Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  Now, if ever, I waited for Leo to make reference to that dreadful night in the cellar beside the Harbour of Julian. But he said nothing, and I knew from long experience how difficult it was to read anything in that crooked smile of his.

  “I am sorry to disappoint,” I replied humbly, hating myself and every word, “but am happy to serve the Blues to the best of my poor ability.”

  He sneered and left me to polish saddles. Leo and his underlings thought me harmless, at worst something of a fool, and took little account of how closely I watched them. I suspected some conspiracy with the Greens, and it didn’t take a wise man to detect the rising tide of discontent and resentment in the city. Justinian openly preferred the Blues, and his naked partiality, combined with the increasingly severe taxes that he and the Emperor’s ministers screwed out of the people, added fuel to the fire.

  In the midst of this dangerous and uncertain atmosphere, Theodora did something extraordinary. The demure wool-spinner was secretly weaving far more dark and complex webs, and in one of these she succeeded in entrapping Justinian.

  He, poor fool, became enamoured of Theodora’s beauty and wit. Before long he fell hopelessly in love with her, and wanted to make the former actress, prostitute and dancer his wife. The law prohibited Roman officials from marrying courtesans, but Justinian was not to be denied, and eventually had the law repealed.

  I witnessed these events with mounting horror. Justinian was in all likelihood destined to be the next Emperor, and Theodora would be his consort. That would make her the second most powerful person in the Empire, and in an ideal position to wreak vengeance on old enemies.

  The Emperor Justin died after a reign of nine years. To no-one’s surprise, his nephew was elected to the vacant throne, and all my worst fears came to pass. Theodora, daughter of a bear-trainer and an actress, was now Empress of the civilised world.

  I decided to quit the city. Apart from the threat of Theodora’s growing influence, and the rising tension between the Greens and the Blues, I was plagued more than ever by dreams of Caledfwlch, and desperate to go in search of my birthright. At almost thirty years of age, poor and alone and despised, it was time to shape my own destiny.

  I knew Leo would never permit me to leave the Hippodrome, so I made secret plans to flee the arena and the city at night. It was a risky venture, and the skin would be flayed from my back if I was caught. Knowing Leo’s taste for the exotic, he might also subject me to more cruel and unusual punishments. The image of the white tiger’s jaws loomed large in my mind.

  Then, in the winter of 532, the city exploded.

  11.

  By this time the tension between the Blues and the Greens had infected Constantinople with a kind of madness. The adherents of both factions risked their fortunes and livelihoods and braved the severest laws, all for the sake of their darling colours. Bitter skirmishes resulting in injuries or even death had become commonplace, and the palace guard and tiny city watch were inadequate to deal with the sheer number of disturbances.

  Justinian and his ministers continued to ignore the threat, and the Emperor’s partiality for the Blues continued to fan the flames of civil revolt. The more fanatical supporters of the Blues took to growing their hair long and wearing loose garments, in imitation of the barbaric Huns, and pillaging the houses of wealthy citizens at night.

  Most of these acts of robbery and violence were systematically planned and organised by the ringleaders of the Blues. I frequently witnessed Leo and his confederates return to the arena in the small hours of the morning, flushed with stolen wine and dragging heavy sacks of plunder. Like parasites, they grew fat on the blood and toil of their fellow citizens, but they had more then mere brigandage in mind.

  Besieged by complaints, Justinian at last woke from his dream and took action to restore order to the streets. Too late. His guards arrested a few of the ringleaders, including Leo, and imprisoned them at the palace. In an effort to make all seem normal, he then allowed the January games to be held at the Hippodrome.

  This proved an appalling mistake, as the Blues and the Greens clustered around the imperial box in the arena, demanding the release of the prisoners and bellowing their watchword of “Nika! Nika!” (Conquer! Conquer!). The Emperor was no coward, but in the face of such howling aggression he and Theodora had to retreat back inside the palace, though not before that vulgar woman had traded obscenities with the mob.

  Up until now I was a passive spectator of events, and had given some thought to fleeing the city. Only my deep-rooted hatred for all forms of treachery, drummed into me by my mother, compelled me to stay.

  Within days Constantinople was plunged into anarchy. The prisons containing Leo and his confederates were forced open, and the guards murdered. I saw the freed men being brought back into the arena, carried like heroes on the shoulders of their friends. Silence fell over the multitude as Leo climbed onto the back of an equestrian statue.

  “Friends and former enemies!” he shouted, “the hour we have long planned for is here! Our corrupt Emperor and his cowardly ministers have run like cheeping mice back to their palace, leaving the city in our hands!”

  He waited, grinning, for the deafening storm of approval to die down. “No more shall we endure the tyranny of Justinian! We who rule this city in all but name shall dictate its future, and the future of the Empire! Let us crown a new Emperor, chosen by us, the people. One who shall heed our desires and do our bidding!”

  Now all became clear. The riots had been carefully planned with the aim of deposing the Emperor and installing a puppet in his place. No concern of mine, you might think, but I had lived in Constantinople for over twenty years. It was my home, and I was not prepared to leave it in the hands of self-serving traitors.

  Another man was hoisted onto the statue beside Leo. I recognised him as Rufinus, a senior overseer of the Greens.

  “You all remember the reign of Anastasius, who ruled this city with justice and fairness,” he bellowed through cupped hands, “let us choose a man of his blood to rule us. I propose Senator Hypatius!”

  This was the signal for certain planted members of the crowd to cheer in approval. Their shouts were taken up by the rest, and soon the Hippodrome echoed to the name of Hypatius.

  I knew of the senator, one of old Anastasius’s nephews, an unassuming no-mark who owed his rank entirely to his noble birth. Leo and his allies could not have chosen a better man to act as their dupe.

  No-one in the baying crowd paid me any heed as I sidled through their ranks, ducked down a passage and left the Hippodrome via a postern gate.

  I emerged onto the street facing the Palace of Antiochos. This was full of rioters charging to and fro, waving makeshift weapons and flaming torches and shrieking “Nika!”, while others set about beating up innocent citizens and stripping them of their valuables.

  The air smelled and tasted of smoke and burned flesh. I glanced to my right, and saw the wooden roof of the basilica church of Hagia Sophia had been fired. Black smoke poured from the doorway, and the steps were littered with bits of plundered vestments and the broken bodies of priests who had tried to defend them.

  Such shameless blasphemy made my stomach churn, and filled me with a desire for revenge on the perpetrators. I picked up a discarded bit of wood and ran up the street towards the Mese, shouting “Nika!” to blend in with the rioters. Fortunately, I wore a blue garland tied around my upper arm, and none gave me a second glance.

  I headed for the Chalke or Bronze Gate that was the main entrance to the Great Palace. It was located on a corner of the Augustaion, the main ceremonial plaza of the city. I snatched up a fallen cloak and wrapped it around my face against the smoke from the fires that seemed to be springing up everywhere. The rioters seemed intent on burning the entire centre of the city to the ground. There was no-one to hinder them, for the authorities were paralysed with fear.

  I saw no troops until I came within sight of the gate, which was guarded by a troop of Excubitors. They wore
iron helmets and mail over padded leather coats, and carried large oval shields, spears and spathas. Despite being armed to the teeth, these men did nothing to deter the outrages being committed right in front of them. Instead they huddled together like a pack of frightened sheep.

  “You, there,” their captain barked at me as I sprinted towards the gate, “keep your distance.”

  I stopped and tore off the garland on my arm. “I’m not with the rioters,” I cried, throwing the garland away, “I am loyal to the Emperor, and have news that he must hear.”

  “You might be a spy, or an assassin,” he said doubtfully, “give your message to me. I’ll make sure it reaches the Emperor.”

  The captain was clearly not an advanced thinker. I didn’t trust him a bit. “No. I must see him myself. Look, here is my knife. I carry no other weapon.”

  They watched me suspiciously as I plucked my knife from its sheath and dropped it on the cobbles. Even then, the captain ordered two of his men to search me.

  “All right,” he said when they were done, “I will escort you myself. Helias, you’re in charge until I get back.”

  He referred to his junior officer, who looked greatly put out at being left in command in such a dangerous situation. His men didn’t look happy either.

  The captain took my arm and dragged me through a bronze portal set inside the gate. I had never set foot inside the palace before, and gaped in wonder at the interior passage, which was lavishly decorated with white marble and sparkling mosaics.

  “Hurry,” the captain growled, and hurried me along the passage until it opened onto a huge parade ground occupied by rows of timber barracks. These were the quarters of the Excubitors, and the ground should have been full of purposeful military activity. Instead I saw soldiers milling about or talking urgently in little groups, with no sign of direction or discipline.

  “What is going on?” I asked. “Why aren’t these men out on the streets, restoring order?”

  The captain made no reply, and led me into a bewildering network of pavilions, corridors, gardens and galleries. The vast complex of the palace was divided into six rising terraces spread over a steeply sloping hillside. It was an entirely self-enclosed world, cut off from the sordid realities of the city. I passed through chambers big enough to house entire streets, gorgeously painted with frescos of religious scenes and exploits of past Emperors. Servants and guardsmen rushed to and fro, all of them in a state of near-panic.

  I was gasping for breath and utterly disorientated by the time we reached a huge central forum. This was dominated by a mighty arched roof, supported by rows of marching pillars and painted with a stunning image of Christ and the Apostles.

  The forum echoed to the sound of many conflicting voices. Senators and other officials stood about arguing with each other. From the snatches of conversation I heard most seemed intent on fleeing the city as soon as possible. There was no talk of marching out to confront the rebels.

  My eye was drawn to a group in the middle of the forum. One of them was the Emperor himself. I had seen him on many occasions, in the imperial box at the Hippodrome or during public ceremonies. He was a short, plump man in his early forties, handsome in a cherubic sort of way, his curly hair already turning grey.

  Beside him was Theodora. I had not seen her at close quarters for years. Her sinewy body was wrapped in purple silks and decorated with costly jewellery in place of the cheap bangles she had once worn, and her face was hard under its carefully-applied layers of cosmetic. Power and exalted rank, I reflected, had done little for the ex-dancer’s beauty.

  Clustered around Justinian and Theodora were a group of the most powerful men in the civilised world. I knew them all from reputation and seeing them in the Emperor’s retinue on public occasions. They were: Narses, the Emperor’s steward and chief eunuch; John of Cappadocia, a venal and corrupt minister; Mundus, a tough German mercenary whom Justinian had appointed Magister Militum of the Roman forces in Illyria and along the Danubian frontier; Hypatius, the senator and rival for the imperial throne; and General Flavius Belisarius.

  Let a shaft of light pierce the dark clouds of my narrative. Thus far it has featured a parade of fools and traitors, liars and degenerates. My own character was tainted by association with such people. I had sunk to the very depths of shame and dishonour, but God sent Belisarius to drag me out.

  I remember being unimpressed by his appearance. The general looked rather like an underfed priest who had donned military uniform. He was tall and slightly stooped, with a bony, angular frame and a severe countenance. His face was hollow-cheeked and long-nosed, adorned by a neatly clipped black beard, and his hair thinning and fast receding from a high, domed forehead.

  Belisarius and the others were deep in argument as we approached, and even the Emperor jumped in surprise when the captain clashed to a halt in front of him and ripped off a nervous salute.

  “Captain Leontius,” Justinian exclaimed – he had a deep voice, with a slight tendency to lisp – “what are you doing here? You were detailed to guard the Chalke Gate.”

  “Forgive me, Caesar,” Leontius responded, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above the Emperor’s head, “your guards still hold the gate. This man came to us, claiming to have an important message for you. I thought it best to bring him personally.”

  “You mean you thought it best to abandon your post,” Theodora said angrily. Her voice was somewhat huskier than I remembered, and her eyes widened in shock as she recognised me.

  “Britannicus,” she hissed, “what pit have you crawled out from?”

  I stiffened at the undisguised malice in her tone, and recalled my poor murdered friend Felix, his throat slashed by her hirelings.

  “Caesar,” I said, suppressing an urge to accuse Theodora to her face, “I have come from the Hippodrome, and must inform you that the rioters have proclaimed Senator Hypatius as Emperor in your place.”

  Hypatius was an elderly, dried-up stick of a man, and one of those pitiable characters destined to be a victim of fate. His eyes rolled in his head as I spoke. He started to snivel, and fell to his knees before the Emperor.

  “Pardon, dread Caesar,” he whimpered, gathering up the hem of Justinian’s white robe and burying his face in it, “I had heard something of the plot, but was resolved to take no part in it. I swear on the bones of all the Saints, I am loyal to you, Caesar, loyal unto death, loyal…”

  He went on protesting his loyalty, while Justinian gazed down at him with a mixture of bafflement and disgust. “Not loyal enough, it seems, to inform me of the plot,” he snapped, snatching away his robe, “why was that, senator?”

  The babble of voices in the forum had died away, and all eyes were on the wretched figure of Hypatius. His voice seemed to catch in his throat, and he croaked something about being threatened with death if he betrayed the conspirators.

  “Kill him,” said Theodora, “kill him now. Captain Leontius can do it. Let his head be delivered up the rioters on a purple cushion, so they may crown their new Emperor.”

  “Sound advice, Highness,” remarked John of Cappadocia in his silken voice. The others said nothing, though I saw Belisarius and Mundus exchange glances.

  Justinian rubbed his chin. “I am reluctant to shed royal blood,” he said. “It might create a dangerous precedent. Senator, you will quit the palace. At once.”

  Hypatius didn’t seem to comprehend. He just stared, his eyes wide and brimful of tears, one corner of his mouth twitching violently.

  A look of fury crossed the Emperor’s usually placid features. “Go!” he roared, his voice echoing around the forum. He stamped his foot and pointed at the door as though he meant to throw Hypatius out personally.

  The senator jerked into life and stumbled away, sobbing like a frightened child.

  “That was unwise,” said Theodora, “the mob may seize him and crown him Emperor, whether he wills it or no.”

  “Dear heart, they may crown a monkey if they wish,” retorted Justinian,
“at least we now know their intentions. Narses, are your agents in place?”

  “They are, Caesar,” said the eunuch, “I should receive their reports by this evening.”

  “Then we shall retire to our quarters and wait on events. Come, Theodora.”

  The royal couple departed hand-in-hand, and the remaining senators bowed as they passed. Before she left, Theodora twisted her head around and shot me a glance full of venom.

  Narses and John of Cappadocia pattered away on their own dark designs, leaving me with the three soldiers. Belisarius dismissed Captain Leontius back to his post and turned to me.

  “Her Highness called you a Briton,” he said, “is that true?”

  I replied that it was, and briefly told him my true name and something of my origins. Belisarius listened and nodded politely, as though what I had to say was fascinating. I knew the quality of the man. He had already won a brilliant reputation for his recent campaigns against the Sassanids, but there was nothing forbidding or lofty about him. He possessed the great gift of putting people at their ease.

  Mention of my grandfather made him frown. “Arthur,” he mused, snapping his fingers, “I have heard that name before.”

  “My father’s people heard stories about him from the Franks,” grunted Mundus in his guttural Germanic tones, “exaggerated tales of a great British warrior capable of slaying hundreds of men single-handed, and who fought demonic pigs and giants. This man might as well claim to be descended from Mars.”

  The implication that I was a liar made me forget myself. “Arthur was flesh and blood,” I said indignantly, “he revived the old imperial title of Dux Bellorum, and for over twenty years defended the province that you Romans had so spinelessly abandoned! Yes, the stories of him are exaggerated, as they are of any great hero. Do either of you really believe that Romulus and Remus were suckled by a wolf?”

  “As it happens, I doubt the twins ever existed,” Belisarius said mildly. He was not in the least put out by my outburst, though Mundus was glaring at me through narrowed eyes.