Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  He was gazing at the statue when I was marched into the courtyard. Two of his Veterans remained to ensure his safety, but kept a discreet distance when he beckoned me to his side.

  “Look at this, Coel,” he said, nodding at the statue, “it might be a likeness of Hannibal himself.”

  I glanced over the statue. The soldier wore a muscled cuirass and an ornate Thracian-style helmet with a monstrous plume that swept down almost to his waist, indicating that he was meant to be no ordinary infantryman. His bearded face was contorted in an expression of righteous fury. I could well imagine Hannibal, the great Carthaginian general, looking such when he led his motley armies against the legions of the Republic.

  “Hannibal almost destroyed Rome,” added Belisarius without waiting for my answer, “at Cannae he slaughtered so many of our soldiers that hardly enough men could be found in Italy to replace them. The citizens of Rome gave way to panic and despair, and twice buried innocent people alive as sacrifices to their pagan gods, believing that was the only way to avert the fury of Hannibal. They went so far as to drown a baby in the Adriatic.”

  Belisarius seemed fascinated by the statue. He looked on it for an uncomfortably long time, frowning and tapping his fingertips together.

  “For all his triumphs, Hannibal died alone, rejected and despised by his people and hounded by his enemies. Of all the men on earth, only the Roman general who had finally conquered him, Scipio, made an effort to ensure Hannibal was allowed to die in peace. Scipio was a wise man. He knew his turn would come. In the fullness of time he too was abandoned by the people he had saved, and tasted the bitterness of exile.”

  He gave an involuntary shudder, and his thoughts were plain: my turn will come, one day.

  “All is vanity, Coel,” he said with a dismissive gesture of his hand, “your grandfather would have appreciated that. As he would have appreciated the remarkable achievement of his grandson.”

  I coloured. “I did nothing but survive, sir.”

  “As I said, remarkable. Not only did you survive months of captivity, but you relieved Gelimer of Caesar’s sword. Come with me. There is something you should see.”

  Belisarius rose and walked away. I followed, along with the guards, and we struggled to keep up with his long-legged stride as he led us through a doorway and along a wide corridor with a vaulted roof.

  We moved deeper into the bowels of the palace, along further corridors and down many flights of steps. On the way we passed guardsmen on sentry duty that stiffened and saluted Belisarius, and serving-men that cringed and prostrated themselves.

  “The Carthaginians think of me as a tyrant,” he murmured as we passed two cup-bearers who had laid aside their burdens to kneel and knock their heads on the marble floor, “even though I have taken pains to treat them with kindness and mercy. Scipio the Younger lined the streets of Carthage with crucified citizens. It seems they expect me to do the same.”

  Eventually we reached a solid cross-timbered door, guarded by ten Veterans who stamped their feet and saluted at the approach of Belisarius. He ordered their captain to unlock the door, and that only I was to follow him inside.

  We stepped through into a vast strongroom, lit by torches set high in sconces in the walls. The light they cast was shadowy, but enough to reveal the heaped royal treasure of the Vandals.

  “Look upon it, Coel,” said Belisarius, his voice echoing in that huge space, “look upon the spoil of our campaign.”

  The treasure was mingled in careless confusion. My eye roved over chairs made of solid gold, a golden chariot, versions of the Gospels encrusted with jewels and precious stones, a silver table service that must have weighed thousands of pounds, and countless weapons and bits of armour from Gelimer’s armouries. Added to these the spoil of past Vandal wars and conquests, captured Roman banners and eagles from Genseric’s sack of Rome, crested Roman helmets, Germanic boar helmets, Moorish shields covered by panther and leopard skins, breastplates made of dried crocodile skin…it was too much to take in, and the blinding gleam of gold and silver made me blink and look away.

  “My scribes have only begun to make an inventory of all this,” said the general, “look there.”

  He pointed to a corner, where a space had been cleared for an altar and a six-branched lampstand. Both were made of beaten gold, and seemed to have an internal glow that made them stand apart from the glittering rubble of defeated nations.

  “The lampstand is the Menorah,” added Belisarius, “which God directed Moses to use in his sanctuary in the wilderness. Along with the other Jewish holy relics, it was taken from the church in Jerusalem by the legions of Titus, and paraded through Rome as a trophy of war. The Vandals under Genseric took it from us, and now I have taken it back again. God knows what will happen when the Jews find out we have recovered the Menorah. The Nika riots might seem a minor disturbance by comparison.”

  My awe was tempered by suspicion of why Belisarius had brought me here. “You wish to add this to the pile,” I said, curling my fingers around Caledfwlch’s hilt, “you mean to lay it at the Emperor’s feet, as the crowning glory of your conquest.”

  “There are many glories here,” replied Belisarius, “many of them will be melted down and re-cast as coin to fill the imperial coffers. The Empire cannot afford to be sentimental. But Crocea Mors shall be spared, and given pride of place in the palace armoury.”

  I took a step towards the door. “Pharas tried to take it from me, but I refused. I will fall on the blade rather than let it go again. Caledfwlch does not belong to anyone but me.”

  My hand tightened on the grip. It was suicide to draw in the general’s presence, but I had meant every word.

  “You are a soldier of the Empire,” he warned. “You took the oath of allegiance. To break the oath is treason, and punishable by death.”

  “Without Caledfwlch, I am dead,” I replied simply.

  A long moment passed, and then Belisarius grimaced and rubbed his jaw. “I must be a cruel man,” he said, “to put you through such suspense, especially after all you have suffered. You may keep the sword.”

  I stared at him. “Keep it?”

  “Yes. Depriving you of it would clearly lead to your destruction. No man-made thing of metal and ivory is worth a life.”

  “What of the Emperor?”

  Belisarius smiled thinly. “The Emperor will have more important matters on his mind, such as the administration of North Africa. I have seen too many men die in agony to have any illusions about the nature and purpose of a sword. Crocea Mors has of no real value save as an heirloom.”

  I was stung by that, and sufficiently emboldened to question him. “You call it a mere thing. What of your devotions? When you kneel before an image of Christ, do you regard that as a thing of wood and paint?”

  “The purpose of an icon is merely to act as a reminder,” he replied, “the truth and love of Christ is found in the heart.”

  He smiled wanly, and folded his arms. “Now I find myself confiding in a servant, if a rather unusual one. You are a servant, are you not? A servant and a friend of Rome. I would be happy to know that Caesar’s sword was in the possession of such a man.”

  He might have added, and less than happy to know it was not.

  “Here and now, I am Rome,” he went on, “the Emperor gave me the title of Autocrator, with sole authority over the fleet and army despatched to North Africa. I have the power to appoint and break men as I see fit. You are a useful man, Coel. I want to appoint you as an officer in my personal guard.”

  He frowned at my stricken expression. “Most men have to wait years for such a commission. Do you reject it? Come, give me your answer. I do not have the luxury of time to waste.”

  My mind was struggling to make sense of this sudden upturn in my fortunes. Belisarius’s offer was indeed honourable, but there was policy behind it. He was generous enough not to take Caesar’s sword from me, and shrewd enough to realise the worth of having the one who carried it for an ally. Bette
r still, a subordinate.

  That said, if I had to serve anyone, I would rather it was Belisarius. I had no notion of freedom, or what I would do with it. My only ambition had been to recover my birthright. Now that was fulfilled.

  For the time being I was content to let another dictate my future, and so I accepted Belisarius’s gift.

  23.

  Gelimer finally quit his mountain refuge and gave himself up to the Heruli. They brought him and his nephew back to Carthage, not with any great triumph, for Pharas was not the type to gloat over captives, but with honour.

  The king did his best to humiliate himself. He declined to enter his former capital on a horse or a camel, but insisted on walking all the way in the tattered garb of a penitent. He even asked for a penitent’s girdle to wear, lined with barbs on the inside to mortify his unworthy flesh as he walked. Pharas refused to supply it, so Gelimer made one for himself from a discarded bridle and the thorns he plucked from a desert acacia.

  For the sake of peace, Pharas went along with this folly, and his soldiers had to march behind the crazed figure of Gelimer as he stumbled barefoot through the desert, mumbling prayers in Latin.

  His strength failed as he neared the gates of Carthage, and he collapsed onto his face. Pharas raised him up again and shoved him through the Numidian Gate into the square beyond, where the citizens and a large portion of the Roman army were assembled to receive the defeated king.

  Belisarius had arranged for a raised platform to be set up opposite the gate. He sat on Gelimer’s royal throne on the platform, dressed in full armour with the imperial field standards fluttering above his head, every inch the conquering Roman general. Antonina lounged elegantly on a smaller chair to his left, dressed in white silk and smirking like a cat upon the discovery of a bathtub full of fresh cream.

  The platform was otherwise occupied by military officers, Carthaginian bishops and priests, and other great men of the city, all come to witness the humiliation of their former monarch. They were beneath contempt, most of them, jackals who would not have dared meet Gelimer’s eye in the days of his power.

  I stood behind the throne as part of Belisarius’s honour guard, hot and uncomfortable in heavy chain mail and a crested helmet. The other guardsmen were baffled by this stranger among their ranks, and cast occasional wary glances at me and the old-fashioned gladius I carried at my belt.

  Three sides of the square were packed with Roman infantry and mounted squadrons of bucelarii. Behind them were the mass of ordinary citizens. The day was warm and still. Despite the crowds a strange silence had fallen over the square, as though the city held its breath for the arrival of Gelimer.

  He came, a bedraggled and shambling figure, leaning on the broad shoulder of Pharas and mumbling to himself, apparently unaware of the thousands of eyes fixed on him.

  The way to the platform was lined with a carpet made from the scarlet cloth of captured Vandal banners; scarlet being their preferred colour. Gelimer limped along the carpet. When he reached the midway point some of his old royal dignity and poise returned to him. He straightened, gently pushed away Pharas and advanced towards the dais.

  A great heap of his captured treasure lay on a purple sheet to the left of Belisarius’s throne. Gelimer paused at the foot of the steps and gazed on the gold and silver, the jewels and the captured armour, all gleaming like fire in the blaze of the African sun.

  It was only then that I, and all the others crowded on the platform, saw the blood trickling down his legs, caused by the girdle he wore. Some of the more impressionable souls gasped and recoiled in horror, but Belisarius was unmoved.

  He offered Gelimer his right hand. “You are welcome, Majesty,” he said in a kindly tone, “Rome accepts your surrender.”

  It occurred to me that Belisarius looked rather more like an Emperor than his master. His gracious and forgiving manner combined with his tall, imposing frame and gleaming armour, lent him the aspect of a living god. The appearance of Justinian, that stunted and fussy little man, made for a stark contrast.

  I wasn’t the only one to appreciate this, and false rumours would soon filter back to Constantinople of treacherous ambitions lurking in the general’s breast.

  Along with the others closest to the throne, I was able to hear what passed between Gelimer and Belisarius. The king did not take the proffered hand, but tore away part of his filthy tunic to expose his neck.

  “Finish me off,” he demanded, “have me strangled, as Caesar did to Vercinegetorix. Do it, but quickly. This world is done with me.”

  Belisarius was nonplussed, and I thought I heard Antonina smother a giggle. “You were not brought here for execution,” said the general, slowly and deliberately, as though he spoke to a child, “there is no question of that. Rome shall spare your life, and treat you with the honour and dignity due to a king.”

  Gelimer laughed. “Honour and dignity? You mean to parade me through the streets of Constantinople in a chariot, like some captured animal, for your citizens to mock and throw dung at.”

  “There shall be a procession, true. You must play your part in it. Afterwards, the Emperor has assured me you will be offered an estate near the city to live on, and servants to attend to your needs.”

  Gelimer’s face creased into a hideous mask, and he spat at the general’s feet. “A gilded cage!” he snarled, “I will dash my brains out against the wall, rather than suffer such humiliation.”

  The general drew in a sharp breath. I could sense the tension in him. He had made every effort to treat his beaten enemies with kindness, and all they did was throw it back in his face. It must have been supremely tempting to give the Vandals what they wanted, assume the mask of a tyrant, and drown the remnants of their nation in fire and blood.

  “While you are committing this act of self-destruction, for which God shall not forgive you,” he said, leaning forward until his face was just inches from Gelimer’s, “what of your nephew? Will you leave him alone in the world, stripped of all his kin, to be raised among strangers?”

  “He is a pretty boy,” put in Antonina, “I have a mind to keep him as a pet. He is a little old to be made into a eunuch, but the surgeons at Constantinople are skilled in every medical art.”

  She spoke with characteristic insouciance, but her words had their affect. The suggestion that Gelimer’s only surviving nephew, the last male heir of the Vandal royal bloodline, might be castrated and compelled to serve as a Roman lady’s pet eunuch, shocked Gelimer to his senses.

  “Very well,” he said, “for the sake of Euages, I consent to these terms.”

  His shoulders sagged, and he sounded like a tired and defeated old man.

  “The wheel of fortune has lifted you to the heights, Belisarius,” he added, “but look at me now, and remember. The wheel shall turn.”

  “I know,” Belisarius replied quietly, “all is vanity.”

  Gelimer slowly dropped to his knees and bowed his head before the throne he had once occupied.

  That was the signal for the tension in the square to break, and suddenly the air was full of deafening cheers and wildly blowing horns and trumpets. The war in North Africa was finished, thank God, and I had come through it with a whole skin.

  24.

  We did not embark for Constantinople for several weeks. During this time Belisarius was embroiled in arranging the government of the new province in his absence, and fending off accusations of treachery. A number of his subalterns, envious of his success, had secretly deserted and made their way back to the imperial capital, where they reported that Belisarius meant to make himself King of Africa. Justinian was naive enough to listen to their lies, and dispatched a eunuch, Solomon, to negotiate with the general.

  As an officer in Belisarius’s personal guard, I was kept none too busy, and divided my time between the palace barracks and watching the transports being loaded and refitted. I was privy to none of what passed between Belisarius and Solomon, but spent long hours on guard duty outside the royal apartm
ents in the palace. When I saw the general, he had acquired a wan, exhausted look, and no wonder since the candles in his chambers were kept burning all night.

  In such idleness, and the relief of having survived the campaign and recovered Caledfwlch, lay the danger of complacency. I had all but forgotten Theodora’s threat – that North Africa was not far enough to escape her malice – and was contemplating my future. A comfortable berth in the retinue of a supremely successful Roman general seemed a good start to a new life.

  All the while, Theodora’s coils were slowly tightening around me.

  As I have said, the duties of Belisarius’s guards were light. We were even allowed the luxury of one or two nights off a week to amuse ourselves. I generally took myself to a wine-shop frequented by Roman soldiers, since the citizens of Carthage were by no means friendly and it was dangerous for a Roman to walk the streets at night alone. Here I diced and drank away my boredom, before staggering back to barracks in the early hours accompanied by several comrades.

  I was lonely as well as bored, and like most soldiers eased my loneliness with the company of prostitutes. One of the girls who plied their bodies at the wine-shop, a slender black-haired Macedonian, reminded me forcefully of Elene. She was happy to take my money, if less so to listen to my drunken ramblings about the woman I had lost. After a few nights she vanished. The innkeeper smilingly refused to tell me where she had gone, and encouraged me to drown my sorrows in yet more of his indifferent wine.

  I was sitting alone one night in this sorry condition, staring mournfully at the dregs in my cup and the handful of pennies in my hand, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Glancing up, I saw a pale slice of face half-hidden under a dark blue hooded mantle. The face belonged to a young girl with eyes like green crystals and a nervous look about her.

  “You’re a new one,” I said, reaching up to pull her onto my lap, “but you need not play the startled faun. Some men find that arousing, but not me. I prefer confident whores.”