Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  After the meeting had broken up, Procopius sought me out in a taverna near the palace. He looked happy, which was ominous, for that usually meant trouble for someone.

  “Best sharpen that old sword of yours, Coel,” he said, drawing up an extra stool and helping himself to my wine.

  “The invasion is on again?” I asked through a mouthful of bread and olives.

  “It is indeed. King Theodatus’s recent victories in Dalmatia have poured a little steel into the old man’s wilting spine. Three days ago he declared the proposed treaty null and void, broke his vow of peace, and seized and imprisoned our ambassadors in Ravenna. Justinian is furious, and has ordered Belisarius to invade Italy and topple Theodatus from his throne.”

  I listened to this with mixed feelings. I was a soldier, and war was my trade, but I had grown comfortable in Sicily, and was reluctant to set out on what promised to be a hellish campaign.

  “Belisarius is all energy and purpose,” Procopius added, “enough men will be left behind to garrison Palermo and Syracuse, but the bulk of our forces will concentrate at Messina.”

  He picked up a chunk of bread as he spoke, and tore off pieces to represent our army and the planned invasion.

  “From Messina,” - he picked up the largest crumb and pushed it towards me - “we will cross into Reggio via the Strait of Messina! It could not be better.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, frowning at him.

  “Tut! Do you not recall your Greek history? No, I see you do not. God knows what kind of stunted education you received in that damp, misty northern island you call home. The Strait of Messina is home to Scylla and Charybdis.”

  I must have looked blank, for he rolled his eyes at my ignorance. “Scylla and Charybdis,” he explained patiently, “were noted by the Greek historian Homer as sea-monsters that guarded the crossing between Sicily and the Italian mainland. He described Scylla as a six-headed serpent, and Charybdis as a kind of giant beast that dwelled on the seabed, waiting for ships to come along so she could drag them down and devour them, vessels, crew, and all.”

  I had been raised to believe in the various fantastic beasts and monsters that populate British legends – pink-eared hounds, white harts, witches and giants and the monstrous razor-backed boar that haunted my childhood nightmares, the Twrch Trwyth – but sea-monsters was a step too far. I was surprised that Procopius, an educated and rational man to his roots, believed in such nonsense.

  “No, I have not gone mad,” he said with the odd, high-pitched cackle that passed for laughter with him, “but I have certain theories as to the origin of these tales, and wish to test them. The crossing of the Strait will provide an ideal opportunity to do so.”

  “Assuming our fleet is not devoured by Charybdis,” I said drily. He laughed again, and threw a bit of bread at me.

  Belisarius wasted no time. He had drilled his troops all through the sleepy, peaceful days of summer, keeping them fit and combat-sharp in case our negotiations with the Goths broke down. Now our army was ordered into action at last, and the disparate squadrons of Isaurian archers and spearmen, foederatii troops and bucelarii converged on the port of Messina.

  Twelve thousand men, the same number that sailed from Constantinople. Justinian had sent no reinforcements, and expected his golden general to perform the North African miracle all over again. Only this time, Belisarius was ordered to recapture the Roman homeland and her ancient capital, the city of Rome itself.

  Thus, with rumbling guts and a sense of foreboding, I boarded Belisarius’ flagship once more.

  9.

  We crossed the narrow Strait with no sign of Homer’s sea-monsters, and no resistance from the Goths on the opposite coast. The latter, as Procopius informed me with a knowing look, was due to politics.

  “Just yesterday there were five thousand Gothic infantry lining those cliffs,” he said, nodding at the rocky coastline of Reggio, “they are all scattered now, thanks to the treachery of their chief, Ebrimur.”

  “Who is he?” I asked, holding onto the bow for support. The sea-sickness had me in its grip again, and at that moment the prospect of being swallowed up by Charybdis didn’t seem so dreadful.

  “Theodatus’s son-in-law. He put his trust in Ebrimur, but should have known better. The glint of Roman gold overcame the young man’s sense of duty, and last night he abandoned his post and took a boat to Sicily. His men woke up to find him gone, and promptly deserted. God grant that all our victories should prove so easy.”

  Procopius seemed to know a lot about this matter, and it wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that he had first suggested to Belisarius that Ebrimur could be bought off. He was much more than just a secretary, as I had discovered at Membresa.

  “Presumably Justinian will give the traitor a medal,” I said sourly. I was never comfortable with this kind of double-dealing, even though it meant that our army had been spared a battle.

  “Much more,” said Procopius, “Ebrimur will go to Constantinople, where the Emperor has offered to make him a Patrician and load him down with riches and honours. Such is the reward for treachery.”

  I spat over the side. “I hope his money brings him comfort. Every right-thinking person will despise him.”

  Procopius gave a bland little smile, and spoke no more of Ebrimur. The traitor did indeed make his way to the imperial capital, where Justinian received him as a dear friend and gave him all the titles and riches he had been promised. As I predicted, he was held with contempt by everyone else, and died shortly afterwards, possibly murdered. It is best not to rely on the gratitude of emperors.

  Our landing at Reggio was unopposed, and the army swiftly formed up into line of march. As in North Africa, Belisarius hugged the coast, with squadrons of cavalry sent ahead as a vanguard and to protect his right flank. The infantry and the baggage toiled along in the rear.

  Amid the noise and bustle and summer heat, Procopius somehow found the time to go in search of his monsters, or the truth behind them. Belisarius let him ride out with just one Hunnish horse archer for an escort, even though we were in hostile territory and Procopius was a useful servant.

  “Try not to get eaten,” I called out as he rode past. In response he treated me to an obscene gesture, which sent a ripple of laughter down the line.

  Belisarius and his guards were part of the main body of the army. We rode at a trot, so as not to get too far ahead of the infantry, our banners fluttering in the gentle breeze. The shore-line was immediately to the east, and beyond that the deep blue sea, with our ships strung out on the horizon. As usual, Belisarius had ordered the fleet to shadow the army and remain within sight at all times.

  My sickness soon passed, as it always did when I set foot on dry land. I gloried in the fresh air sweeping in from the sea, and the discipline and grandeur of the Roman army on the march.

  We marched north through Bruttium in sweltering heat, with the sun beating down mercilessly on our heads and threatening to boil me alive in my heavy coat of mail. The south of Italy was a land of stark contrasts, rocky and arid, but also startlingly beautiful, with emerald green forests and little white-walled towns perched on hills and rocky bluffs.

  Belisarius ignored the smaller towns. His objective was Naples, the greatest city in southern Italy, defended by a strong Gothic garrison. The capture of Naples would be a serious blow to Theodatus’s prestige, already damaged by his failure to defend Sicily and groveling overtures to Justinian. The reputation of Roman arms also had to be redeemed after our defeat in Dalmatia.

  Our army marched through Bruttium and Lucania without encountering any resistance. The native Italians flocked to our standards, hailing us as brothers and deliverers from the oppressive barbarian yoke. This was nonsense: the Goths had governed Italy far better than most of the latter-day Caesars.

  The government of Theodatus held to the Arian heresy, which was unpopular in Italy, and his troops had utterly abandoned the countryside. Submitting to Belisarius was the sane and logical d
ecision for the populace to make. Most of the smaller towns lacked adequate defences, and could not have withstood an assault.

  Belisarius greeted their adulation and pledges of loyalty with a smiling countenance, and distributed gifts of food and money among the peasants, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. His naturally grave and solemn features became more drawn as we approached Napoli, and I could see the lights in his pavilion burning long into the night. The reduction of Italy’s second city represented his greatest challenge since the war against the Vandals. As we marched he kept his eyes fixed on the skyline, watching for any sign of the enemy. It was all far too easy, and no man can roll winning dice forever.

  Naples, when we finally arrived within sight of the city walls, was both a formidable obstacle and subject of awe, a vision of ancient Roman splendour and imperial might. Her elegant villas, palaces, temples and aqueducts are graven into my memory, for this was Imperial Rome as I had imagined it as a child in Britain, when my nurse enthralled me with stories of legions and emperors.

  In military terms, the city was a nightmare. The land for several miles around had been stripped bare of fodder and livestock by the garrison, and Gothic banners flew defiantly from the ramparts. Like Palermo, Naples was a port, and had no fleet to defend the harbour, but was much better-garrisoned. The Goths inside her walls were crack troops, and unlike the demoralized and ill-trained levies at Palermo would not capitulate after a single bombardment.

  “We will have to carry the place by storm,” I overheard Bessas say as we surveyed the walls, “or starve them out. And we have no time for a lengthy siege.”

  There was a note of satisfaction in his voice. Belisarius had described him as an old butcher, and so he was, firmly believing that a victory was hardly worthy of the name unless oceans of blood were spilled. I took one look at Napoli’s high walls, lined with rows of gleaming helmets, and the strong iron-bound gates, and shuddered.

  Belisarius could not risk any delay, for each day that passed gave the Goths time to gather their strength and ship troops back from Dalmatia. He would have to order an all-out assault, and I would be among those sent up the ladders.

  I was also on my guard against further assassination attempts. For reasons I could not fathom, Photius had been left behind in Sicily, though he was expected to join the army eventually. My comrades in the Guards were friendly enough, though I knew at least one had conspired with Photius to try and murder me on the battlefield at Membresa. I was cordial but distant, preferring to mess on my own and discouraging familiarity. Until I knew who the co-conspirator was, I felt unable to trust any of them.

  The Neopolitans were as desperate to avoid a slaughter as we were, and persuaded the Goths to allow them to send out a deputation to speak with Belisarius. I stood by the general’s side and watched them file out of the city gates, six venerable old men with bald pates and white beards, waving olive branches of peace.

  Their spokesmen was named Stephen. He was something of a philosopher and rhetorician, and pleaded eloquently with Belisarius to bypass Napoli and march onto Rome.

  “We are true Roman citizens,” he declared, flinging out his withered brown hand to indicate the city, “and desire nothing more than to be ruled by a Caesar again.”

  “Then give up the city,” said Belisarius. He was seated at his ease on a chair under an awning, with Antonina curled up beside him on a divan, eating white grapes and eyeing the Neapolitans with amusement.

  Her husband made the old men stand, without shelter or refreshment, and wore his stoniest expression. The intention was to impress the ambassadors with his stern and ruthless bearing, and in this he succeeded. The men behind Stephen visibly quailed in the general’s presence, and I gave one wrinkled specimen a start by winking at him.

  “Alas, the fate of Naples is not in the hands of its people,” replied Stephen, “the Goths rule the city, and will not allow us to open the gates. Their merciless king took their wives and children as hostages, and has let it be known that if Naples falls, he will cut all their throats. Therefore, dread Belisarius, you may expect them to fight and die to the last man rather than be conquered.”

  A groan passed through our officers, but Stephen was not finished. “What benefit,” he added with another elaborate flourish, “can ensue to your imperial army from forcing Naples to surrender? Should you march on to Rome, and succeed in capturing her, the whole of Italy shall naturally fall into your hands. The loss of Rome will mean the end of Theodatus, and the families of our garrison here will escape the knife. Should you fail in your attempt on Rome, as is likely, then your capture of Naples shall prove useless, and a vain waste of money and men.”

  He was blunt, this one, rather too blunt for a diplomat. Belisarius’ knuckles went white as he gripped the arms of his chair.

  “You are speaking,” he said in firm and deliberate tones, “to the victor of Dara and the conqueror of North Africa and Sicily. Every one of my campaigns has been crowned with success.”

  “Do not mistake that for false modesty, little man. Know that I was sent here by my Emperor to conquer, and so I shall. Do not think to close your gates against an army aiming to win back Italy’s freedom, and do not prefer barbarian tyranny to the ancient laws and liberties of Rome.”

  Stephen began to splutter a protest, but Belisarius stilled his voice with a raised finger. “With regard to the Gothic soldiers, I offer them a choice. They may either enlist in my army, and share in our exploits and rewards, or they are free to disband and return to their homes. The fate of their families is not in my hands, except to say that I would disdain to serve a king who makes such craven threats against women and children. Persuade them to surrender, and I swear that your lives and properties shall go untouched.”

  Stephen glumly shook his head, and so they prosed on for hours, arguing back and forth while the sun slowly dipped beyond the western hills and cramp stole into my aching limbs.

  It was all a game, of course. For all his seeming virtue, Stephen was rotten to the core, and easily corrupted. When the official conference was over, he was invited to dinner with Belisarius and Antonina, and over the main course offered a huge bribe in gold and silver to stir up unrest inside Naples. He acquiesced, and returned the following morning with his fellows, no longer a servant of the Goths, but a double agent in the employ of Rome.

  His efforts had no immediate effect, and for several days we sat and waited for the gates to swing open and admit us. Belisarius had a tight grip on the city, having invested it by land and sea. Nothing could leave or enter without his knowledge.

  The Gothic soldiers on the battlements threw defiance at us, beating their spears on their shield and mocking us for robbers and degenerates, boy-lovers and stunted Easterlings and I know not what else. They had every reason to be confident. Our twelve thousand men must have looked a poor and scanty host, against the many thousands of Goths mustering in the north.

  Theodatus, however, with all the advantages at his disposal, did nothing. He was a coward, and refused to lead his troops to relieve Naples, or send another man in his stead.

  During this time Procopius returned, none the worse for his little adventure. I approached him after he had made his report to Belisarius, and asked how his quest for legendary monsters had fared.

  “Success, I think,” he said, slapping his thin hands together, “an age-old mystery is solved.”

  I gave him a cynical look, and he laughed. “No monsters, Coel. Scylla the six-headed hydra is nothing more than a rugged outcrop of rock, part of a cliff on the Italian side of the Strait. In darkness and foul weather, it is easy to understand how fearful sailors might have mistaken the outcrop for some kind of monster.”

  “What of Charybdis, the ship-swallowing demon?”

  “A whirlpool, I suspect, off the coast of Sicily. Both natural elements are within arrow-shot of each other, so they quickly became merged in legend. When I have time, I will write down my findings and present them to the imperial court in Co
nstantinople.”

  I glanced outside the pavilion, at the high walls of Naples and the peaceful city that lay beyond them, apparently undisturbed by the presence of our army without.

  “If any of us ever see Constantinople again,” I said gloomily, “unless our agents do their work, Belisarius will waste his strength outside this city. At some point Theodatus must find his courage, or the Goths will put him aside and choose a braver chief.”

  Belisarius was always careful of the lives of his men, and reluctant to throw them away in a frontal assault on Naples. The city was protected by steep ground on the landward side, and any attempt to storm the harbour would end in catastrophe: the garrison had learned from the example of Palermo, and stocked their ramparts with war-machines to guard against any approach by our ships.

  Bessas and the other officers demanded that an attempt be made to storm the walls, and at last Belisarius yielded. In the early hours of morning, just before first light, he sent in his Isaurian infantry, supported by detachments of foederatii, with ladders and grapples to scale the ramparts near the eastern gate.

  The Goths were waiting for them. I stood and watched the slaughter, muffled up in a heavy cloak against the morning chill and privately thanking God that Belisarius had kept his guards in reserve.

  Our men stormed up the slope, arrows and javelins hurled from the battlements clattering against their upraised shields. Many fell, but more reached the foot of the walls and swarmed up the ladders. Hard fighting followed, and I sensed Belisarius’ tension as the struggle for the ramparts swayed back and forth. Spears and axes glinted in the morning mist, and the clatter of steel mingled with the screams and shouts of the combatants.

  “Sheer folly,” I heard him mutter, “I have sacrificed my men on the altar of vanity. God forgive me.”

  The assault failed. Our men lacked the numbers, while the Goths were continually reinforced from inside. Belisarius held his head in dismay as the Isaurians broke and fled back down the ladders and ropes, pursued by the jeers of the enemy and a storm of missiles. They left the slope carpeted with dead and dying. In a single assault we lost above three hundred men, far more than we could afford.