Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  She batted away my hand. “I am no whore,” she said in a voice with ice and daggers in it, “but was sent here to summon you to the palace. Your presence is required.”

  My first thought was that Belisarius must want me, though it seemed strange to use a serving-girl as a messenger. On the other hand, I was aware of his present difficulties, and like Pharas had learned to detect the smell of politics.

  “Lead on, then,” I said, rising, “my purse is nearly empty anyway. There is little joy in watching other men drink and make fools of themselves.”

  She led me through the groups of off-duty soldiers, laughing and drinking and dicing, and out onto the street. The night was warm, and the hour late. I leaned on the wall for a moment to compose myself, breathing in fresh air and wishing I had eaten before pouring bad wine down my throat.

  “Hurry,” the girl snapped. I didn’t like her tone. It was arrogant and impatient, that of one used to being obeyed.

  You are no serving-girl, I thought, but said nothing and meekly followed her along the street and through an adjoining forum to the steps of the palace.

  We entered via a side-entrance, guarded by a soldier who nodded and stepped aside when the girl whispered in his ear. Wary of receiving a blade in the back, I kept a firm hold on Caledfwlch as we entered a narrow passage and the door slammed shut behind us.

  “Politics, politics,” I mumbled to myself. She gave me a nasty look and hurried on down the passage and through an archway. I followed, aware of her slender, tight young body under the blue robes and regretful that I was unlikely to get better acquainted with it. The wine fumes were still swilling around my head, and like a fool I paid no attention to where we were going.

  The bare stone corridors widened out into spacious hallways, the walls decorated with mosaics and tapestries showing the triumphs of Genseric and his descendents. There was no-one about, and the girl flitted noiselessly over the marble floors.

  We came to a doorway, twice as tall as me and made of some red lacquered wood, that stood ajar before us. The girl halted by the door and gestured at me to enter. Stifling a belch, I gave her a wink and stepped through.

  The interior was a large, shadowy chamber, heavy with a pleasant if slightly overpowering smell of incense and perfume. Somewhere a lyre was playing a delicate, haunting melody that added to the soporific atmosphere. There was no furniture, save for a few marble busts of constipated-looking Carthaginian generals, and a thick coverlet was spread over the middle of the floor.

  I heard the door slide shut and felt warm, gently spiced breath on my face. The next thing I knew a tongue was playing about my lips, and a small but strong hand had taken a firm hold of my crotch.

  As female advances went, this was welcome but impolite. I seized a pair of slender arms and pushed my would-be seducer away. At first her face was lost in the gloom.

  My heart skipped a beat as I recognised the pale, kittenish features of Antonina.

  “Coel,” she breathed, “have I shocked you? I do apologise. I have waited a long time for this.”

  I fought for words, but my throat had dried up. I released her arms as though they were made of hot lead and tried to retreat. My back pressed against the door.

  Antonina swayed towards me. Her superb dancer’s body was wrapped in a shift made of some thin white gauzy stuff that accentuated her curves and willowy grace. She looked like an impossibly beautiful ivory statue come to life. Torn between lust and drunkenness and terror and revulsion, I cringed when her fingers reached out to stroke my cheek.

  “How beautiful,” she murmured, tracing with her forefinger the line of the scar imprinted on my cheek by a rival charioteer’s whip, so many years ago, “a man should carry scars. They are proof of his courage. You are a brave man, are you not, Coel? My husband says so.”

  I slid away and fled to the middle of the room. “What is this?” I croaked. “I am nothing to you.”

  Antonina leaned against the door and folded her hands together, as demure as any Vestal Virgin. “I take my pleasures where I can,” she said, “life on campaign is very dull for a woman, who can take no part in strategy and fighting. Belisarius regards me as an ornament, a pretty face to encourage the troops.”

  I looked around, half-expecting him to emerge from the shadows. “Where is he?” I demanded, “my God, if he knew what was happening here…”

  “Both our lives would be forfeit. Mine, certainly. It is a game of chance I like to play.”

  She advanced on me again, and the rustle of her silken robe was like a death-rattle in my ears.

  “Keep away,” I warned, reaching for Caledfwlch, “I will not be party to any betrayal of your husband.”

  “No?” Antonina stopped. She was almost unbearably beautiful. My head filled with a vision of me striding across the room and seizing her, tearing away her garment and bulling her for all I was worth.

  “No,” I managed, “you underestimate me, madam. I am not so stupid as to imagine that you desire me for my own sake. You are great friends with the Empress. She has instructed you to destroy me.”

  Antonina’s laugh was as light and cruel as the rest of her. “Theodora instructs me to do nothing,” she said. “We are equals, and share the same ambitions. But she has nothing to do with this. Belisarius speaks of the exploits of few of his officers. You are one. There is some vitality about you, a different and fascinating quality. I like to take such men to my bed. It makes a change from slaves and guardsmen.”

  My jaw dropped at this shameless admission of infidelity, but I would not be fooled. “You lie, madam,” I said. “Every word you utter is loaded with deceit. Let me pass.”

  I moved towards the door, hoping to God she wouldn’t call my bluff. If she chose to make a scene, to scream and call for her guards, I was lost. Belisarius was slavishly devoted to his wife and would believe her word over mine, even though he was fond of me.

  Antonina stepped aside. “Run away, then,” she said softly. “And think on what might have been, the next time you wake up next to some foul dockside slut. I do not offer myself twice.”

  “I count on it,” I said, and thrust the door open. I expected to find the girl who had brought me here on the other side, but she had gone. There was nothing, save darkness and a faint draught that made the torches flicker and cast alarming shadows on the walls.

  25.

  I stumbled through an unfamiliar part of the palace, startling a number of dozing servants and hounds, until I found my way to barracks. There I was admonished by the officer on duty for disappearing into the night on my own.

  “You’re lucky not to have ended up in the gutter with a knife in your liver,” he grumbled, but thankfully he asked no questions.

  Naturally, I declined to tell him where I had really been, and spent the remainder of the night lying awake in my narrow camp bed, mulling over what had occurred and the potentially dreadful consequences.

  Men are at their lowest ebb in the cold grey hours just before dawn. Exhausted, drunk and frightened out of my wits, I briefly considered deserting, but the idea was impractical. Where could I go that would be beyond the reach of Theodora and Antonina? I had no money, and nothing of value save the sword I had spent so long trying to retrieve.

  In the end, my better nature prevailed. If I ran, it would be an admission of guilt, and I had done nothing wrong. Antonina could hardly accuse me of anything without exposing herself to suspicion, and her reputation was hardly stainless. I resolved to trust to the good fortune that had preserved me so far, the favour of Belisarius, and the power of Caledfwlch.

  With the sword in my possession, I felt like a different man: Arthur’s true heir, instead of a bewildered fugitive living off whatever scraps the Romans deigned to throw my way.

  Fool. Had I known what lay ahead, I would have crept out of the palace and fled into exile. To hide my head under some distant foreign sun might have been preferable to the trials that lay in store for me.

  While his wife was busy mak
ing a cuckold of him, Belisarius laboured to clear his name of the taint of treachery. Having realised that his enemies meant to bring him down, he had the port of Carthage closely watched, and his soldiers seized a messenger in the act of boarding a ship. The man was searched and found to be carrying a letter full of vile allegations against Belisarius, claiming that he meant to claim Africa as his own private fiefdom.

  Belisarius knew the envious nature of Justinian, and that the Empress would be dripping honeyed lies into his ear. The only sure method of proving his loyalty was to embark and sail for Constantinople with all speed, carrying his captives and plunder with him to place before the Emperor.

  For several days the port was a frenzy of activity. All hands were required to prepare the fleet for departure, even those belonging to the general’s personal guard. Most of my comrades grumbled at having to set aside their weapons and help with the loading of supplies, but I was glad of the distraction and the opportunity to do some honest, mindless work.

  To my great relief, I heard nothing from Antonina, though I occasionally glimpsed her sitting under an awning on the balcony of a large house overlooking the harbour. She was invariably surrounded by attendants and hangers-on, sipping wine as she listened to their flattery and watched the men work.

  We embarked on a cold winter’s day and sailed for home, leaving the eunuch Solomon to govern the reconquered province, with the secretary Procopius and a strong garrison to help him.

  I stood on the foredeck of the general’s flagship and felt my spirits lift as the African coastline dwindled to nothing. My fervent prayers against the dreaded sea-sickness paid off, and I was miraculously unaffected during the long weeks of sailing.

  The voyage home was uneventful. An air of elation hung over the fleet, for our transports and dromons were full of men who had survived a campaign that promised nothing but disaster. Not only that, they had triumphed, and were confident of being greeted as heroes at Constantinople. True, there was less joy to be found on the transports that carried the sick and wounded, but that only made the whole men more thankful for their deliverance.

  For most of the voyage Belisarius did not speak to me, or so much as acknowledge my presence. He was eternally busy, spending long hours closeted below deck with his officers and advisors, and any spare time was eaten up by the demands of his wife.

  He made a point of treating Gelimer as an honoured guest instead of a prisoner of war, and often invited the captive king to dinner. The ruthless Vandal king, who would have treated his enemy very differently had their roles been reversed, was no doubt baffled by such generosity. I smiled to think of him picking at his food and trying to be polite to the man who had destroyed his armies, conquered his kingdom and trampled his crown into the dust.

  Some idea of the welcome that awaited us in Constantinople was given when the fleet entered the Sea of Marmara. I was on the foredeck, huddled in a thick cloak against the winter breeze, when I heard a shout from the look-out in the crow’s nest.

  “Boats to the north!”

  Belisarius was nearby, deep in conference with a group of officers. He frowned at the interruption, and then stalked over to the rail to shade his eyes and gaze north. His officers followed, and soon the deck was full of men talking in excited voices and pointing towards Constantinople.

  I strained to look, and glimpsed a number of black shapes on the every edge of sight. As they came closer I made out boats, a whole fleet of them, galleys and fishing vessels and dromons.

  “Silence!” shouted Belisarius. The deck fell quiet, and from over the choppy waters drifted the sound of voices raised in song.

  Some of the approaching vessels were imperial warships, intended to act as an official escort for the fleet. Alongside them were dozens of boats manned by civilians, who had put to sea for no other reason than to welcome us home. Most of the noise was coming from these, and the people aboard waved and blew kisses and generally made a rapturous din. I remember one lumbering vessel crammed with black-robed priests, many of them green with sea-sickness, waving holy banners and icons and attempting to sing a Te Deum as their boat rocked alarmingly in the choppy waters.

  The people roared at the sight of Belisarius. News of his victory had reached the city weeks ago. His role in the bloody suppression of the Nika riots was all but forgotten, buried under a wave of patriotic fervour and hero-worship. For a time at least they regarded him as a new Caesar, Scipio and Aetius all rolled into one, the man who would restore the glory of the Empire and roll back the hordes of foul barbarians that threatened to engulf it.

  Belisarius looked taken aback by their acclamation. Modesty was one of his attractive traits, and he knew that this reception would do nothing to quell the Emperor’s jealous suspicion. He turned on his heel and hurried back to his quarters below deck, leaving orders for the fleet to follow the escort into the harbour of the Golden Horn.

  His fears of the Emperor’s jealousy were soon allayed. One of the imperial vessels drew alongside the flagship, and a white-haired senator stood in the bows and bellowed through a trumpet that Belisarius had been awarded a triumph. This drew gasps from every man aboard ship. No Roman general had been awarded a triumph since the days of Trajan, some four hundred years previously.

  “The Emperor has listened to reason, then,” remarked the captain of the guard, “good for him. He knows that our general commands the loyalty of the army and the people. Pity, really. I was looking forward to sticking my sword up of a few of his ministers.”

  “That bastard John of Cappadocia, for one,” agreed another officer, “Belisarius should demand his balls on a platter, as the price for not sacking Constantinople.”

  I should have been shocked at their treasonous words, expressed so casually in the open where anyone might hear, but it was nothing new. The easy victory in North Africa had filled our soldiers with a new confidence and swagger, bordering on arrogance. The discipline Belisarius had imposed on them during the campaign had long since slackened, and they might have posed a serious threat to the city if Justinian had insisted on pressing charges against their hero.

  We soon learned there was no danger of that. The harbour was crammed with people, and the noise and singing and general ecstasy of the Roman populace is one of my most powerful and enduring memories. Many had thought the fleet would never return. To see it arrive, safe and whole and laden with the spoil of a victorious campaign, was beyond their wildest hopes.

  The name of Belisarius echoed around the harbour as the flagship glided into dock, and tripled in volume when the man himself emerged with Antonina on his arm. She looked radiant, as ever, but he looked pensive as they were lowered on chairs into a longboat to be rowed to shore.

  Antonina briefly turned her head to wink at me as I clambered down a ladder into the boat. That was the first time she had even acknowledged my existence since that dreadful night in Carthage.

  The Emperor and his consort were waiting on the harbour, surrounded by guards and senators, along with the bent and wizened figure of the Patriarch. Justinian’s smile seemed warm and genuine, though it was always impossible to know what was happening behind those placid grey eyes.

  Theodora was dressed in a manner calculated to draw some of the attention away from the returning heroes of Empire. She wore a tall silver crown with strings of pearls hanging to her breast, and carried a broad jewelled collar on her shoulders. The hem of her purple robes were decorated with images of the Magi bringing gifts to the Christ Child, and her white tunic underneath was bordered with bright colours of gold, red and green. She looked more like an imperial statue than a living person, and formed a shining contrast to her dumpy husband and the drab, almost apologetic figure of Belisarius.

  Further proof of the Emperor’s trust in his victorious general was soon forthcoming. He ordered gold medals to be struck, stamped with an image of himself on one side and Belisarius in full armour on the other. The pick of Belisarius’s Veterans and personal guards, including myself, were al
lowed to wear these medals tied to ribbons slung around our necks during the triumphal march.

  The triumph itself took place several weeks after the return of the fleet. It was the most splendid event I have ever witnessed or participated in, a dying echo of the glory of Ancient Rome.

  Belisarius marched on foot from the door of his villa, along the Mese towards the Hippodrome. The road was lined with exulting citizens, held back by lines of Excubitors in ceremonial uniform. I was one of a thousand guardsmen that marched in step behind the procession of Vandal prisoners and wagons piled high with Vandal treasure. There were also captured chariots and carriages made of pure gold, pulled by teams of horses. Pride of place was given to the Menorah and other items of sacred Jewish worship, taken by Genseric from the Church of Peace in Rome, and now restored to Rome’s heirs.

  How the Romans cheered for Belisarius, how they screamed and roared his name! Women and children threw bouquets of flowers at his feet as he strode down the Mese, priests loaded him down with blessings, and choirs of schoolboys and white-robed maidens sang his praises. He made for a brave figure, his armour painted gold for the occasion and sparkling in the brisk sunshine, his helmet with its stiff purple plume tucked underarm.

  Behind him was Gelimer. The Vandal king was clothed in purple, as was his nephew Euages. They walked at the head of the long line of Vandal captives. His brief conversation with Belisarius at Carthage had clearly made a deep impression on Gelimer, for as he walked he shrieked repeatedly:

  “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!”

  As he had feared, the Romans jeered and pelted him with insults and refuse. It mattered little, for his wits were gone. He leaned heavily on Euages as he walked, and several times stumbled and almost fell flat on his face.

  The pride and respect of the decimated Vandal royal line was invested entirely in his young nephew. I pitied the boy, who did his best to look unafraid, and hoped he would not be condemned to a life of gentle captivity.