Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  I groaned, and the heavy iron fetters on my ankles clanked as I turned to look away from her.

  “Coel,” said Elene, “I will not waste time. We have a son. His life is in danger.”

  This second blow, so soon after the first, was intended to break me. I reluctantly turned my head to look into her eyes. I read nothing but fear in their depths, and knew she lied.

  “A son,” I repeated. “If he is mine, he must be eleven or twelve by now. A strong boy?”

  She smiled. “Yes. Strong and handsome, like his father. His name is Arthur.”

  I could not help but laugh. A hollow, bitter sound, and quickly smothered by the dead air of the cell.

  “I thought I owed you that,” she added hastily, “naming him after your grandfather was a way to honour you ease my conscience. I am sorry I ran away.”

  “Theodora must be desperate for ideas,” I said, “and she was mistaken to send a dancer to do the work of an actress. There is no son, Elene. You are lying.”

  I leaned forward. “You have been coerced into this. I know Theodora’s ways. How did she find you? How much money did she offer you?”

  Elene stuck gamely to her role. “You must plead guilty at the trial, Coel,” she said. “Otherwise Theodora will kill Arthur. She will have him strangled in front of me.”

  I snorted, and then Elene was on her knees beside me, pawing at me, tears welling up and streaming down her sallow cheeks. “I swear, on my life, on my immortal soul, it is true!” she cried. “The boy lives, and the Empress has threatened to put him to death if I cannot persuade you to plead guilty! You say you know her ways. Then you will know she delivers on her threats.”

  I would not listen, and turned my face to the wall while Elene babbled on. She tried to convince me of Arthur’s existence by listing his physical characteristics, his fondness for dogs and horses, his pretty manners, and other such rubbish. It was painful to hear, but not enough to break down my gates.

  In the end Elene’s temper broke. She railed at me, calling me merciless and unnatural and self-serving, an unfeeling devil rather than a man, who would happily save himself rather than his son. There was something behind her fury, and genuine fear, but still I knew she was a liar.

  When the storm had blown itself out, she sat on the edge of the bench and cried. Her hopeless weeping reminded me of my mother’s despair, on the night Clothaire announced he meant to sell us into slavery. I allowed room for a little pity, and reached out to touch her shoulder.

  Elene shrugged me off. “Where have you been, all these long years?” I asked. “Why did you never come back?”

  She turned her face to mine. Her eyes were wet and red-rimmed. “I am the Empress’s plaything,” she whispered, “her servant in all things, and have been since she came to the throne. Like many others, I go where she bids me, and do what she bids me. That is why I did not come back. To protect you.”

  Another lie. She was a hopeless liar, but I let it pass. “I sometimes wonder if the entire city is in her thrall,” I said, staring at the backs of my hands, “everyone, from the Emperor downward, seems terrified of her. Belisarius is the exception, but he is terrified of his wife, and she is Theodora’s creature.”

  Elene wasn’t listening. She wept a little more, and her pathetic choking sobs were unbearable to hear. If she had pleaded again, I doubt I could have withstood it.

  Fortunately, she still retained a flicker of her old pride, and this saved me from the scaffold. Wiping her eyes, she stood up and looked down on me with a mixture of scorn, hatred, and (I like to think) a tinge of regret.

  “I will leave you the candle,” she said. “You have need of some light on here. Watch the flame as it dwindles to nothing, and think of me.”

  She turned to leave, but there was something I needed to know. “Do you really have a son?” I asked.

  Elene hesitated before rapping her fist on the door to summon the guard.

  “Yes,” she replied, “but he is not yours. I have been married to a good man for five years.”

  That hurt me more than anything. Even though it was naive, I had always nursed the faint hope that Elene would one day return to me. The certain knowledge that she had married another, and borne him the son that should have been mine, was like an invisible blade passing under my ribs.

  “Now I have failed to break you,” she added in a hard voice, drained of emotion, “Theodora will punish me by killing them both. Goodbye, Coel.”

  She rapped on the door. A moment later there was the sound of keys rustling in the lock.

  “What is the boy’s name?” I asked.

  “I told you. Arthur.”

  Then she was gone, and the prison door slammed behind her. The echoes took a long time to die away.

  I languished alone in my prison until it was finally time for my trial. The door rumbled open, and a troop of Excubitors marched into my cell. They unfastened the fetters on my ankles, placed fresh ones on my wrists, and dragged me out into sunlight and fresh air.

  News of the treason trial had spread throughout the city, though the details of it were obscure to most folk outside the palace. The prospect of scandal and an execution was enough to cause a ripple of excitement, and the Mese was lined with spectators as I was marched to the Praetorium. Many recognised me as the former charioteer turned soldier who had briefly gained the favour of General Belisarius, and a few ironic cries of “Britannicus!” followed me down the street.

  Not one voice was lifted in protest on my behalf. The Romans are a ruthless people. Their sentiment can quickly turn to spite, and they will happily see yesterday’s hero hanged for the sake of entertainment.

  The Praetorium was originally built to accommodate soldiers. It was still a formidable building, three floors high and protected by an exterior wall and strong gates. A double line of Excubitors guarded the gates. The Emperor himself was inside, and the imperial standard fluttered over the gatehouse.

  All this for me, I thought, and allowed myself a little smile in the midst of despair.

  More soldiers were drawn up inside the courtyard. They stood stiff and silently to attention, their polished helmets and chain mail shining in the bright morning sun. I was taken past them, into the main entrance of the central building, a square block with thick walls and divided into government departments.

  The courtroom was an airy, vaulted chamber on the ground floor, big enough to accommodate the senators, justices and assorted officials who would preside over my trial. Long benches lined the walls for all these worthy souls to sit upon and argue, while one end of the chamber was taken up by a wooden platform for the Emperor and his consort. The public were excluded, and the doors guarded by more grim-faced Excubitors.

  I could hear the buzz of voices before I entered the chamber, and was strangely gratified when it ceased and scores of faces turned to look at me. The sin of pride is one of the many flaws in my character, and I have always taken a guilty pleasure in being the focus of attention.

  The Emperor sat on a carved wooden throne. My first thought was that he looked more like an ageing cherub than ever. He also looked bored, and drummed his fingers impatiently as the tribune of the court, a tall, imposing figure in full military regalia, stepped forward to the edge of the dais.

  “Bring forth the accused,” he barked, and motioned at my guards. They seized my arms and pushed me into the middle of the floor, where I was made to face the Emperor.

  All the great ones of the city were present. Theodora sat on a throne to the right of her husband, her face taut and emotionless under an unusually thick layer of powder and paint. The thin, saturnine figure of John of Cappadocia stood next to her. It did me no good to recall that he was rumoured to have imprisoned many of his political enemies in dungeons under the Praetorium, where he tortured and abused them as the whim took him.

  I looked for support, and saw Narses seated on one of the benches to my left among a gaggle of senators. He briefly met my eye and gave a sort of one-shouldered s
hrug, the meaning of which was clear: shift for yourself.

  My dying hopes were restored a little when I saw Belisarius. He stood by himself in a corner, a lonely and isolated figure, clad in drab fatigues and with a battered helmet tucked under his arm. His appearance made for a stark contrast to the military splendour of the Excubitors. I suspect it was deliberate. Here I stand, Belisarius silently proclaimed, the plain, unaffected soldier. Trust in me.

  My heart leaped as I saw Caledfwlch strapped to his hip. Narses must have given it to him. I allowed myself to believe that the pair of them had cooked up some scheme to save me.

  Belisarius nodded curtly at me, and returned to his intense study of the floor.

  “Silence,” boomed the tribune, though the chamber was already silent, “silence for the conqueror of the Vandals and of Africa, the Pious, Happy and Illustrious, Victorious and Triumphant Justinian, Emperor of the Romans!”

  Having pronounced these absurd and vainglorious epithets, he stepped aside so that all eyes might rest on the Emperor. Justinian stifled a little yawn and cleared his throat.

  “Senators, lawyers, and other distinguished men of Rome,” he said, “I have many important affairs of state to attend to. This is not one of them, so let us be done with it quickly. I am given to understand that this man standing before us...”

  He paused. “Remind me of his name,” he said irritably.

  One of the clerks of the court shot to his feet. “Coel,” he squeaked.

  “Britannicus,” said another at almost exactly the same time.

  Justinian glared at them both. “Coel, Britannicus, which is it?” he demanded, “I can’t try the wretched man if I don’t know his name.”

  “His name is Coel,” said Theodora in a flat and lifeless monotone, “Britannicus is a name I gave him, long ago.”

  “Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur,” I said, louder than intended. I stood a little straighter, despite the weight of my manacles, and shrugged off my fear.

  It was surprisingly easy. My contempt for most of the people in the room helped: the vain little Emperor, clothing himself in borrowed glory; his cruel, degraded consort; the mob of self-serving politicos and pinch-faced lawyers. They were all vermin, fighting for their place on the dungheap of the Empire. Only Belisarius stood apart, and even he was tainted by association.

  “That’s a noise, not a name,” Justinian grumbled, “still, let’s proceed. Bring in the accuser.”

  The tribune bellowed out a summons, and three men appeared in the doorway. Two were Excubitors, and the third was Leo.

  I drew in a sharp intake of breath. He had aged in the year since I had last seen him. His black hair was now white as snow, and his roughly handsome face marked by deep lines of suffering and privation. His body had lost none of its wiry muscularity, though, and he still carried himself with the same insufferable arrogance and damn-you air.

  Like me, his wrists were bound by iron manacles, but he swaggered into the courtroom as though he owned it. His guards marched close behind him, and behind them filed a wretched group of men in torn and soiled rags. They were also manacled, and their ankles tied together by lengths of chain.

  Some of my old fear returned as I recognised them as men I had known in the Hippodrome. One was Rufinus, the senior overseer of the Greens who had stood beside Leo in the Hippodrome and exhorted the rioters to burn Constantinople.

  I glanced at Theodora, but she was far too subtle to allow any look of understanding to pass between her and Leo. Like the consummate actress she was, she maintained her stony expression, a mask of aloof and impartial judgment.

  Leo took his place beside me without even acknowledging my presence. My wrists itched with the desire to swing my manacles at his head and dash his treacherous brains all over the floor, but one of the Excubitors stepped between us.

  Rufinus and the other men were made to stand behind us. I could feel their venomous glares boring into the back of my head.

  “Now,” said Justinian when all was quiet again, “I am informed that this man Leo, known as Leo the Armenian, was one of the chief agitators of the riots that afflicted our city, and threatened our person, last summer. Those wretches behind him were his accomplices. Since then they have been in hiding, and only recently gave themselves up on the promise of safe-conduct.”

  He glanced anxiously at Theodora. “That is correct, Caesar,” she said. “By their own admission they are all guilty of conspiracy and treason. They surrendered to my mercy, on the pledge that their sentences might be reduced to exile or military service.”

  “Why should I spare their lives?” asked Justinian.

  “On the grounds that they have identified one who was as great a traitor as they. One who has not only escaped punishment but achieved officer rank in the army. They accuse Coel of conspiring with them to murder you, Caesar, and replace you with the late Senator Hypatius.”

  The Emperor had clearly been well-drilled before the trial by his wife, and was merely going through the motions, but still he looked uncomfortable. The situation was most irregular, and when Theodora had finished speaking a buzz of discord rose from the packed benches.

  One of the senators rose to his feet, a magnificent creature, grey-haired and gorgeously dressed, and so smoothly fat I half-expected him to roll away.

  “These men are condemned out of their own mouths,” he cried, pointing an accusing finger at Leo and his cronies, “as such they are in no position to accuse others. Why should we put faith in the testimony of criminals who sought to bring down the state?”

  There was a low murmur of agreement, though it quickly died away as Theodora swept the benches with her basilisk eyes.

  “I have heard their testimonies in private, and am satisfied as to their validity,” she said, “does anyone here question my judgment?”

  That was a direct challenge, and my low opinion of everyone present was only confirmed by the silence that rolled over the chamber. Even the obese senator was cowed, and resumed his seat. I looked to Belisarius, but his eyes remained fixed on the floor, his mind apparently elsewhere.

  “Let each of them come forward,” said Justinian, “and say before us what they said to my wife. Leo the Armenian, you first.”

  Leo stepped forward with a smirk, gave a brief duck of his head in respect to the Emperor, and launched into a tirade of appalling lies. To hear him, it was I who had first hatched the plot to depose the Emperor, I who had organised the temporary alliance between the Blues and the Greens, I who had permitted, even encouraged, the plundering of the homes of innocent citizens…the list of charges went on and on, spoken with eloquent conviction by a man who had (I suspect) been assured of Theodora’s protection.

  When Leo was done, Rufinus was called forward to support his lies, followed by the others. As I studied their haggard, unshaven faces, I realised that none had ever been my friends, but nor had I counted them as enemies. I was merely a convenient scapegoat, whom they meant to use to save their own unworthy skins.

  While they stepped forward, one by one, to speak against me, I tried frantically to think of a way out. I thought of falling back on the physical evidence of torture, of dramatically tearing off my tunic to reveal the half-healed burns on my back. To accuse the Empress of torturing me was an enormous risk, and would only succeed if Narses spoke up as a witness to it.

  That was a futile hope. Narses had already indicated that he would give me no support. I couldn’t be certain if Theodora had bought his silence, but it seemed likely. Added to that, the Emperor’s boredom was clearly mounting. If I accused his beloved wife of anything improper, he might make a show of indignant rage and have me condemned as a simple means of bringing the trial to an end.

  When the last of the false witnesses had spoken, a senator asked that they be cross-examined by the court. Justinian quashed that with a growl that he wasn’t going to sit and listen to interminable hours of interrogation.

  “It’s almost time for lunch,” he added, patting his round bell
y, “I had hoped for an end to this business before I ate. Is there any physical evidence of this man’s guilt to go with the verbal testimony?”

  “None, Caesar,” replied Leo, “save the damage done to your noble city. The scars left by the riots shall take time to heal.”

  “As you should know, since you helped to inflict them,” said Justinian with a scowl, “I don’t like your manner, Armenian. I don’t like your face either. If the accused is found guilty, you shall be sent to fight Rome’s enemies somewhere far away. Very far away indeed, very hot and very dangerous.”

  “If there is to be no cross-examination, the judgment is submitted to you, Caesar,” said Theodora. I detected a slight note of triumph in her voice, and saw her slender hands curl tighter about the arms of her chair.

  The Emperor hesitated, and tugged at his lower lip. He was an intelligent man, and must have appreciated that his wife was twisting and bypassing Roman law for base purposes of revenge. He had recently completed his compilation and re-codification of Roman law, destined to be his most enduring work.

  As a result Justinian now enjoyed a reputation as a great law-giver. If he allowed me to be convicted of treason, based on the slanderous allegations of a pack of self-confessed traitors, he risked destroying that reputation.

  If there was one thing the Emperor valued, it was his reputation. He was aware that posterity would judge him, and determined to go down in the annals of history as a great man and a great ruler, fit to be counted among the greatest of Caesars. Hence the ridiculous and self-serving titles he gave himself.

  On the other hand, his domestic life would be Hell itself if he didn’t give Theodora what she wanted. I could see him weighing all this up as he stroked his chin and studied myself and Leo.

  Belisarius chose this moment to intervene. “This trial is absurd,” he said, “the senator was right. There can be no just conviction on the evidence presented.”

  He spoke quietly, but his calm, authoritative voice filled the room. I found it difficult to suppress a grin as I watched the Emperor go red in the face, and Theodora’s mask of white paint crack into an angry frown.