Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  “Is he a threat to me?” I asked, who cared nothing for Photius or his ambitions.

  “Possibly. He adores his mother, though she appears to care nothing for him. There is little he would not do to win her approval.”

  “Including murder?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps. Antonina would not hesitate to use him as a weapon against you. The question is whether he would agree to it.”

  Procopius thought for a moment, tapping his finger-tips together. “I think,” he said eventually, “that Belisarius should give this valiant young man a chance to prove himself.”

  His eyes bored into mine. “Yes. Photius should be among the first to be sent ashore. Perhaps he can be dispatched on a scouting mission inland, with just a few men for company. Picked men.”

  I knew what Procopius was implying. It filled me with revulsion, but I was too old and battle-hardened to be entirely scrupulous.

  “You would go to such lengths, for me?” I asked quietly, “why?”

  “Belisarius values you, as an officer and a friend,” he replied, rising, “he asked me to see you safe. He commands, and I obey. Not that I have any objection to seeing Antonina thwarted. She hates me, as she hates anyone with influence over her husband. She wants Belisarius all to herself.”

  “Does she love him?”

  Procopius gave a dry chuckle, the nearest he ever got to laughter. “Like an epicure loves his dinner. Antonina will eat him alive and then toss away the bones.”

  I remained below deck until the fleet made landfall at Catania, which lies on the east coast of Sicily, facing the Ionian Sea. Despite the harsh and rugged landscape, there was a city here, much reduced from its former wealth and status after being sacked by the Vandals. The garrison offered no resistance, and opened the city gates to our soldiers after Belisarius promised not to sack the town or molest the inhabitants.

  I was sick of concealment, and of languishing in my own stench in the stuffy hold. The Huns were sick of me too, and watched impassively as I crawled feebly up the ladder onto deck.

  The sunlight was dazzling, and I had to shade my eyes until they grew used to the unaccustomed glare. I tried to stand on the deck as it gently rose and fell beneath me, but my shaking legs gave way.

  A strong hand gripped my forearm as I fell, and hauled me upright. “Steady, old man,” said a familiar voice, “we shall have to find you a stick to lean on.”

  I opened my eyes a crack and gazed on the rugged, dark-skinned features of Bessas, one of Belisarius’ chief cavalry officers. He was a Thracian of Gothic origin, fluent in the Gothic language, and I had often overheard him croaking songs in that harsh, guttural language.

  Belisarius was a good judge of officers, and could scarcely have chosen a better man to lead his cavalry in Italy. Not only did Bessas speak the language of the enemy, but he was a tough, resourceful veteran of many campaigns, in his mid-fifties or thereabouts, and strong as a bull. His fingers had a grip like steel on my wasted arm. If he had increased the pressure, he might have snapped the bone.

  “Coel, isn’t it?” he asked after I had mumbled my thanks, “our sickly Briton. God help us, you look like you’ve puked out your innards. I thought the Britons were a seafaring race?”

  “I am the exception,” I groaned, clutching my aching belly, “though doomed to spend my life being dragged back and forth across the sea.”

  Bessas smiled and patted me roughly on the back. “You can go ashore at once, if you like, ” he said, “look there.”

  He pointed at the hundreds of longboats and other smaller vessels that populated the stretch of ocean between our fleet and the coast. The city of Catania was visible to the east, dominated by the brooding shadow of Mount Etna. Procopius had informed me that the volcano last erupted during the days of the Roman Republic, and swamped the greater part of the city in an ocean of boiling lava and hot ash.

  Our entire army was disembarking, with a calm order and efficiency that made for a stark contrast to the last time I had witnessed a Roman army disembark, on the north coast of Africa. There all had been chaos and haste, as our sickness-ravaged soldiers struggled to shore in terror of the Vandals falling upon them at any moment.

  I spotted Belisarius on the foredeck, standing among a little knot of officers and advisors. Procopius was among them, listening and nodding gravely while the soldiers talked. He was wearing his enigmatic little smile, and I could guess his opinion of what was being said.

  Thankfully, there was no sign of Antonina, though a golden-haired young man among the officers might have been Photius. “I was appointed one of the general’s personal guard,” I said, “my place is by his side.”

  “Admirable,” smirked Bessas, “but you’re no use to him in your current state. Go ashore and recuperate. For now, the conquest of Sicily will have to proceed without you.”

  He gave me back to my Hunnish guards, who had followed me above deck like a couple of faithful hounds, and barked at them to take me ashore. Somehow I found the strength to climb down a rope ladder into one of the launches. I took my place alongside a group of Isaurian archers, and listened in silent misery to their excited chatter as the boat rowed into the shallows.

  I could see our army deploying on the broad plain south-west of the city, thousands of tiny doll-figures busily pitching tents and digging temporary fortifications. As usual, Belisarius was taking no chances. The majority of his troops would camp outside the city, along with the baggage, while troops of light horse were sent out to scout the countryside.

  Anxious to be rid of boats and sailing, I dropped over the side as soon as it seemed safe, and staggered through warm, waist-deep waters towards the beach. The Huns dogged my steps, which was a comfort. Nobody watching could have any doubt that I was well-guarded, and still enjoyed the favour and protection of Belisarius.

  From Catania the army marched north-west, leaving a garrison of two hundred men to hold the city. Belisarius had furnished me with a horse, and I rode at an easy peace in the rearguard, enjoying the peace and beauty of the island. Sicily basked in the autumn sun, and the lengthy, oppressive heat of summer had given way to a pleasant mildness. The hedges on the roadsides were loaded with prickly pears. When my stomach had eased, I promptly ruined it again by indulging in too much of the succulent fruit, and afforded the troops much amusement by throwing up in a ditch.

  Our army hugged the coast, while the fleet kept in sight to the east, but there was no need for such precautions. As Procopius had predicted, Sicily was an easy conquest, and we encountered no resistance on the march to Palermo. The native farmers presented us with gifts of bread and fruit, and expressed warm enthusiasm at being rescued from the tyranny of the Goths.

  Some tyranny, I remember thinking as I looked around at the prosperous little villages and fertile, well-tilled farmland. The Sicilians had no cause to hate their occupiers.

  “They might soon have cause to hate us,” remarked Procopius when he rode down the line to speak with me, “if we are defeated in Italy, the Goths will exact a bloody revenge for their treachery. If we are victorious, and the island remains part of the Empire, the Emperor will squeeze them for everything they have. Sicily produces abundant crops of grain. Justinian will take it all in annual tribute, leaving the inhabitants to live on grass.”

  Palermo was approached from the south via a road winding through craggy mountains. Belisarius sent horsemen ahead to scout the route. I saw Photius among them, his fair hair gleaming like burnished gold as he galloped at the head of a troop of Herulii. They returned unscathed – Procopius had had no opportunity to put his murderous little plan into effect – to report that the road was unguarded.

  The city was an astonishingly beautiful sight, its whitewashed walls gleaming like pale diamond. I first saw it from a ridge overlooking the bay. Blue mountains enclosed and concealed Palermo from the landward side, and the sea from the east. I shaded my eyes and glimpsed the first of our ships rounding the headland to the south.

  I
also saw that the harbour was undefended. The garrison had closed the gates against us, but the city was open to assault from land and sea. There was no Gothic army lying in wait, hidden among the mountains. Either deliberately or through sheer negligence, Theodatus had left Sicily to its fate.

  Keen to score a bloodless victory, Belisarius sent forward messengers to demand Palermo’s surrender. The garrison sent back a haughty reply, ordering the Romans to withdraw from their walls or face destruction.

  That night Belisarius summoned his officers to a council of war. My presence was also required, along with five other members of his personal guard. I struggled into my heavy chain mail and crested helmet, and limped down to the general’s pavilion.

  “I will not waste time in a siege,” said Belisarius, thumping his fist on the table set up in the middle of his tent. A map of Sicily rested on the table, with various lead markers representing our forces.

  Bessas was present, along with Constantine and Valentinian, the general’s two other chief officers, and Galierus, the admiral of the fleet. Procopius was there in his capacity as secretary. He briefly glanced up at me as I came in, and then sidelong at Photius.

  Seen at close quarters, Antonina’s son had something of the Greek god about him. Tall and blonde, well-made and impossibly handsome in a sculpted sort of way, he seemed to glow with a strange inner light, putting the rest of us in the shade. All his attention was on Belisarius, and he paid me no heed whatsoever.

  “Then we must take the city by storm,” said Bessas, leaning over to study the map, “I suggest an attack at dawn from east and west. The Gothic garrison will be spread thin to repel us. Bloody work, but it can be done.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from Constantine and Valentinian. Like him, they were a couple of hard-faced veterans. The three of them put me in mind of a pack of old mastiffs.

  Steel flashed in the gloom of the tent. Photius had drawn his spatha, and slapped it down on the table. “General, I beg the honour of leading the vanguard!” he piped in the high-pitched, breaking voice of adolescence, “I will be the first man up the ladders!”

  Procopius smirked, and the officers looked unimpressed, but Belisarius regarded him fondly. “I think not, brave Photius,” he said gently, “your mother would nail my skin to the walls of Palermo if any harm befell you.”

  The boy’s flawless skin flushed with angry blood, and his lower lip trembled. He looked on the verge of hysterics, but Belisarius lifted a hand to calm him.

  “Peace,” he said patiently, “you will have a chance to show your valour. Not, however, in the vanguard. That is not the place for untried youths.”

  Mention of Antonina made my skin prickle. I had glimpsed her a few times on the march, in a covered litter toward the rear of the army, lying full-length on a comfortable divan and sunning herself with the silk curtains drawn back. She had brought her ladies with her. At Palermo Belisarius set up a little camp for them apart from the main army, well away from the prying eyes and lustful impulses of our soldiers. I had heard rumours that she insisted on being present at her husband’s military councils, and even on giving him advice, but tonight she kept her distance.

  Belisarius switched his attention to Galierus. “How deep are the waters of the bay?” he asked, “deep enough for our ships to approach within bow-shot of the walls?”

  “Yes, general,” the admiral replied.

  “Then we shall attack at dawn,” Belisarius said cheerfully, “and the city shall fall without a single casualty on our side. What do you think of that, Bessas?”

  The old soldier and his colleagues looked nonplussed. “I think it most unlikely, sir,” he replied, “the Goths may have been abandoned by their king, but they are determined to resist.”

  “There must be blood,” said Constantine, “and lots of it.”

  Belisarius burst out laughing. I had rarely seen him in a better humour, and looked questioningly at Procopius, but he ignored me.

  “God bless you, you old butchers,” said the general, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye, “there must be blood, eh? Well, let it be Gothic blood, for I have no intention of wasting ours on this flyspeck of a city.”

  His officers looked offended, as well they might, for they were all proud men. Their sullen humour quickly melted to disbelief as Belisarius went on to outline his plan. I listened with mounting admiration for this extraordinary soldier, whom God had sent to rescue the Empire from disgrace and decay.

  I spent the night in one of the guard tents close to Belisarius’ pavilion. In the morning we were roused early to accompany him onto the high bluffs overlooking Palermo. From there we watched Galierius, who had returned to the fleet after the council, carry out the general’s orders.

  The bay of Palermo, as I have said, was open and undefended. During the night sixteen of our transports had used their oars to crowd into the harbour, as close to the sea-walls as the depth of water would allow. I could see the steel helmets of the Gothic soldiers on the battlements. They had no catapults or ballistae, and must have had a limited supply of arrows, for they did nothing but watch as our ships rowed closer.

  Belisarius had ordered his Isaurian spearmen and archers to assemble in battalions on the plain beyond the eastern walls of the city. Scaling ladders had been fetched from the baggage, and three great battering rams pieced together. To the Goths, it must have looked as though we were preparing for an all-out assault.

  It was a ruse. When our ships were within range, their crews used ropes and chains to hoist longboats and other smaller vessels up to the mastheads. Picked archers and javelin-men then clambered up the rigging and jumped into the boats.

  Only now did the Goths realise what was afoot. The mastheads of our ships were much higher than the ramparts of the sea-defences. From their lofty height our men now unleashed a hail of arrows and javelins down on the exposed heads of the enemy. Some lit fire-arrows, and shot them into the town itself, where they set roofs and houses aflame and spread terror among the citizens.

  “You see?” said Belisarius, nudging Bessas with his elbow, “I said we would take Palermo without losing a drop of Roman blood. We should have had a wager on it.”

  “The city has not fallen yet,” grumbled the other man, but the general was right. The fighting spirit of the Goths was not as stout as their spokesmen had pretended. Even as we watched, the archers on the walls abandoned their posts and fled into the streets, leaving dozens of dead and wounded strewn on the ramparts, their bodies stuck full of missiles.

  Panic rippled through the city. A bell sounded inside one of the larger churches, and we saw the tiny figures of the citizens running to and fro. Our archers continued to pour flaming arrows into the streets. More buildings caught fire, especially in the poorest quarters, where all was dry timber and thatch. Plumes of blackish smoke twisted into the sky, while orange flames danced and leaped from one roof to another.

  Antonina was present, clothed all in white silk, which lent her the appearance of a goddess among so many rough, ill-favoured soldiers. She clung to her husband’s arm, and occasionally leaned in to whisper something in his ear. It angered me to see how he doted on her. All his attention should have been fixed on the battle below, but Antonina distracted him from his duty.

  Do I sound envious? Perhaps a little. She was a great beauty, especially in those days, and unlike her friend Theodora required little artifice to sustain that beauty against the advancing armies of time. Her milky complexion remained as fresh as a young girl’s, though she was well into her thirties by now. The golden hair, which she wore bound up in the aristocratic Roman style, with long, curly ringlets framing her delicate cheeks, was as lustrous as ever. I feared her, and desired her, and all the time struggled to avert my eyes from her.

  Thankfully, she paid no attention to me, or pretended not to. Her son Photius was absent. As a sop to the boy’s eagerness, Belisarius had allowed him to join one of the assault-parties mustered on the plain. He was safe enough, for they were
destined to see no action.

  “Not long now,” remarked Procopius, who had shuffled next to me. He was gazing complacently down at the chaos inside Palermo, like a hawk contemplating its prey.

  The courage of the Goths soon wilted. Barely two hours after we begun our assault, their gates opened and a group of dignitaries filed out, waving olive branches in a token of peace.

  Belisarius agreed to discuss terms. They were straightforward enough: in return for clemency, the Goths agreed to lay down their arms and surrender the city. Belisarius allowed the garrison to march out with honour, unarmed but with their banners flying, and to take ship for the Italian mainland.

  With the fall of Palermo, his conquest of Sicily was effectively complete. Leaving a strong garrison to hold the city, he marched south to Syracuse, an ancient city in the south-east corner of the island.

  The Gothic governor yielded it up without the faintest show of resistance, and Belisarius entered in triumph at the head of his bucelarii. I rode close behind him. My sickness had passed completely, and my spirits were buoyed by the rapturous reception.

  By now our commander’s fame had spread to every corner of Sicily. The people of Syracuse flocked to welcome and applaud the conqueror of Africa and hail him as a new Caesar. Belisarius knew how to court popularity, and scattered gold coins and medals among the adoring crowds as he rode through the streets.

  My joy was tempered with caution. The chants of Caesar! Caesar! were disquieting. Rome already had a Caesar in the form of Justinian, and it wouldn’t take much for the Emperor’s suspicions of Belisarius to flare hot again. He had his spies among our army. If Belisarius gloried too much in the acclaim of the mob, they would go racing back to Constantinople to pour fresh rumours of treason into Justinian’s ears.

  Belisarius took up residence in the governor’s palace. There he received a steady flow of Gothic officers and diplomats from all over Sicily, come to bend the knee before him and swear allegiance to the Empire.