this while the house behind him was fully illuminated by burning oil lamps, with busy servants much in evidence.

Under the canvas canopy Flavius was dressed in a heavy, hooded cloak as a double precaution, his exit swift and taken just as the wagon turned a corner so that anyone following would be unsighted. This found him in a familiar setting, if one he had not visited for a decade.

The streets in the dock area were narrow, dark and stinking, the only light, and a gloomy one at that, coming from the sconces above the various tavern and brothel doorways. His choice of destination had been advised by Solomon, who knew more of the habits of the men Flavius sought than did their one-time commander. His experience of this area had been in the company of the pre-imperial Justinian and the elevated types with whom he associated, their pleasures taken in the most salubrious of the establishments.

Once he had found the basement he was seeking, care had to continue to be exercised. The tavern was crowded, it being a haunt for soldiers, not dock workers or itinerant sailors, and the fug set up by the burning of cheap oil did much to add gloom to the light such lamps were supposed to emit. This made finding a table at which to sit difficult, compounded by the need to examine those who would be his neighbours before he could park his backside on a bench.

Still hooded he was on the receiving end of many a stare, for what was common outside on a winter night was not the same within, which meant the cowl had to be removed, but not before the low-beamed room had been the subject of a ranging examination. The act of throwing it off was a calculated risk, given his face was known to many, but most customers were too engrossed in their own affairs to even look in his direction.

The tavern was small and made to seem more so by the fact of being busy. The tables were packed close and at one end lay a tiny clear area in which there would probably be dancing and maybe more lewd demonstrations. There was a rickety staircase leading, he surmised, to cubicles, for this place would act too as a brothel. It was impossible to avoid reflecting that if both the Empress and his wife had come from a better class of establishment, this was the kind of life they had lived prior to the good fortune brought on by Theodora’s marriage.

The sudden burst of loud singing, being in Latin, had him spin to place it, the tune itself being one he recognised, having heard it many times as he walked the lines of his encamped soldiery. The words were filthy, raucous and ultimately blasphemous but that mattered less than the nature of the source. Flavius waited until he had been provided with a pitcher of wine before he moved towards the now silent singers, picking up the tones of their rough exchanges, traded insults that created much amusement.

The table was too crowded to allow him to sit, each bench fully occupied by a set of scarred individuals, all in some kind of apparel that identified them as military: tunics, a breastplate or two and the odd removed helmet. Experience told Flavius that there would be a hierarchy, if not in rank then in personality; there always was in any group of soldiers and the man with the loudest voice, sat at the head of the table, seemed to be that and was thus the object of his stare.

At first the reaction to that was a look of fury, for the gape would seem like a challenge. That only lasted a second before the eyes began to narrow and the man leant forward slightly to add a keen look. Those same eyes soon went wide and so did the fellow’s mouth, whatever he was about to emit silenced by the finger at the mouth of Flavius Belisarius.

The reaction had been observed by his companions, which brought a small oasis of silence in the noisy room, one that allowed Flavius to ask for permission to sit, which was quickly ordered by the man at the table head and obeyed by his companions, several of whom were now staring open-mouthed at their new companion, who placed his pitcher of wine on the bare wood and spoke in Latin.

‘It is a poor guest who does not come with gifts.’

‘A Greek habit, Excellence,’ intoned the leader, ‘from ancient times.’

There was wit as well as shrewdness in that response; the man was saying to Flavius that his presence in such a place, added to the manner of approach, smacked of dangerous subterfuge.

‘You would honour me more by not using titles or names.’ That got a sharp nod followed by a glare that encompassed the whole group of eight men. ‘You would also honour me by naming yourselves, since to my shame, though I seem to recognise several faces, I cannot put a tag on them.’

They tumbled out, each spoken in a near whisper. Colonus, Euphrastes, a pair called Brennus, and the rest he missed. It was Colonus who had the air of leadership Flavius sought, and with politely phrased requests he moved until they were sat close.

‘I heard you sing in Latin.’

‘It is our tongue, General.’

‘Do I sense Illyricum in your accent?’

‘It takes a sharp ear to detect that.’

‘Not to one raised by Illyrian parents, Colonus.’

The whole table had gone quiet, which was inclined to attract more attention than any amount of noise. Again Colonus showed a shrewd appreciation, making a loud toast, taken up by his fellows, that followed by a bark to keep talking. Then he brought his head close to that of his one-time general.

‘I am bound to ask why you are here.’

‘As I must ask what is known of my troubles.’

The pause was of no great length, but it was significant and made more so by what followed. ‘Word is you sent your lad Photius to murder a fellow who was …’