For the first time in weeks I laughed. The effort hurt my jaw, but I was glad of something to lift the clouds gathering over my head.
Belisarius and Mundus spent the next hour discussing the war. I listened avidly.
Justinian had hatched a plan whereby the Romans would attack Italy on two fronts. Mundus would lead the army west and invade Dalmatia, which was held by the Goths, hoping to leech the strength of the enemy by forcing them to defend their eastern province. Meanwhile Belisarius and the Roman fleet would sail south-west, officially to reinforce the Roman garrisons in Africa, but in fact to seize the island of Sicily.
“Sicily will be our stepping-stone to the Italian mainland,” said Belisarius, “our forces shall be likened unto a spear, thrust into her soft underbelly.”
He grinned at my expression. “Well, that is how the Emperor put it. He is something of a poet, and can turn a decent phrase on occasion.”
“What do you make of our plan?” he asked, again watching me closely. I seemed to fascinate these Romans, who regarded me as a relic from some distant world. Their forefathers had lost control of Britain generations ago, and I sometimes wondered if my presence served as a reminder – not always a welcome one – of the diminished Empire’s glorious past.
I pondered before answering. By now I was well into my third cup of wine, but even the heady glow of alcohol failed to fill me with optimism.
“If you can conquer North Africa with a mere fifteen thousand men, sir,” I said carefully, “then you can certainly repeat the feat elsewhere.”
“A shame, then,” said Belisarius, “that I won’t have fifteen thousand men. The Emperor has given me no more than twelve thousand for the task. Four thousand foederati troops, three thousand Isaurians, some Hunnish and Moorish cavalry, and my bucelarii.”
My spirits sank. How many warriors could the King of the Goths muster – forty, fifty thousand? And he could call on the support of his kin in Frankia, Hispania and Germania. If I was of a paranoid disposition, I might have suspected the Emperor of deliberately sending Belisarius to his death.
Yet my only chance of survival was to accompany this suicide mission. With the likes of Narses and Theodora for enemies, my life in Constantinople was not worth a straw.
“Twelve thousand men,” I said, “and one Briton.”
3.
It took months to re-assemble the imperial fleet, and muster armies for the invasion of Dalmatia and Sicily. Spring passed into summer, and all that time I was kept under guard at Belisarius’ house. He had taken a great risk in moving me from the sanatorium, and only done so because I was no longer safe there.
“Not even Theodora’s assassins,” he assured me, “would think of trying to force entry into my house. Not, at least, while I stand high in the favour of the Emperor.”
That favour depended on continued military success. Justinian was a fickle creature, and susceptible to the whispered asides of his courtiers. He was already envious of his general’s exploits in Syria and Africa, and for a time entertained suspicions that Belisarius meant to sever ties with the Empire and declare himself King of an independent African province. Only Belisarius’ speed in returning to Constantinople and protesting his innocence had cleared him of the taint of treason.
For now, with the laurels of recent victories still fresh on his brow, Belisarius was all but untouchable. Even so, he was not fool enough to presume on his current popularity, and made efforts to deter Theodora’s agents. The six Huns who protected me during my convalescence remained at their posts at the sanatorium, guarding an empty room. Meanwhile I was ordered to remain indoors at all times in his house.
This suited me for the time, for I was still weak from my injuries. Belisarius treated me well, and I enjoyed the best of rations from his kitchen. He employed a master-at-arms to spar with me, until my confidence returned and my right arm had regained its strength.
The general himself was often absent, either at the palace or overseeing preparations for war. As before the African campaign, he was drilling his troops on the plains outside the city walls, while the fleet that carried us home was being re-fitted in the harbour of the Golden Horn.
A similar number of ships were needed to take the army to Sicily, transports and dromons for the most part, along with a few galleys. I pictured the feverish bustle of activity in the harbour, hundreds of hired Egyptian and Syrian sailors and engineers toiling in the summer sun, and groaned at the prospect of another sea-voyage. I was a wretched sailor, a martyr to sea-sickness, and had barely survived the journey to Africa.
The long days of rest and inactivity did nothing to ease my mind. Fears gnawed at me in the evenings, when shadows crept slowly through the gaps of the shuttered windows and oiled into my bedchamber. I was acutely aware that only the friendship of Belisarius stood between me and destruction. He was an honourable man, but had his weaknesses, chiefly his slavish adoration of Antonina.
Antonina had tried to seduce me in Carthage, as part of a foul plot to disgrace me in the eyes of her husband. I resisted her, but had lived in terror since that she might feed some twisted version of the incident to Belisarius, claiming that I had tried to force myself on her. So far that particular axe had not fallen, but remained suspended over my neck.
I sat and sweated in the growing darkness. Caledfwlch was my only comfort. I often hugged the blade to my chest, as though willing its hard-forged steel into my quaking soul. Sometimes I thought I could hear the screams of all its victims down the centuries, and pictured the hell of Mount Badon, where my grandsire personally laid low hundreds of Saxons in a single charge.
My ordeal ended in the dying days of summer. Belisarius came to his house one evening, exhausted from his labours, and announced that the expedition was ready to sail.
“Mundus has departed for Dalmatia,” he said over supper, “along with his son Maurice and ten thousand men. Their object is the Gothic capital, Salona.”
He swallowed some wine and dabbed his lips with a cloth. “God grant that Theodatus is as stupid as he seems,” he added, “and sends the largest portion of his forces to relieve Salona. Then Italy will be ripe for the taking.”
Our best hope of victory lay in the folly of Theodatus, whose wisdom did not extend beyond his academic studies. His murder of Amalasontha was the act of a savage and a political child, for it gave Rome the perfect excuse to try and retake her homeland.
The odds were still stacked against us. Despite his outward confidence, Belisarius was well aware of that. Already old before his time, he seemed to age before my eyes, and I started to fear for his health. If he broke down or even – God forbid! – died, there was no-one to protect me.
By the beginning of autumn, all was ready. My gentle confinement finally came to an end, and I was smuggled out of Belisarius’ house one moonless night with the same Hunnish escort that had brought me there. The seven of us, muffled up in dark hoods and cloaks, hurried down to the docks, where a boat was waiting to row me out to Belisarius’ flagship.
If there were spies watching us from the shadows, none tried to impede our progress. The Huns were armed with swords and braces of knives under their cloaks, and I had Caledfwlch, so it would have gone hard for any that tried.
The harbour was relatively quiet, with just a few groups of weary Egyptian sailors stockpiling bales of fodder and other supplies ready to be carried out to the fleet. They paid no heed to us, or the troop of soldiers with torches waiting for us at a jetty.
A tall, bareheaded man stood among the mailed and helmed soldiers. We had never spoken, but I recognized him instantly as he stepped forward to greet me.
His name is famous now, but at this time Procopius of Caesarea was still a young man, and relatively unknown. A Jewish scholar and historian, he had acted as Belisarius’ legal advisor, secretary and general confidante on the African campaign. He was no soldier, but did not lack for courage, and had undertaken several dangerous missions on the general’s behalf.
In per
son he was of medium height, and always put me in mind of a starving bird of prey. His body was lean, with long arms and legs, and his oversized head was stuck on the end of a scrawny neck. Prominent cheekbones, slightly protruding eyes, thin lips and a long, hooked nose completed the effect.
“Hurry, he whispered, casting anxious glances over my shoulder, “before the wolves that tracked you here find the courage to strike.”
“I saw no-one,” I said as the Huns bundled me down the ladder into the boat. He sniffed and folded his arms tight against his skinny chest.
“Of course you didn’t,” he muttered, his big eyes narrowing to slits as he peered into the darkness, “the Empress employs professionals. You wouldn’t know they were near until you felt steel in your back.”
The waters were calm, but the boat rocked alarmingly when my foot slipped on the lowest rung. I dropped into it like a stone and incurred the displeasure of the oarsman, who cursed me for a handless idiot.
“Quiet, you fools!” hissed Procopius, “do you want the entire city to hear? Perhaps we should bang a gong, or sing a few hymns?”
He hitched up his robe and made his way awkwardly down the ladder, exposing a good deal of pale thigh. His descent into the boat was scarcely less clumsy than mine, but the oarsman evidently knew better than to curse Belisarius’ private secretary. Biting his lip, he poled us out into the harbour.
Procopius hunkered down in the stern, and sat eyeing me with cool interest. “Coel ap Amhar,” he said, with a decent stab at British pronunciation, “I have watched your progress for some time now. The refugee who became a slave, who became a charioteer, who became a soldier. Equally at home in the Hippodrome, or the camp of the Heruli, or the imperial court.”
He rested his chin on his fist. “Your face is a blank canvas. Any number of personas can be painted on it and wiped clean, ready for the next. A play-actor.”
I bridled at that. “I am nothing of the sort,” I replied, careful to keep my voice low, “and have never pretended to be anything I am not. I do what is necessary to survive.”
“Of course. As we all do. But a great deal is necessary in order to survive in Constantinople. You have made your way in the city for over thirty years. From the gutter to an officer in Belisarius’ personal guard. Quite a tale.”
My pride gave a flicker. “I am still in the gutter,” I said, “you know my name, but not my quality. I am Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur, grandson of the First Warlord of the Island of the Mighty, descendent of the ancient line of British princes and kings. The blood of Coel Hen, ruler of the North, grandsire of Constantine the Great, runs in my veins.”
Procopius rubbed his thin hands and gave an enigmatic smile. “Belisarius told me you were proud. I suppose a man with nothing save his name and an old sword must cleave to pride. Step carefully, Coel, and be wary lest you fall further.”
He said nothing more, but lapsed into a brooding silence as the boat sculled across the dark waters to the looming bulk of Belisarius’ flagship.
This was the largest galley in the fleet, and one of the few old-fashioned Roman warships still in use. It was of the type called a bireme, with two staggered banks of oars and a long, narrow prow. Biremes were usually propelled by oars, with just a single sail, but this had been converted into a three-mast vessel. Unlike the lumbering transports and the smaller dromons, the galley had a sleek, dangerous look, and resembled some kind of dormant sea-monster as she lay resting at anchor inside the harbour.
We drew alongside, and a rope-ladder was let down the side. I was the first up, helped aboard by two brawny Sicilians.
I half-expected Belisarius to be there to greet me, but doubtless the general had more pressing matters to attend to. The ship’s captain, a heavy-set Greek with a long pink scar running from his temple to his jaw, regarded me with impatience.
“You’re to get below,” he said, jerking his thumb at the hatchway leading to the bowels of the ship, “and stay there until sent for. Quickly, if you please. I haven’t slept for two bloody days, and there is still much to do.”
I obeyed, and clambered down the ladder into the damp, musty-smelling space below deck. Even though the ship lay at anchor in peaceful waters, her gentle motion was enough to make my guts churn a little. The smell of tar and the salt tang of the sea in my nostrils brought back memories of the nightmarish voyage to Africa.
Procopius followed me down the ladder. “I am also a poor sailor,” he said, noting my pained expression, “but with luck our voyage shall be a short one.”
“Why do I have to hide down here?” I demanded, trying to ignore the thought of being cooped up below deck in a pool of my own vomit when the fleet sailed for Sicily.
“Your enemies may or may not know where you are,” he replied, “I have little doubt you were followed from Belisarius’ house, but the agents of Narses and Theodora cannot touch you here, aboard the general’s own flagship. This is his territory. Any violation of it would be perceived as a direct insult to Belisarius. Whatever petty grudges and feuds that may exist, Rome cannot afford to alienate its greatest soldier.”
He pursed his thin lips and leaned against a bulkhead. “For now, at any rate. If Belisarius fails in Italy, he will be dead or disgraced, and you will be fair game.”
I had discerned as much, and was anxious to get away from Constantinople as far and as swiftly as possible. “When does the fleet put to sea?” I asked.
“Tomorrow, if all goes to plan. Mundus is already laying siege to Salona, and Belisarius can afford no delay.”
A few more hours, then, and I would be safe. “What if Theodora and Narses send agents after me? No-one would notice a few men disguised as soldiers.”
“Perhaps. Theodora, at least, has no need for such crude stratagems. Her greatest agent will be among us, in plain view.”
It took me a moment to fathom his meaning. “Yes,” he said, reacting to the horror on my face, “Antonina is coming with us.”
4.
The fleet put to sea the next morning, propelled down the straits of the Bosphorus by a fair wind and the cheers of the multitude gathered on the docks. Their cheers were mingled with the dirge-like chants of the priests, clashing cymbals, screeching trumpets, and the tolling of every church bell in the city.
Before the African expedition, the Emperor and the Patriarch came to the harbour in person to give the fleet their blessing. They did so again now, though the Patriarch was so old he had to be carried in a litter. I heard the roar of the crowd treble in volume as Justinian arrived, preceded by the droning of bull-horns and escorted by six hundred of his personal guard, the Excubitors.
Heard, but did not see. I was confined below deck with two Huns to protect me and ensure I stayed hidden. They were a couple of surly, yellow-skinned brutes, typical of their race, and dripping with weaponry.
“No need to watch me so closely, boys,” I said with feigned cheerfulness, “I’m quite happy where I am.”
At last the moment I dreaded arrived. The ship began to move. I crouched in a corner, draping my cloak over me as a blanket and preparing for the worst.
The histories will tell you that the Roman fleet encountered no difficulty on the short voyage from Constantinople to Sicily. No storms delayed our progress, the winds were constant, and the Sicilian coast completely undefended. The Emperor’s ruse had worked. The Gothic fleet, such as it was, had sailed north carrying troops and supplies to reinforce their garrisons in Dalmatia.
To me, trapped below deck in the grip of sea-sickness, the voyage was a miserable and painful ordeal. The Huns kindly provided me with a bucket, which they emptied at regular intervals. Procopius visited me once or twice, to give me updates and check that I hadn’t puked myself to death.
“You are a better sailor than you claimed,” I whispered during one of his visits.
Procopius smiled weakly. He was even paler than usual, and trembled slightly, but his illness was nothing compared to mine. I could not walk, or eat, and shivered uncontrollabl
y like a sick dog.
“Courage,” he replied, “we will soon be on dry land, and there will an end to this damned creaking and lurching. Belisarius means to land at Catania.”
This made sense. Catania was a desolate, rocky stretch of dried lava, near the base of Mount Etna. He had landed there before on the way to North Africa.
“What then?” I asked, drawing my blanket closer around me. My guts gave a sudden heave, and Procopius’ answer was delayed while I retched feebly into the bucket.
“We march on Palermo,” he said when I was done, “once the principal city falls, the rest of Sicily will follow. An easy conquest.”
Too easy, was my initial thought. Even a dotard like Theodatus would surely not have left the island undefended. My suspicious mind spun all kinds of alternatives. Perhaps the Goths were waiting in force at Palermo, to attack our much smaller army as we marched inland. Perhaps their fleet was hidden, somewhere among Sicily’s northern coastline, and would emerge to fall upon ours at Catania.
“What of Antonina?” I asked, dragging my mind away from these dreadful scenarios, “does she I know I am aboard?”
“Oh yes. I was with Belisarius when he mentioned your presence to her, two days ago. Our tame Briton, he called you.”
I swallowed hard, and rested my head against the hull. “How did she react?”
Procopius shrugged. “She didn’t. As far as her husband is aware, you mean nothing to her. She must have known you were aboard anyway.”
He squatted down on his haunches. “Attend to me, Coel,” he said severely, “for your life is most certainly in danger. Antonina has brought her son, Photius, the fruit of one of her previous marriages.”
I blinked at him. The name was vaguely familiar to me, but I had never seen Photius, and knew nothing of him.
“He is very young, barely grown to manhood,” Procopius added, “and has inherited his mother’s courage and fair looks. There, unless he is a better actor than I judge him to be, the resemblance ends. There is no deceit in him. Rather, he is impulsive, and constantly at Belisarius’ elbow, begging him for a command. Eager to win glory at the point of a sword.”
Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns Page 25
