Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  I gave the reins a twitch and stirred the horses into life. The chariot rattled out from under the gateway into the broad, sunlit expanse of the arena and a wall of noise that buffeted me with almost physical force.

  “Britannicus! Britannicus! Britannicus!”

  They had not forgotten that accursed name, or my exploits on behalf of the Blues. The wearing of team colours was forbidden since the Nika riots, but I glimpsed splashes of blue and green in the crowd, where people wore them in defiance of Justinian’s law. Sport is tribal in nature, and its loyalties and rivalries are even harder to stamp out than religion.

  I looked for my opponent and saw his chariot emerging from the furthest gate to my left. Like me, he wore chain mail, but carried his helmet underarm so the crowd might see his face better.

  If Leo hoped they would cheer him, he was disappointed. His failed rebellion had brought too much death and misery to the city, and most of his friends and supporters were either dead or scattered. Boos and jeers sounded throughout the Hippodrome, though his critics wasted their breath. It would take more than angry voices to penetrate his iron self-regard. I fingered the hilt of Caledfwlch and reflected that I had just the tool for the job.

  I guided my chariot at a steady trot to the imperial box, where the Emperor sat surrounded by his family, courtiers and personal guard. For once Justinian was not outshone by his wife. He was a picture of imperial glory, in robes of purple and gold and a light silver crown on his brow. He also wore an imperial scowl. I guessed that he would much rather be somewhere else, poring over his legal reforms or overseeing the construction of his darling church.

  The chants of “Caesar!” resounded through the Hippodrome as he stood and raised his left hand in the time-honoured salute to those who were about to slaughter each other in the name of public entertainment. Leo and I saluted in response, while I ran my eye over the others in the box.

  Belisarius sat to the left of the Emperor, with Antonina beside him. He looked pensive, as he often did in his domineering wife’s presence. Theodora was seated to the right of her husband, freshly-painted and richly-dressed and wearing her most regal expression.

  Underneath she must have been seething with frustrated spite and bloodlust, and eager to see my guts spilled in the arena. Narses and the rest of the courtly rabble were obliged to stand at a respectable distance behind the Emperor’s chair.

  Justinian muttered something to the steward, who gestured to a line of musicians standing at the foot of the imperial box. They blew a shrill fanfare on their bucinae, which was the signal for us to turn our chariots and drive to the starting line.

  Until now I had not so much as exchanged a glance with Leo. Our eyes met, and he said something that I couldn’t hear above the roar of the crowd. In return I sent him the curses of the Gods. The insolent bastard winked and blew me a kiss, which earned him a few cheers from the stands.

  Theodora had made sure he was well-equipped. His chariot shone with fresh black and gold paint, and his horses were muscular, high-stepping thoroughbreds. They wore purple plumes on their brows, a blatant sign of the Empress’s favour.

  We took up our positions at the starting line, which was marked out in white paint. Two soldiers stood either side of the track. They each held three plumbatae, and handed one apiece to myself and Leo. I tucked mine into my belt, so I had one hand for the reins and another for my whip.

  Relative silence fell over the Hippodrome as the Emperor rose from his seat again. He held aloft a white baton instead of the usual cloth.

  My senses seemed to heighten as I waited for it to fall. In those brief seconds I noted the dull, heavy look in Theodora’s eyes, and a scratch-mark on Justinian’s cheek. Domestic strife, thought I, and then the baton came down.

  The roar of the crowd burst the heavens as I whipped my horses into action. All my old training took over as they surged into a gallop. The barrage of thousands of Roman voices faded to a dull, meaningless buzzing in my ears. The light body of the chariot bounced and shuddered beneath me, and I had to concentrate to keep my balance.

  I plied the whip a little a more, but speed was not important here. As the chariot rounded the first curve, I shifted the reins to my left hand, thrust the whip into my belt and withdrew the plumbata. I carefully weighed the savage little dart and drew it back ready to throw. The Heruli had trained me in their use. Now it seemed that the long hours on the drill-yard outside Constantinople were about to come to fruition.

  Leo’s chariot came in view when I reached the straight. His horses were going at a hell of a pace, and he was still plying the whip on them until our chariots were less than twenty feet from each other. A born showman, he placed his reins between his teeth, took out his dart and cast it at me, all in one smooth movement.

  I was partially blinded by the sun and almost too late to duck as the slender missile arced towards my head. The iron tip struck my helmet with an almighty clang, just an inch or so above my left eye. It spun away harmlessly, and in sheer panicked reaction I cast my own dart as Leo’s chariot thundered past.

  My throw was wild and hopelessly wide of the target. I knew Pharas was in the stands, and imagined him cursing my shameful lack of nerve and accuracy. It could not be helped, and I had enjoyed a fortunate escape. Taking out my whip again, I flogged my horses to try and reach the line and gather the second plumbata before Leo.

  He was a better charioteer, and his horses were superior to mine. His chariot was racing across the line while mine was still entering the straight, and I had to steel myself to drive straight at him and hope his aim was as poor as mine.

  Leo must have had ice in his veins. His throw was strong and precise, and I only avoided the worst by hurling myself to one side. The lead-weighted dart hit my breast and stuck fast in the links of my mail, but failed to penetrate.

  I tried to right myself before the chariot overturned. Too late I saw Leo’s whip arm come up – he had placed his reins in his mouth again – and the knotted leather flails slicing at my face. I managed to turn my head aside in time, so they scored against the cheek-piece of my helmet, but the impact was enough to make me lose my footing. My fingers were jerked loose from the reins, and I tumbled backwards into thin air.

  I twisted as I fell and landed badly on my right arm. A hot tingling sensation spread from my elbow to my shoulder. There was no pain, not at first, but a wave of terror and despair hit me when I struggled to my feet and tried to flex the fingers of my right hand. They refused to move. My elbow was splintered, and my forearm and hand hung limp and useless.

  Leo could have finished me with off his third dart, or simply had his horses gallop over me, but I was saved by his vanity. While I clumsily tugged out Caledflwch with my left hand, he brought his chariot to a halt and slowly stepped out of it, raising his arms to draw the acclaim of the fickle crowd.

  His part in the riots was forgotten now. The Romans thought they had a new champion, and cheered themselves hoarse as he drew his spatha and advanced towards me. He wanted to kill me on my own terms, in single combat, to prove himself the better swordsman as well as charioteer. The better man.

  I backed away from him, willing myself to ignore the triumphant smirk on his face and concentrate on his movement. He made a sudden rush, raising his sword double-handed above his head, and chopped at my shoulder.

  The blow was slow and amateurish. I avoided it easily, and had my right arm been whole I could have stabbed at his throat. As it was, I had to back away and look to get on his blind side. He was right-handed and had no idea how to defend himself. Whether that was down to lack of training and experience or overconfidence, I cannot say, but it gave me my best chance.

  Leo chopped again at my upper body, trying to beat me down with the heavy edge of his spatha. I caught his blade on Caledfwlch, turned it away with a roll of my wrist and backed away again, unwilling to risk a thrust with my weaker left hand. He spat at my apparent cowardice and came in at a run, this time thrusting his sword like a spear
at my leg.

  I let him come, deliberately exposing my flank. At the last moment I stepped aside, let the blade slide past and pinned his wrist with my arm. His sword-hand was now trapped between my hip and forearm, and I took the opportunity to butt him in the face with the protruding ridge of my helmet.

  Leo was no stranger to street-fighting. White-hot agony shrieked through my genitals and lower abdomen as he brought his kneecap up into my groin.

  The pain was almost enough to make me vomit. I released him and staggered backwards. Through a mist of tears I saw his nose now resembled a burst tomato, and blood drooling from his mouth. He must have accidentally bitten his tongue when I butted him.

  His eyes were full of wild rage. He came at me again like a bull, his spatha raised to chop me clean in half. Sheer terror overrode the pain in my groin. I lurched sideways to avoid the blow, felt the wind as the long blade whipped inches past, and tried to stab Leo’s exposed flank. The thrust was feeble and awkward, and Caledfwlch scraped harmlessly against his mail. His spatha whirled at my head. I ducked and received his knee again, this time to the underside of my jaw.

  I grunted, and felt teeth crunch and splinter as I fell onto my back. Leo loomed above me like the shadow of an avenging spirit, his spatha raised in both hands to plunge down into my gut.

  The Heruli had taught me never to give up a fight as lost, even if I was on my back in the dirt. I kicked out with both legs, a move Pharas had shown me, and swept his left leg from under him.

  Leo fell on top of me. His face smacked into mine, and for a moment we struggled in an obscene parody of a lover’s embrace. I tasted his blood on my lips. His screams were dreadful to hear, the more so for being so close, and my left hand and wrist were suddenly warm and soaking.

  He bucked and shuddered and went still. His mouth gaped wide in a silent howl, his eyes stared at nothing. I looked down and saw he had impaled himself on Caledflwch, which I had held upright when he fell. The sword had burst through the links of Leo’s mail and drilled through the layers of wool and flesh beneath. Its bloody tip protruded from his back.

  With a final burst of strength I rolled his dead weight off me. The fight had probably lasted less than a minute, but it seemed like hours since I had tumbled from my chariot. I had forgotten all about the arena and the crowd.

  Reality came flooding back as the Hippodrome erupted in wild applause. The Romans had wanted to see blood. They had got it, and now rose in acclamation of the supplier. I looked to the imperial box, and saw Belisarius rise from his seat.

  He pointed at me and mouthed my name. Not the false name attributed to me by Theodora, but the name my parents gave me. My true name. The crowd took up his shout. It spread like fire through the stands.

  “Coel! Coel! Coel!”

  I felt sick and weary. My legs shook, and it took a huge effort of will to remain standing. Caledfwlch was still buried inside Leo, its blood-spattered hilt standing upright and gleaming in the warm sun.

  “Coel! Coel! Coel!”

  Behind the shouts of the Romans I thought I heard the triumphant shouts of British warriors. They were chanting my grandfather’s name on the slopes of Mount Badon. Somewhere in Heaven or Hell or the Otherworld, Arthur’s grim countenance broke into a smile of approval.

  I was free of him at last.

  Book Two: Caesar’s Sword:

  Siege of Rome

  David Pilling

  Prologue

  Abbaye de Rhuys, Brittany, 570 AD

  The glory of Britain is dead. News has reached our monastery of a battle fought in the west of the island, not far from the scene of Arthur’s great victory at Mount Badon.

  On this occasion it has pleased God to allow the Saxons the victory. No less than three British kings were left dead on the field, their blood mingled with that of five thousand British warriors.

  The Saxons, they say, attacked at dawn, while the Britons were still wallowing in their beds. In their arrogance and complacency, our kings did not think to post any guards.

  Now the whole of western Britain lies open to the invaders. Our crops shall fill pagan bellies. Fire and sword shall consume our undefended towns. Woe to the people! God have mercy on them, who shall now be conquered and enslaved.

  My fires are not all burned out. A flicker of life yet courses through these withered veins, and the incompetence of those charged with guarding the land of my birth fills me with as much rage as sorrow.

  It is the custom of old men to decry the state of the world as it is now, and to recall with misty-eyed fondness the glories of their youth. I am reluctant to follow the same path, but the fact remains that Britain is degenerate, and her warriors a pale shadow of their forefathers. Would Arthur, my mighty grandsire, have been caught with his breeches down by a pack of yelping Saxons? Would any of his captains, proud Cei or matchless Bedwyr?

  Perhaps I pay too much heed to legend. I never knew my grandsire or any of his men. Their bones lie mouldering in the soil of a dozen battlefields. No more shall Arthur’s legion ride forth from Caerleon under the dragon banner, to strike terror and a kind of awed respect into Britain’s foes.

  Nor have I set eyes on Britain since my early childhood, save a glimpse of its green shores across the sea on clear days. My fate was to serve in distant lands under a foreign chief. His name was Flavius Belisarius. The Pillar of the East, as the Romans called him, a man every bit as great as Arthur.

  It is the fate of great men to be betrayed. Arthur was betrayed, and so was Belisarius. How I have wept and prayed for their souls. Foolish, helpless, driveling old man that I am, eking out my declining years in this cramped little cell. Of all the afflictions Gods sends to test His creation, old age is the worst.

  I can dimly recall a better time. In my mind’s eye I see the city of Rome, restored to something like her former grandeur. The Eternal City, ancient capital of the greatest empire the world has ever known.

  And yet she is threatened. Her walls encompassed by a hundred and fifty thousand baying Goths, while scarcely a tenth that number of Romans hurl defiance at them from the ramparts.

  I see Belisarius, our golden general, snatching a bow from one of his archers and putting an arrow through the gullet of a Gothic chief.

  “Courage, Romans!” he cried above the approving roars of his men, “have no fear of these barbarians. Maintain your trust in God, cast your javelins and spears down on their heads, and you shall see them run.”

  The defence of Rome was his greatest exploit. Who else could have held her against overwhelming numbers of Goths, while the cowardly citizens threatened to stab him in the back at any moment, and his own troops whined and begged to go home?

  Who else could have broken my heart so completely? Even now, after the passage of thirty years, the wound has not healed.

  I see the general on his white-faced bay, racing across the plain by the banks of the Tiber at the head of his guards. Six times his number of Gothic cavalry stand between us and the gates of Rome.

  “That is Belisarius! Kill the bay!”

  The cry erupts from pagan throats. They charge. The sky darkens with steel-tipped rain. Spears, arrows and javelins hammer against my shield. We close around the general. He must be protected at all costs. Without him, our army is a rag-bag of mercenaries and conscripts. With him, we are the Roman legions reborn.

  My hand closes around the hilt of Caledfwlch: the sword that Arthur held aloft at Mount Badon and buried in Medraut’s guts at Camlann. Julius Caesar’s sword, also known as The Red Death, forged by the gods on Mount Olympus.

  The sword flames into life. The triumphant war-shouts of the enemy turn to fear and dismay. We are among them. Their guttural voices ring in my ears. Their hot blood whets my grandsire’s blade.

  Better times. I shall take a little wine, and then take up my pen again to write of Belisarius’ greatest victory.

  My greatest defeat.

  1.

  It took me three weeks to recover from the fight in the Hip
podrome. I had killed Leo, the traitor and ex-charioteer, but he left me with a broken arm and a fractured jaw.

  Belisarius had his guards carry from the arena. The crowd was still chanting my name as they laid me on a stretcher. Delirious with pain, I flickered in and out of consciousness, barely aware of my surroundings. The taste of victory was in my mouth, along with the salt tang of blood.

  They carried me through the empty streets to a sanatorium not far from Belisarius’ house. He could not shelter me in his own house, for that would have been perceived as a deliberate insult to the Empress Theodora. It was public knowledge that she wanted me dead, and had sponsored Leo as her champion. His death at my hands was a serious defeat for her, and one she would thirst to avenge.

  Belisarius appreciated the danger I was in. He posted six of his men to watch over me while I recovered. They were Huns, brawny mercenaries from Scythia, and he put his trust in them over our own people. Theodora’s influence spread like an ever-expanding net over the city. There were few among the citizens she could not bribe, threaten or manipulate into doing her will.

  Towards the end of my recuperation, the general visited me in person. He came at night, hooded and cloaked, and alone.

  I woke from an uneasy sleep to find his narrow features staring down at me. Hollow-cheeked and balding, he still looked more like a priest than a soldier, though his wiry, meatless frame possessed enormous strength and skill at arms. The flame of the tallow candle next my bed reflected in the pits of his large, expressive eyes.

  “General,” I croaked, endeavoring to sit up, but he placed his hand against my chest and gently pressed me back against the pillows.

  “Conserve your strength,” he said, “you will need it soon enough. Are you mending? How is your arm?”

  I cautiously tried to bend my right arm, which until the previous morning had been held straight in a splint. Leo had broken my elbow during the fight in the arena.