“This is none of your affair, General,” she rasped, “you were summoned here as a mere formality. Step down.”
“I shall indeed step down,” he said, “if this brave and loyal officer is condemned without being given a chance to defend himself. I shall resign my commission and retire into private life.”
A gasp rippled around the chamber. Justinian sat bolt upright in his chair, and his mottled face turned a ghastly shade of grey.
“Resign?” he said in a strangled voice, “what in God’s name are you talking about? You would sacrifice your career for the sake of one man?”
Belisarius now indulged his own taste for the dramatic. “Yes,” he said, his words punctuated by a clang of iron as he allowed his helmet to fall to the floor, “but not just for his sake.”
He drew Caledfwlch and held it up before the assembled throng. “This is Crocea Mors, the sword wielded by Aeneas and Julius Caesar and said to be forged on Mount Olympus. Coel recovered it for us, at great risk to himself. How do we repay him for this service? By placing him on trial for his life. I will not stand for it.”
“I summon the shade of Scipio Africanus to witness this farce,” he roared. “He knew us Romans for what we are. Remember the words he had carved in his tomb. Ingrata patria, ne ossa quidem habebis. Ungrateful fatherland, you shall not even have my bones!”
A storm of voices rose in the chamber, some in protest, some in support, as Belisarius raised the sword high above his head and threw it at the Emperor’s feet.
Justinian had seconds to react to this challenge, and to mull over the consequences if Belisarius delivered on his threat to resign. The suspicions over Belisarius’s loyalty must have flared again in his mind. His all-conquering general was too popular to be punished. Much of the North African army had been disbanded, but there were still the Veterans, now swollen to seven thousand men, to be reckoned with. They were by far the largest body of troops in the city.
If Belisarius was using my trial as a pretext to rebellion, there was virtually nothing to stop him seizing the throne for himself. The people would acclaim him, and the city watch and the Excubitors stood little chance against the general’s battle-hardened troops.
I could see beads of sweat glistening on the Emperor’s forehead as his mind wrestled with all this. Theodora was glaring at him, but for once he paid her little heed.
He gestured at the tribune, who stamped his feet and bawled until he was puce for silence. Eventually he got it, and a sort of nervous calm rolled over the courtroom.
Justinian stood up. “Since you choose to turn Roman justice into a circus,” he said, looking hard at Belisarius, “then a circus you shall have. You demand that your officer be given a chance to defend himself. Very well. He shall have it.”
“I am advised that I cannot rely on the testimony of traitors,” he went on, “and there is something in that. I find that the accused cannot be acquitted or condemned on the evidence given. Since the law has failed to determine his guilt, the judgment must be submitted to God.”
I quailed, thinking he meant to turn me over to the Patriarch and his torturers for interrogation. Priests were said to observe little restraint when it came to wringing information out of people, perhaps because they believed Christ would redeem their actions.
“According to the law of God,” Justinian thundered, “no man who is false can defeat another who is true. I judge that the accused shall meet his accuser in single combat in the Hippodrome, a week from now. If Coel wins, then he shall be cleared of all charges and allowed to return to the army. His accusers shall be strangled before the imperial box. If Leo the Armenian wins, the lives of he and his accomplices shall be spared, and they shall be sent to serve in garrisons on the Persian frontier. Coel shall be executed in their stead and his body hung in an iron cage over the city gates, as an example and a warning to all who conspire against the throne.”
29.
The Emperor was a sophisticated man. He could not really have believed that God decided the fate of mortals in single combat. His real concern was to dispose of me as quickly as possible, and in such a way that would satisfy Belisarius. He needed the general more than ever. The Empire was threatened by enemies on all sides, and Justinian lived in constant fear of another popular uprising.
He calculated that a trial by combat would appeal to Belisarius’s martial soul. Staging it in the Hippodrome would also please the people. It would give them a public spectacle unknown since the church had outlawed gladiatorial combats, and sate their lust for blood.
He was right in both cases, though I tremble to think what Theodora had to say in private. Of all the men in Constantinople, I suspect only Justinian suffered more sleepless nights than myself during the week leading up to the combat.
I was taken under guard to the Hippodrome and held in one of the old store-rooms under the arena. Leo and his accomplices were kept in the palace, in the care of Theodora. In the mornings I was taken out and allowed to exercise for an hour or two in the arena, under the supervision of Belisarius and a troop of his Veterans.
Belisarius insisted on sparring with me, and so every morning I found myself engaging in mock combats with the conqueror of North Africa. He was easily the better swordsman, and gave me good advice as we fenced back and forth across the arena, the dull clashing of our wooden practice swords echoing through the empty stands.
“You need to move faster,” he remarked one morning as he herded me like a sheep, his sword stabbing at my chest and face with blinding speed, “not stand rooted to one spot. Pharas and his drill-instructors should have taught you better.”
We were stripped to the waist, the sweat rolling off us in waves. I could scarcely draw breath to reply, and waited for the inevitable moment when he knocked the sword from my hand and placed his against my throat.
“Dead,” he said with a grin, and let his sword drop, “fortunately, you won’t be fighting me. I had a good look at Leo. He’s at least twice your age, and as far as I know has never served in the army. Have you ever seen him use a sword?”
I gratefully accepted a cup of cold water from one of the Veterans. “Once or twice,” I replied, gulping it down, “but only with practice weapons like these, never in earnest. He trained as a charioteer.”
“Then you should find it easy enough to kill him,” said Belisarius, “I recommend you do it quickly, without fuss. A single thrust to the heart. The crowd will want you to draw it out, to hack him to pieces for their entertainment. Ignore them. The sooner Leo and his friends are dead, the better.”
One of his men passed him a towel, and he wiped the sweat from his face while I worked up the courage to speak.
“Thank you for defending me in court, sir,” I said awkwardly, “I would have been condemned otherwise. I have no way of repaying you.”
“There is no debt between us. That trial was a farce. I’ve never witnessed such a crude attempt at entrapment in my life.”
His eyes flickered briefly at his Veterans. I understood his meaning. There were spies everywhere, even among his guards, and he could not say too much.
“My own subalterns betrayed me in Africa,” he said quietly, “and bore false tales to the Emperor. The heart of the Empire is rotten with corruption. There is only one cure. A proper example must be made of traitors, in public. Kill Leo. Not just to save yourself, but all of us.”
Belisarius had promised to return Caledflwch to me on the morning of the combat, so I could use it in the arena. I felt confident that my task was a simple one, made simpler by the knowledge that I would have my grandfather’s sword to do it.
We had reckoned without Theodora. Aware that her champion was not up to the task of killing me in a straight fight, she allowed her husband no rest until he agreed to change the rules.
I learned of this from Belisarius on the fifth morning before the combat. “No sparring today,” he said as I was brought out into the sunlit arena, “there’s no point.”
“What do you me
an?” I asked. His long face was suited to grave expressions, and he had seldom looked graver.
“Last night the Emperor changed his mind, or rather the Empress changed it for him. Instead of a combat on foot, fought with swords and shields, you and Leo will compete in chariots. With javelins.”
I gaped at him. “Chariots? But that is absurd!”
“I know, but it gives your opponent more of a chance. He was a trainer for the Blues, is that not so?”
“Yes. One of the best. He taught me everything I know, including all the dirty tricks used during races.”
“Well, the Emperor has spoken, and there are only two days until the duel. It cannot be called off now. There would be riots in the streets, and I have no wish to lead Roman troops against Roman citizens a second time. You were a charioteer for a time. Can you beat him?”
I chewed my thumb-nail and thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” I admitted, “I was better than I pretended to be, but he was one of the best. And I am out of practice.”
“So is he, and there is little time for either of you to train. We must do what we can.”
Belisarius turned to his guards. “Fetch a sheaf of javelins,” he ordered, “and a straw target to set up in the arena.”
He also gave orders for one of the chariots to be brought out of storage, and a team of horses to be found.
Most of the beasts had been either slaughtered for meat or sold into private ownership after the Hippodrome was closed down. Belisarius’s men succeeded in tracking down two pairs owned by a retired doryphoroi turned horse-merchant, and after much bargaining persuaded him to part with them.
“Be thankful I am a rich man,” the general grumbled, “the old bastard charged me three or four times their actual worth.”
“Worth the money, sir,” I said, “it gives me an advantage that Leo doesn’t have.”
That was rather too optimistic. Leo had forgotten more about chariot-racing than I would ever know, and a day or two of practice wouldn’t do much to close the gap in skill between us.
Still, my spirits lifted as I watched a team of slaves drag out a dusty chariot from storage, and the horses placed in harness. The memory of my first race came flooding back to me - the Hippodrome packed with spectators, the venerable Emperor Anastasius standing up to salute their cheers, and the feel of the light wooden chariot shuddering under my feet as the spring-loaded gates flew open.
The roar of the crowd echoed faintly in my mind as I cautiously mounted the chariot brought out from storage.
“The rules are this,” said Belisarius, handing me a javelin, “you and Leo will each have three of these. One in your hands when the duel begins, the others held by attendants.”
I examined the javelin. It was a type of plumbata used by imperial infantry, a light throwing dart with a fletched iron tip weighted with lead. Plumbatae had replaced the heavier pila, used by the old Roman legions, since they had a longer range and were cheaper to produce.
Belisarius walked to a section of the track directly below the imperial box. “You will start here,” he called out, “with your chariots facing in opposite directions. When the Emperor gives the signal, you will go one way, Leo the other. At the point your chariots meet, you cast your javelins at each other.”
“Are we permitted armour?” I asked.
“Helmets and light mail. It would not do for the entertainment to be over too quickly. You must aim for Leo’s face.”
I nodded doubtfully. To control a chariot pulled by galloping horses was difficult enough with both hands. To do so with one, whilst bracing to throw a javelin at the same time, would be a severe test of skill and co-ordination.
“Assuming you do not kill or disable each other at the first pass,” Belisarius went on, “the attendants will throw you a second javelin here, when you reach the starting line. And a third, if necessary, though I doubt it will be. Even a handless cripple like you should have managed to hit the mark before then.”
He smiled, but I was in no mood for levity. “What happens if we survive all three passes?”
“Swords and shields. After all, one of you has to die. Leo will do his best to finish you off before it comes to that. I am confident that he won’t.”
Belisarius approached the chariot and stroked one of the horses. “Fine beasts,” he said, though in truth they were a pack of nervous, ageing brutes, “if only that old sword of yours could speak, eh? What glories it must have seen.”
I looked down at Caledfwlch. “God willing,” I said, “it will soon see the colour of Leo’s innards.”
Belisarius hesitated, and rubbed his long jaw. “Sentiment is often a fine thing,” he said, “but it has no place in a fight to the death. Leo is taller than you, and will be armed with a spatha. Crocea Mors is just a gladius. You are giving him the advantage of reach as well as height.”
He patted the hilt of the spatha he wore at his hip. “Use this instead,” he offered, “I have plenty of swords. One less makes no difference.”
There spoke the practical, level-headed soldier, but I had a streak of vanity and rashness in my soul, probably inherited from my mother.
I refused his offer. “Thank you, sir, but Caledfwlch once drank the blood of over nine hundred Saxon warriors in a single day. It will soon drink Leo’s.”
30.
I spent most of the night before the duel in prayer. Sleep was denied me. Every time I closed my eyes the old dreams that had plagued my youth rushed back, shadowy images of men locked in battle on some misted battlefield.
As before, the giant with the blazing eyes whom I knew to be my grandfather dominated the scene. Caledfwlch flashed like a deadly star in his hand. As he hacked men down the terrible sword grew brighter and brighter until it was too blinding to look upon.
I woke with a cry, my skin prickling with sweat. It was pitch-dark, but Arthur’s eyes seemed to hang in the night like a pair of burning coals.
Naked and trembling, I knelt on the stone cold floor and prayed for God to preserve me from the shade of my ancestor as well as Leo’s javelins. I felt certain that Arthur was watching me from whatever Otherworld his warlike soul dwelled in.
“You had your vengeance on my father,” I cried out, “must you hunt me as well? Amhar’s sin is not mine! Leave me be!”
There was no answer. I returned to my prayers until the cold was unbearable and I had to crawl back under the rough woollen blankets.
At last my exhausted mind sank into the deepest fathom of sleep. The next thing I knew the light of morning was shining through the bars of the narrow slit window, and a guardsman was shaking me awake.
“Time to go,” he grunted, and stood patiently while I rose and pulled on my tunic and braccae. When I was dressed he escorted me out into the corridor, where three other guardsmen were waiting. One wore the purple cloak and segmented armour of an officer. He held a sword-belt attached to the red leather scabbard Narses had given me. Inside the scabbard was Caledfwlch.
“General Belisarius said this was yours,” he said, handing me the sword, “make sure you use it well today. The general has taken a great risk in supporting you. If you fail, it reflects badly on his soldiers as well as him.”
“I heard that his wife didn’t like it,” remarked the guardsman who had woken me, “Antonina wants you dead for some reason. I wouldn’t like to have your enemies, Briton.”
The officer silenced him with a furious rebuke. I thanked him for returning Caledfwlch to me, and meekly allowed myself to be marched up the steps to the ground floor of the Hippodrome. The place was alive again, as it had been before the Nika riots, and the din of the people in the stands outside made the walls tremble.
“Filling up already,” I remarked.
“People have been queuing outside the gates since dawn,” said the officer, “I’ve seldom seen the like. The church might have outlawed the gladiatorial games, but it can’t outlaw the Roman spirit. We like blood. We demand blood. It’s in our nature.”
He
seemed extremely proud of this attribute, and strutted like a peacock as I was taken through the cluster of empty stables and storehouses behind the Starting Gates. My chariot was waiting under the arch of the central gate, and a team of slaves were wrestling the reluctant horses into their harness.
“Where is Belisarius?” I asked, disappointed. I had hoped he would be there to give me a few last words of encouragement.
The officer raised his eyebrows at me. “In the imperial box, of course. Where else? His place is by the Emperor’s side.”
He snapped his fingers, and two of the slaves came forward with a helmet and a shirt of light mail. I took the helmet and weighed it carefully in my hand. It was heavy, and made in an ancient style, with cheek-pieces and a protruding iron rim above the brow.
“The past has come to life,” said the officer as I donned the helmet and mail and buckled on Caledfwlch, “you look like an auxiliary from Julius Caesar’s time.”
“That suits me,” I replied, and startled him with a grin, “I carry his sword, after all.”
The horses were finally manoeuvred into place, though not before one of them stamped on a luckless slave’s foot and broke several of his toes. They were the same animals Belisarius had bought from the horse-merchant. It did nothing for my confidence to know they were ill-tempered as well as old and nervous.
I stepped into the chariot. A slave handed me the reins, and I had to close my eyes for a moment and take in a few deep breaths. It was years since I had last been at the Starting Gates, my pulse hammering with fear and excitement and my ears clanging with the din of a hundred thousand Roman voices. Fate had brought me back here, not to race, but to fight for my life against a man I loathed.
“I’m ready,” I said aloud to no-one in particular. Seconds later a majestic blast of trumpets sounded outside, briefly drowning out the crowd, and the officer gave word for the gates to be opened.
Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns Page 22
