Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  “Come away,” said Procopius, “he cannot be saved.”

  The remaining Hun was of a different opinion. Instead of obeying his master, he spurred his horse into the howling mob as they hacked and stabbed at his comrade.

  My courage was exhausted, and I had no intention of joining the Huns in death. I caught one last glimpse of them standing back-to-back, singing their death-songs as they fought with desperate fury.

  I raised Caledfwlch in salute to their heroism, and wheeled my pony to follow Procopius out of the city.

  8.

  No pursuit followed us during the fifty-mile dash from Membresa to Carthage. Either the people of the city lacked horsemen, or their spirit had been knocked out of them by the bloody last stand of the Huns.

  This was fortunate, for Procopius’ horse could not carry two men at the gallop over a long distance. For most of the way we rode at an easy canter. To me our progress was nightmarishly slow, and I cast anxious glances over my shoulder, expecting to see the dark shapes of riders on the horizon.

  We rode through the night, and the morning sun was already high in the sky by the time we arrived within sight of Carthage. I was drooping with fatigue, and could scarcely keep my eyes open to take in the blessed sight of the city’s ancient walls.

  Constantine was in an even more pitiful state. Snatched from the jaws of a hideous death, obliged to ride naked over fifty miles of rough ground, he was overcome as we rode through the city gates, and slid quietly from the saddle.

  The guards on the gate recognized him, and helped us to scrape the fallen man off the cobbles and carefully lift him onto a stretcher fetched from the guardroom. Their captain was full of tender concern for a fellow soldier, and went puce when I told him what had passed at Membresa.

  “Those filthy, dung-ball savages,” he exclaimed, shaking his fist in the vague direction of the city, “if I was Belisarius, I would lead the garrison out in force again and crucify every living thing in Membresa, down to the last babe in arms.”

  “Is the general still in Carthage?” asked Procopius.

  “No. He sailed yesterday for Sicily. Word reached here of some mutiny in the garrison at Syracuse. He left Hildiger and Theodore in charge until Solomon returns.”

  Hildiger and Theodore were two of Belisarius’ subordinates. The general must have withdrawn immediately to Carthage after his victory at Membresa, which meant the rebellion in North Africa was not quite extinguished.

  “It seems Belisarius is doomed to spend his days rushing from one crisis to another, stamping out fires wherever they spring up,” said Procopius as our comrade was carried to the palace, “I had hoped to find him here.”

  I was so tired I could barely stand, but full of questions. He forestalled them by placing a finger to my lips.

  “Peace,” he said with a rare gleam of kindness, “you look ready to collapse, and I prefer not to trouble the captain for another stretcher. Go to the barracks and sleep. I will tell you all on the voyage back to Sicily.”

  There was no question of returning to Sicily. We were both sworn to serve Belisarius, and Rome, and had no further purpose in Africa. I was only too glad to leave that benighted continent behind me for the second time.

  After I had slept a full day, washed, eaten and felt something like a man again, I was summoned by Procopius to his private quarters on the upper floors of the palace. Naturally, his quarters were of the best, and had a balcony overlooking the harbour and the Gulf of Tunis. A slave admitted me, and I found Procopius drinking wine in the company of Constantine.

  I returned Constantine’s bow, noting how different he seemed, washed and rested and back in uniform. Something of the visceral terror of Membresa remained in the depths of his blue eyes. I, who had suffered my share of near scrapes with death, knew that the memory of those iron stakes would never leave his nightmares.

  The formalities done, he seized me in a warm embrace. “My saviour,” he cried, “I shall forever be in your debt, for as long as breath lasts in this body.”

  I thought he might start weeping on my neck, and stared helplessly at a grinning Procopius. Thankfully Constantine desisted.

  “Procopius has told me your name, and your quality,” he said, stepping back and recovering some of his military poise, “you are a prince of the old blood of Albion. I am honoured to know you, Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur. I bear the name of one of your royal ancestors. Constantine the Great is said to have had a British mother, herself the daughter of Coel Hen.”

  “The honour is all mine, Constantine,” I replied with a wary smile, “and it is always good to make new friends. You must not consider yourself in debt to me, though. Debts make men resentful.”

  “Not this man,” he said, thumping his fist against his chest, “but for you, I would be rotting in the desert sun. Do not talk of resentment. Such ignoble sentiments do not exist between men of honour like us.”

  I wasn’t convinced that I was a man of honour, particularly, but it seemed a shame to disappoint him. I let the matter drop and accepted a cup of wine from Procopius.

  “All is arranged,” he said, “I have hired a vessel to take us to Syracuse this evening.”

  I groaned at the prospect of another trial by sea. “At least it is a short voyage. What news of the mutiny in Syracuse?”

  Procopius gestured vaguely. “Nothing yet. Some revolt over pay, I understand. Belisarius will whip the curs to heel. God help the Roman state if he falls overboard in the Gulf of Tunis, or trips on landing and breaks his neck. The Empire could not survive the death of Belisarius.”

  “Oh, come,” I replied, “he is a good soldier, perhaps the best since Aetius, but Rome has other men to lead her armies. What of Mundus, and Bessas, and others like them?”

  He swept these names aside with a sweep of his hand. “Pygmies,” he said dismissively, “competent enough, I grant you, but base of soul. Hirelings and mercenaries. Only Belisarius has something of the spark in him that animated the Romans of old. It is difficult to describe.”

  “A greatness of spirit,” said Constantine, who had listened to our exchange with interest, “he fights, not for himself, but for the greater glory of the Empire. Money and fame and personal glory are of little importance to him.”

  I disagreed with that, since during the course of his campaigns Belisarius had made himself a very wealthy man. He loved ceremony, and being the focus of attention, and had accepted all the elaborate glories heaped on him by Justinian without a qualm. Another man might have refused the rank of Consul, which had been in abeyance for centuries, as an outdated absurdity.

  However, I was in no mood to argue, and something about my companions’ manner made me uneasy. I detected a hint of fanaticism in Procopius’ voice, and there was an intensity about Constantine that I disliked. My naturally sceptical nature prevented me from succumbing to the worship of so-called great men. I knew, all too well, the vices and failings of one of the greatest of all, my grandsire Arthur, and cannot help but smile when I hear the fables and legends in which he features as a sort of demi-god, a perfect warrior and immortal saviour of his people.

  I changed the subject, and asked Procopius how he had come to rescue myself and Constantine from the stakes. As vain as he was clever, the secretary loved to speak of himself and his deeds, and preened a little before launching into the tale.

  “It was well for you both that I chose to rise from my sick-bed in Syracuse,” he said, “and take ship for Carthage shortly after Belisarius left. Solomon’s failure to crush the rebels was, I felt, partially my own, and I wished to make amends.”

  He paused to glance out of the doorway at the glistening blue seas beyond, and savour the taste of his wine. “I reached Carthage to find that Belisarius had already ridden out – none can match the speed of that man, when his blood is roused! Determined to be in at the death, I followed the trail of the army, only to meet his vanguard returning from the battle. The rebels were already defeated, and Stoza and his survivors driven into the
desert. Belisarius stopped to talk with me. He was greatly distressed by your disappearance, Coel, and ordered me to search the battlefield for any sign of you.”

  I felt a twinge of guilt. Belisarius had not simply abandoned me after all. For him to worry over the fate of one lowly officer argued that he was indeed the great man his admirers claimed him to be.

  My cynicism asserted itself. “He wanted Caledfwlch,” I said, “he wanted my sword, so he could take it back to Constantinople and hide it away somewhere in a palace strongroom.”

  “If all Belisarius wanted was your sword,” Procopius replied tartly, “then he could take it easily enough. You are but one man, Coel.”

  He resumed his tale. “I knew that scavengers would be prowling the battlefield. Subtlety was called for, so I assumed the guise of an African nobleman, and arrived in Membresa claiming to be an equerry from Stoza. I speak many languages, and have some skill as an actor. Stoza was not beaten, I assured the citizens, but would raise a new army in the desert and return to sweep the Romans out of North Africa. The fools warmed to my words, and after that I had little difficulty manipulating them.”

  He plucked a purple grape from the bunch on a silver dish on the table between us, and winked at me as he peeled it.

  “You see, Coel, I have many layers,” he said, popping the grape into his mouth, “my mother, God rest her, often said I was six souls packed into one body. Shrewd woman.”

  His complacency was laughable, but not without foundation. Shamefully, I had not yet thanked him for saving me, and did so with all due humility.

  “Enough of that,” he said carelessly, flapping a languid hand at me, “you are not the first I have rescued. Some men perform their duty in the battle-line with sword and shield. I do mine in other ways.”

  I finished my wine and left them, claiming that I was still tired and needed my rest before enduring another voyage. That was true enough, but I had had my fill of their unsettling company. Constantine kept staring at me with disturbing intensity, and I was beginning to suspect that Procopius had only rescued me for some dark purpose of his own.

  If I sound suspicious and ungrateful, do not judge me too harshly. Years of living among the Romans made me so. They are a dark and artful people, jealous of their diminished power and prestige, and stop at nothing to get what they want. Even at this stage of my life, I had not yet been exposed to the worst of the Roman character.

  We embarked the following morning, just as the sun was rising over the sea. Procopius had hired a small galley, light and swift, and our journey across the Gulf was mercifully quick.

  The galley sailed into the harbour at Syracuse at dusk. Belisarius’ banners flew from the ramparts and the towers of the palace, and all seemed peaceful inside the city as it basked in the warmth of a spring evening.

  “Yes, the general’s here,” said an Isaurian bowman we encountered lounging outside a wine-shop on the docks, “and like to be here for some time. The invasion of Italy’s off.”

  “Off?” squawked Procopius, “what do you mean, off?”

  The Isaurian yawned and rubbed his unshaven chin. “I’m no politico,” he replied, “but it seems the King of the Goths has lost his nerve. Our conquest of Sicily scared the shit out of him, and he’s offered the Emperor a heap of gold and silver to leave Italy alone. If Caesar is a sensible man, he’ll take the money.”

  “I must recommend your appointment to the imperial council,” Procopius said coldly.

  He was angry, more at being ignorant of current events than anything. When we reached the palace he demanded loudly to see Belisarius, and with breathtaking arrogance swept through the guards and slaves as though they weren’t there.

  Had Procopius been anyone else, he might have received a sword in his gut, for the men who guarded Belisarius took no chances. As it happened, his face and manner were well-known, and we were admitted to the general’s private chambers.

  Belisarius was poring over a heap of maps and parchment by candlelight when we were ushered in, and let out a cry at the sight of us.

  “Coel – alive!” he shouted, striding across the room to seize my hand, “I hardly dared to hope. We lost too many good men at Membresa. And you, Constantine!”

  He embraced us both, and gave Procopius a playful punch on the arm. “I’m not surprised to see you alive and whole,” he laughed, “I believe you would find a safe passage through Hell. Where did you find my two deserters, then?”

  Belisarius was in high good humour, and his secretary knew better than to spoil the mood with boasts. “I plucked them out of a stew,” he replied modestly, “the details of it are rather dull and routine. What of Italy, sir?”

  Belisarius threw up his hands. “What of Italy, indeed! Well, there she lies, just a few miles off the coast of Sicily, and for now her southern mainland is open to invasion. King Theodatus wastes our time with talk. He has offered Justinian all manner of concessions. The yielding of Sicily to the Empire, yearly tribute of a crown weighing three hundred pounds in gold, a promise to supply three thousand Gothic auxiliaries to help defend our borders…all this, and much more, has he offered our ambassador in Ravenna.”

  Myself and Constantine may as well have been shadows in the background. This was politics now, Procopius’ preferred battleground, and we could do naught but listen and learn.

  “What of the war in Dalmatia?” he asked pointedly. I was dismayed when Belisarius gave a heavy sigh and sagged onto the stool beside his desk.

  “Defeat and disaster,” he said wearily, “the news was waiting for me when I returned. Our army pushed back the Goths and stormed Salona, but then Gothic reinforcements appeared. Mundus’s son, the fool, sallied out against them, and was unhorsed and killed in sight of the walls. Mundus lost his head completely, as any father might when confronted with the death of his son, and led out the remainder of the garrison in a wild charge. They were destroyed, and Mundus slain. What was left of our army fled back over the frontier into Illyria.”

  He grimaced, and pinched the bridge of his nose. For the first time I noticed the deep crease between his eyes, an indelible mark of worry and responsibility.

  The news of our defeat in Dalmatia was shattering, but Procopius betrayed no hint of emotion. “Theodatus is now free to transfer men from Dalmatia to Italy,” he said. “If we are to strike, we must strike now, sir, before the mainland fills with barbarian troops.”

  “I am waiting for word from the Emperor,” Belisarius said firmly, “I will do nothing without his sanction. Besides which, I have just quelled a mutiny here, and Stoza is still alive and at liberty in Africa. We must do nothing rash.”

  That, judging from his drawn and haggard appearance, was a veiled wish for rest. Having conquered Sicily and saved North Africa, Belisarius must have feared that Justinian would now dispatch him to rescue the situation in Dalmatia. After that, what next? Would he be packed off to the eastern fringes of the Empire, to fight the Sassanids again, or sent back to Africa to hunt down Stoza and exterminate the troublesome Moors?

  God had seen fit to grant Belisarius victory after victory. At some point his luck and favour would run out. Assuming, of course, that he didn’t simply collapse and die of exhaustion first.

  I ventured to interrupt. “Where is Photius, sir?” I asked, “did he survive the battle?”

  Procopius looked at me in anger and disbelief at my lack of subtlety, but I was not minded to play his games. Ever since our escape from Membresa, I had brooded over Photius’ attempt on my life, and was determined to pay him back in kind. As Constantine might have said, it was a matter of honour.

  Belisarius looked surprised by the question. “Photius? Yes, he is alive. I sent him to Palermo to be with his mother. She prefers the north of the island. Why do you ask?”

  Palermo. My vengeance would have to be delayed. “I saw him in the thickest of the battle,” I replied with an offhand shrug, “it grieved me to think that such a promising young man might have been slain.”

&n
bsp; He smiled and patted my shoulder, pleased that I showed such concern for his beloved wife’s son. “You have a generous heart,” he said, “and Photius is indeed a promising youth. Headstrong, of course, but so was I at that age.”

  He invited us to stay for dinner, and over the meal described more of the diplomatic sparring between Ravenna and Constantinople. It seemed that Theodatus was ready to promise anything to deter the wrath of Rome. There was even some talk of him abdicating, if Justinian should wish it.

  We remained idle in Syracuse for the next few weeks, waiting for orders from the Emperor. Photius did not return from Palermo, and Procopius dissuaded me from going in search of him.

  “No good would come of it, even if you slew him,” he said, “Belisarius would have no choice but to hang you for a murderer. Do not imagine that the death of her son would cause Antonina much grief. She is not a loving mother, and uses Photius as just another tool to achieve her ends.”

  I was content to wait. Photius had tried to murder me, no doubt at his mother’s instigation, amid the noise and confusion of battle. I would bide my time, until the opportunity arose to serve him the same way. A blade in the dark, perhaps, when he was staggering back from a night’s drinking. There were ways and means, and it was tempting to hire a band of killers to do the work for me.

  These happy thoughts occupied my time, and I briefly resumed my desultory affair with the shopkeeper’s daughter. There were other women, and my memory of that time is of a long, hazy summer, the last golden afterglow of youth and beauty.

  Reality intruded with the onset of autumn, and the arrival of a messenger from the imperial court. Belisarius was closeted with him for several hours, along with his captains and Procopius.