Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  He took pains to dress in the plain garb of a soldier, and display no signs of arrogance or pretensions above his station. To no avail. The Goths insisted on addressing him in the most servile manner, as though he were indeed the Emperor instead of his representative. One or two even called him Caesar to his face.

  I stood beside his chair as the Goths filed into the audience chamber. They were a beautiful people, tall and strongly-made, with auburn hair and fresh, clear-eyed features. The contrast with our swarthy, stunted eastern soldiers was marked, and I sometimes noticed the Goths glancing at us with contempt.

  How, I could almost hear them thinking, have we been conquered by these dwarves?

  It was a question my own ancestors must have asked themselves, after the Roman legions of old had defeated Caradog, the last native British chief in arms, and sent him in chains to Rome.

  When business was done for the day, and the last Goth had departed, Belisarius relaxed gratefully in his chair and yawned.

  “Wine, in Heaven’s name,” he croaked, massaging his dry throat. I poured some from a silver jug and handed him the goblet. He downed it one swallow, wiped his lips, and grinned at me.

  “Lend me your sword, Coel,” he asked, stretching out his hand.

  “Come,” he said impatiently when I hesitated, “do you think I am going to steal it? I merely wish to hold the thing for a moment.”

  Reluctantly, I drew Caledfwlch and placed the hilt in his hand. He held the blade vertically before him and gazed at his reflection in the oiled and polished steel.

  “I came, I saw, I conquered,” he murmured, “but unlike you, Julius, I lost not a single man.”

  He weighed the sword in his hand, holding it at different angles and examining the eagles stamped into the hilt.

  “I thought I might feel something,” he said, handing it back to me, “some tingle of power. Foolish. A sword is just a sword, no matter how many illustrious hands have wielded it. A tool for killing people.”

  “I think otherwise, sir,” I said, hurriedly sliding Caledfwlch back into the sheath, “part of my grandsire’s soul rests inside this blade. I am certain of that. Perhaps Julius Caesar’s as well.”

  He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It must be crowded in there. Your belief smacks of paganism, Coel. A man’s soul cannot be hacked up like a loaf of bread. It is pure and indivisible.”

  “Oh God,” he added, yawning again and stretching his long limbs, “let us not discuss such weighty matters. I have had a bellyful of them for one day.”

  Despite his weariness, Belisarius seemed relaxed and cheerful. Sicily had fallen. The crushing weights of duty and responsibility had lifted, however briefly, from his narrow shoulders.

  We spent the best part of three months in Sicily, waiting for the arrival of spring and the new campaign season. Belisarius made preparations to invade Italy, while diplomats sped back and forth between Theoderic in Ravenna and Justinian in Constantinople, striving to find some peaceful compromise.

  I did remarkably little. The life of a guard officer during peacetime is not a taxing one. When not exercising or on duty, I explored the countryside around Syracuse in the company of Procopius, took care to avoid Antonina and Photius, and was reasonably content. Even in winter, Sicily was a fair island.

  “I can picture myself living here,” I said to Procopius during one of our idle excursions, “settle down on a little farm with some local woman, hang Caledfwlch above the hearth, and raise goats.”

  Procopius’ mouth twisted in distaste. “You have just described one my images of Hell,” he said sourly, “the sooner we can leave this patch of dirt, the better. So far this war has been more akin to a holiday.”

  “What is wrong with that?” I asked, smiling at him, “if only all wars were so pleasant and straightforward.”

  “I am a historian, Coel, among other things. My ambition is to witness and record great events, and the deeds of great men. How many pages will my account of the conquest of Sicily fill? One? It will require all my powers of hyperbole and exaggeration to make it worth the reading.”

  “Then your history is in safe hands,” I said cheerfully, giving my reins a shake, “for I never knew a better liar.”

  The idyll could not last. Word reached us of some disturbance in North Africa, where some of the Moorish desert tribes had revolted against Roman rule. They were inspired by an absurd prophecy, told by one of their female prophets, that they could only be defeated in battle by beardless soldiers. Our generals in Africa all sported beards on their chins, which was enough to persuade the Moors that they could rise up and overthrow our government.

  Belisarius dispatched Procopius to Carthage, to talk with the Roman governor and assess the seriousness of the situation. I was sorry to see him go, for the secretary had become something of a friend, but he assured me of a swift return.

  “The governor in Carthage is an old woman,” he sneered, “else he would have stamped on these Moorish desert-rats as soon as they raised their heads. Belisarius should be wiser in his choice of subordinates.”

  He was gone for several weeks, during which time I amused myself in a dalliance with a shopkeeper’s daughter in Syracuse. She was my first woman since Elene, the Greek dancer who betrayed me, and I am sorry to say that I have only the vaguest memory of her appearance and character. I do recall that her parents had no objection to me staying in her bedchamber on a nightly basis. To the conqueror, as some wise man once said, the spoils.

  Procopius did return, but not in the expected manner. He arrived at Syracuse in an open boat, half-dead of thirst, starvation and exposure, with just seven companions, all in an equally wretched state.

  One of them, though I nor anyone else crowded into the harbour could believe it, was the governor of North Africa. His name was Solomon, and he stood in the prow of the boat, beating his breast and feebly uttering the same cry, over and over:

  “Africa has fallen!”

  5.

  Belisarius had the seven men taken to the palace on a litter, and there cared for until any danger to their lives had passed. The governor, Solomon, insisted on speaking to Belisarius of the catastrophe that had befallen the Roman province in North Africa.

  I accompanied the general to Solomon’s bedchamber – I was becoming Belisarius’ shadow – and listened to the sick man give his account.

  Solomon was proud, far more competent and dutiful than Procopius gave him credit for, and had done his best to hold onto the province. Alas, it would have taken a man of far greater abilities to deal with the fearful catalogue of treason and rebellion that he reported.

  “The trouble started with the Moors,” he said weakly, “at first it was just a few raids on isolated villages. Nothing out of the ordinary, and I left our local garrisons to cope with them. Then I received word that some of the desert tribes had formed a coalition. They fell upon a detachment of our infantry and cut our soldiers all to pieces.”

  He paused to cough and drink some water. I glanced at Belisarius. The general’s face was as grim as ever I saw it, like a bust carved in stone.

  Besides one other guardsman and myself, no-one else was present. The shutters on the bedchamber’s single window were closed, blocking out the wintry afternoon sun. Belisarius wanted the details of the African disaster to be kept secret for as long as possible.

  “When I heard of the massacre, I resolved to act,” Solomon continued, “and led out our garrison in force from Carthage to give battle.”

  Belisarius gave a slight nod of approval. He would have done no less.

  “We met the Moors on a fair open field and utterly routed them. You know what poor soldiers they make. They wear no armour, and their flimsy shields and javelins were no match for Roman arms. I followed up, hoping to destroy the survivors, and found them entrenched in a strong position on Mount Burgaon. I threw in our infantry, and in one assault they cleared the trenches and drove the Moors like sheep, until the desert ran red with their tainted blood.”

/>   “So far, a textbook campaign,” murmured Belisarius, “what went wrong?”

  Solomon laid his head back on the pillows and closed his eyes. “The tribes retreated into the recesses of the desert, where we could not follow,” he said, “and then our men started to disintegrate. I did not realise until it was too late, but the army was rotten with sedition. Most of the protestors were Arians. The heresy is still strong in Africa. They complained of Justinian’s harsh edits against their faith, and that they were barred from baptizing their children. They complained that the plunder taken from the defeated Moors was not shared out equally. They complained of these and other matters with loud and bitter voices, and the disaffection quickly spread among our orthodox troops. Meanwhile the Moors were allowed to recover their strength.”

  It was now that Solomon’s failure became apparent. As governor and commander-in-chief, he should have stamped down hard on the dissenting voices. Belisarius was of a naturally merciful disposition, but had never hesitated from applying old-fashioned Roman discipline when necessary. I remember the pair of drunken Hunnish confederates he had executed on the hills above Heraclea, and their headless bodies tossed into the sea.

  “Unknown to me, some of our garrison troops met at Mount Auras,” said Solomon, “and there formed a pact with the Moors and the worst of the Arian dissenters. They raised the standard of revolt against Roman rule. At the same time, a ship bearing four hundred Vandals taken captive in the recent wars was on its way to our eastern provinces. The Vandals were supposed to enlist in our armies there. As the ship sailed past the African coast, the Vandals rose in revolt, slaughtered the sailors and marines, and forced the captain to land. They joined with the rebels at Mount Auras.”

  He passed a hand over his face. “The Arian poison had even spread to Carthage. Some of the fanatics there plotted against my life, and chose Easter as the best time to murder me. They planned to have me killed as I entered the cathedral before the ceremony. However, when news reached them of the rebel host gathered at Mount Auras, they threw aside all caution and forswore their allegiance to Rome.”

  Belisarius could contain himself no longer. “And what in the hells were you doing, while all this was going on?” he demanded through gritted teeth.

  I had never seen him so angry. His sallow cheeks had turned the colour of fresh steak, and his fists were clenched until the bony knuckles turned white. A thick blue vein throbbed dangerously on his forehead.

  “I was planning to march on the rebels, sir,” Solomon replied hastily, “but the conspiracy in Carthage took me by surprise. The Arians took to the streets at night. They smashed and plundered the houses of wealthy citizens and slaughtered all in their path, regardless of age, rank or degree. I tried to raise the garrison to sally out against them, but our men were seized with terror, and refused to move. When the mutineers forced the doors of the palace, I was obliged to flee for my life, and take refuge in a chapel. Procopius and a few loyal attendants fled with me. When dawn broke, and the mutineers were drowsy with wine and murder, we crept down to the harbour and stole a boat.”

  “And so came here,” said Belisarius. He pressed his fingertips together and held them to his lips for a moment. I watched him in silence, wondering what even that superb military mind could conceive to reverse such a disaster.

  “How many of our ships are ready to sail immediately?” he asked suddenly.

  “Just your flagship, sir,” I replied, “the rest of our fleet is either being re-fitted, or scattered among the other Sicilian ports.”

  Just for a second, the briefest of seconds, I thought his resolution faltered. A shadow crawled over his face, but then vanished.

  “My galley can carry no more than a hundred men,” he said briskly, “but that will have to do. We sail for Carthage. Now.”

  He turned on his heel and strode to the door. I and my fellow guardsman exchanged panicked glances and hurried after him down the corridor outside.

  “Sir,” I cried, struggling to keep pace with his long legs, “forgive my presumption, but how can you hope to retake North Africa with just a hundred men?”

  Belisarius didn’t even break step. “No questions, Coel,” he snapped, “my forebears never brooked questions from their subordinates. I should have you flogged. My God, would the likes of Agrippa or Agricola have put up with junior officers bleating at them? Roman discipline is much decayed.”

  In this mood, it was impossible to tell if he was joking. “Summon my personal guard,” he added, “I will take a hundred of the best with me. Once we reach Carthage, I will call upon the garrison to join me. I left two thousand men to defend the city. More than enough.”

  A host of objections flew to my lips, and stayed there. I knew the general was fond of me, and also knew that he would have the skin flayed off my back if I irked him any further. Leaving him to bellow for his armour, I ran down to the barracks to rouse his guard.

  We hurriedly assembled on the drill-yard outside the palace. Belisarius soon appeared, buckling on his breastplate and trailed by a group of officers, including Photius. The godlike young man looked immaculate in a gleaming silver breastplate and plumed helm, as though he had been waiting in his armour for the order to march.

  His personal guard were formed into an old-fashioned maniple or cohort of five hundred men, divided into six centuries of eighty men each. They were the cream of his Veterans and bucelarii, or men like me who had performed well enough in past campaigns to be admitted to their ranks. Above all, we were men Belisarius felt he could trust on the battlefield and off it.

  “First Century, with me,” he shouted as our men tumbled into line, “the rest, dismissed.”

  I was technically appointed to the Third Century, but there was no question of me staying behind.

  The eighty men of the First followed the general as he hurried down to the docks. There were a few Egyptian sailors lounging near the jetty where Belisarius’ ship was moored. He pressed these unfortunates into service, roaring at them to get aboard and make ready to sail, if they valued their lives. Abandoning their games of dice, the Egyptians scrambled aboard the galley and started hauling on ropes.

  We followed, pounding in double file up the gangplank. It felt as though I had barely drawn breath since Belisarius threatened to have me flogged. The wind was set fair, and my stomach gave a lurch as the mainsail billowed and the steersman turned the ship’s prow south.

  Over a hundred miles of open sea lay between Syracuse and Carthage. Our ship sped through the sparkling blue waters like a dolphin, propelled by Heaven-sent winds and the fierce will of Belisarius. He stood at the prow, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the western horizon.

  Meanwhile I clung to the side and emptied my breakfast into the sea. I hated myself for showing such weakness, especially in front of my comrades, even though they tactfully looked away.

  “God preserve my strength,” I muttered between dry heaves, touching the hilt of Caledfwlch for luck. I would need all of my grandsire’s warlike skill and resolve when we reached Carthage.

  We started early in the morning, and arrived within sight of the Tunisian coast just before dusk. The scattered lights of Carthage lit up the dark mass of the coastline, like thousands of yellow stars gleaming in the night sky.

  Belisarius called me over to his side. “There,” he said, pointing to the south of the city, “the rebel host.”

  I clung to a rope and squinted at a smaller gathering of lights, several miles distant of the city. If Belisarius was right, the rebels had quit Carthage and set up camp on the desolate plains outside.

  “Perhaps our soldiers in the garrison found their courage, and forced them out,” I said.

  “We shall soon find out,” he replied, “I mean to sail into the harbour and announce my presence. If we are greeted with rocks and curses, then at least we shall know who holds the city.”

  Our ship ghosted into the bay of Carthage. No horns or trumpets greeted our arrival, but there was no hail of missiles eit
her. When the ship reached the chain that acted as a boom, Belisarius ordered the imperial flag to be hoisted on the mainmast, and his trumpeter to announce our arrival with several loud blasts.

  Lights flared along the sea-walls that defended the harbour to north and south. I stood in the front rank of guards behind Belisarius on the foredeck, wincing as my bowels dissolved in sickness and fear. At any moment I expected the bombardment to start, and our ship to be smashed to pieces.

  Instead a small boat put out from the harbour and rowed slowly towards us. A man stood up in the belly of the boat and held a lantern aloft. The light illuminated his face, showing a youthful, bearded visage, his cheeks scarred with tattoos I recognized from my time among the Heruli.

  “Who are you?” he called out in a thick Germanic accent.

  “General Flavius Belisarius!” replied Belisarius in his best parade-ground bark, “and you will salute a superior officer!”

  The soldier’s face lit up in a grin. “General!” he cried, saluting, “thank God! We had hoped for your coming. Where is the rest of your fleet, sir?”

  Belisarius threw up his hands in exasperation. “Am I a general or a schoolmaster? Every man thinks he can ask questions of me. Turn your boat around, soldier. Inform your comrades that Belisarius is here, and expects every man in the garrison to be armed and ready to ride out at dawn.”

  “It could be a trap,” warned Bessas as the boat rowed back to shore, “how do we know the garrison is not in league with the rebels?”

  “We don’t,” said Belisarius, “but what would you have me do? Sail around in circles until our enemies die of old age? We must act, or withdraw.”

  “Coel, with me,” he added, nodding at me, “if you see anyone suspicious, wave your magic sword at them until they disappear.”

  I ignored the sarcasm and clambered down the ladder into the launch behind him. There were six boats, each large enough to carry fifteen men. Belisarius stood in the prow, his fur-trimmed red cloak thrown back to display his golden helm and ornate breastplate. He had donned ceremonial armour to dispel any doubts regarding his identity.