Honour by Jack Ludlow Page B

allowing armed men in to his inner defences. The key was the name of the messenger; he knew Flavius and had some reason, it was hoped, to hold him as trustworthy.
    The body of cavalry who appeared – their noisy hooves had signalled their coming – were recognisably
comitatus
, personal troops committed to their general not just for pay but also bound by ties of blood or deep loyalty.
    Originally a German concept it was another sign of the way the Romans adopted the habits of their enemies, so that now every generalhad such a body, men who would never leave his side unless expressly ordered to do so. They could also be the shock troops of his army, for they tended to a discipline and cohesion rare in mounted warriors and were often led or thrown into battle at key moments.
    The barrier was to allow through a single rider and once he was close Flavius recognised Marcus Vigilius, the man who had been his tribune on that first march to the capital. The greeting was cautious rather than friendly but the message was welcome: he was there to escort them to the main camp.
    ‘How will we be received?’ Flavius asked, once he and his soldiers were both reunited and mounted.
    ‘Guardedly.’
    ‘He can trust the word of the man who sent me.’
    The response was sharp. ‘Vitalian no longer trusts anyone!’
    Handsome and from a rich patrician family, Vigilius had aged since last seen. There were lines in a face that had previously lacked blemish and the skin around the eyes was now creased and the whole had a weary look. Flavius wanted to ask how he fared and what had happened since they last met but Vigilius’s attitude did not invite enquiry.
    If his old tribune had aged that was as nothing to his leader. Vitalian seemed to have shrunk; though not tall, his once square shoulders were slightly rounded, the face cratered and the cheeks sunken, far from the commanding visage Flavius remembered. Also, he displayed an attitude that spoke of a burden too heavy to carry, not of a cause full of promise. With an acute eye, as they rode into the main encampment, Flavius had sensed decline; there was no feeling of fervour in the dull looks he got from those armed men he rode past and even the segment occupied by the camp followers, gimcrack huts and tents, seemed to be on the perish.
    He was afforded no chance to address Vitalian alone; the rebel commander met the dismounted messenger flanked by two of his sons, Bouzes and Coutzes, now grown to full manhood and obviously, by their attitude and bearing, now raised to positions of command. This trio was surrounded by Vitalian’s senior adherents, each of whom led their own groups, men Flavius also remembered from his last visit to this camp and it was evident that these were fewer in number than hitherto. Yet when Vitalian spoke, it was with a well-recalled strength of voice; if he looked diminished he did not sound so.
    ‘So, my old comrade Justinus has grabbed the diadem?’
    ‘Justin was the choice of the old imperial council, then presented to the citizens and acclaimed emperor in the Hippodrome.’
    ‘By a mob that would be as quick to tear him limb from limb.’
    ‘They were ecstatic, General. He is a good man and will make a fair-minded ruler.
    ‘Justin?’
    ‘His Imperial Highness wishes to be seen as the ruler for all citizens of empire, Greek and Roman.’
    ‘Barbarians too?’ Flavius nodded for it was a pointless question. ‘Just as well, given his bloodline. You’ve changed, Flavius Belisarius, grown up.’
    ‘If I may come to my purpose?’
    There was a pause before Vitalian acceded to that, giving the impression that he knew what was coming – it could not be otherwise – and it not being fully welcome. A new emperor would only send a messenger on one resolve, to secure an end to this rebellion, and Flavius could understand the feeling that acceptance of such could be seen as capitulation.
    But any impressions he had were of no account; he had hisinstructions and