Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  I knew Photius had been among the main body of our men waiting outside the gates. After the Gothic resistance was crushed, they had dispersed, and so he might be anywhere in the city. I silently begged God to lead me to him, but my pleas went unheard. For hours I hunted in vain, until the screams of the dying and the crackle of burning buildings ebbed a little, and the arrival of morning cast pale, sickly light on a scene of total destruction.

  Belisarius rode into the city at the head of a hundred Guards, and did his best to restore a semblance of order and discipline. Our men were scattered all over the city, drunk on slaughter and stolen wine. A number of captives had been taken by the Huns, mostly women and children. Belisarius had to negotiate with the Hunnish officers, as though they were equals rather than subordinates, to persuade them to release the captives unharmed.

  I had long since given up my hopeless quest, and slumped to rest under the awning of a pillaged wine-shop. Procopius found me here, picking his way delicately over the pieces of smashed vases and amphoras that littered the street, and the slumbering bodies of Isaurian bowmen.

  “Coel,” he yelled, shaking me awake, “get up, man. Are you sober? If so, Belisarius should have you stuffed and mounted as a rare exhibit.”

  He peeled one of my eyelids open, but I pushed him away. “Yes, I’m sober,” I said irritably, “let me alone. I need to sleep. Photius escaped me.”

  Procopius sat back on his meatless haunches. “I know. I saw him at the general’s pavilion this morning, sharing breakfast with his mother. They seemed in high spirits.”

  I got up, wincing at the aches and pains in my body, reminding me that I was no longer young. “No doubt they are hatching some new plot,” I said, yawning and stretching until the joints in my shoulders clicked, “some fresh way of putting me in the earth.”

  “You flatter yourself, Coel. Antonina and her son have a great many enemies. You are merely an irritant, an insect to be stamped on when the occasion presents itself.”

  “An insect? My thanks. It is good to know one’s true worth.”

  I was starving, but Procopius had thought to bring a loaf of bread, and I gnawed at it as we made our way through the reeking streets towards the palace.

  Corpses lay everywhere, bloating like dead cattle in the wan morning sun. Flies buzzed about them, and the stench of blood and death and smoke hung over the city like a vile cloud.

  The gates of the palace were shut, and the remainder of the Gothic garrison had barricaded themselves inside.

  “Eight hundred remain in arms,” said Procopius, “Belisarius has surrounded the palace with as many troops as he could find that were reasonably sober and could stand upright, but so far the Goths have refused his entreaties.”

  I paused, squinting up at the palace, a large rectangular complex built in the typical Roman style, comprising four wings with colonnaded fronts, arranged in a square. A double line of Huns and Isaurians were drawn up in front of the main gates. Many were still suffering from the previous night’s excesses, and stood slackly to attention, leaning heavily on their spears.

  Bessas was in command, but there was no sign of Belisarius. “The general was called away,” he said, “some of the citizens have gone mad, and are demanding the deaths of Pastor and Asclepiodotus.”

  These two were the rhetoricians who had inspired the citizens to stay loyal to the Goths. Now the fickle mass of the people, who had listened to their advice and hailed them as wise men and patriots, were turning on them.

  “They will be torn to pieces,” I said carelessly, stifling another yawn, “unless Belisarius reaches them in time. What about Stephen and the others we bribed?”

  “In hiding,” replied Bessas, “or fled, I know not which, nor do I care. The fate of traitors is of no interest to me.”

  Belisarius returned wearing his most severe expression, jaw clenched, eyes glittering with rage.

  “Murdered in the street,” he said in answer to our unspoken queries, “they caught Asclepiodotus as he tried to flee the city in disguise, and ripped him limb from limb. By the time I arrived, they were parading his head on a spear.”

  He paused to spit. “Savages. I should have the lot of them hanged.”

  That was impossible. Our invasion of Italy was supposed to be a war of liberation rather than conquest, a grand attempt to snatch back the Roman homeland from the dominion of barbarians. These same Roman citizens, who had refused to open their gates to us, thrown in their lot with the Goths and murdered a defenceless old man, were the people we had come to rescue.

  The evidence of our failure was all around us, in the smoking rubble of Naples and the hundreds of citizens abused, robbed and slaughtered at the hands of our soldiers. Belisarius could not resort to hanging people, even if they were murderers, without further exposing the hypocrisy of our cause.

  “What of Pastor?” asked Procopius.

  “Also dead,” replied the general, “by his own hand. He locked himself inside his house and opened his veins in the bath. I have set a guard on the house, and will have him decently buried once all is calm again.”

  Pastor and Asclepiodotus were the last casualties of the siege. The eight hundred Goths holed up inside the palace had little food and water to sustain them, and soon came to terms. Incredibly, Belisarius persuaded them to turn their coats and enlist under our standards. No further proof is needed of the mercenary nature of the Roman army at this time, and I found myself marching alongside the same Gothic axe-men that would gladly have chopped me in two during the struggle on the walls.

  Belisarius set the surviving citizens to clean up the debris. He blamed them, not the Goths, for the ruin of Naples. They had failed to heed his warnings, mocked his offers of clemency, and thus brought misery and destruction on themselves.

  I felt some degree of guilt for the sack, but it soon passed. This was war, and I had seen and suffered too much to fall prey to sentiment.

  “Now our mission begins in earnest,” said Procopius on the eve of our departure.

  His lugubrious features glowed with something like holy zeal. “Forget Sicily and Naples. These were mere distractions from our true object. The Eternal City, Coel. Rome! She has been in the hands of barbarians for over a century, but Belisarius will reclaim her for the Empire.”

  I shared his enthusiasm. To me Rome was a mythical city like Troy or Olympus, an ideal rather than a place, spoken of in hushed whispers by the bards and storytellers of my youth. Now I would help to liberate the ancient birthplace of an empire that had conquered most of the known world.

  It was something to boast of to my grandchildren, assuming I ever had any, and the prize seemed well within our grasp. The Roman army, when led by Belisarius, was invincible, and the Goths under Theodatus had proved a weak and indecisive enemy, incapable of bringing their greater numbers to bear.

  Then, even as I sat and swilled wine with Procopius in a tavern that had somehow avoided being plundered, a breathless envoy arrived from the palace.

  “General Belisarius demands to see you at once, sir,” he panted, leaning against the doorframe.

  “What is it?” snapped Procopius, shaking off the wine fumes and rising from his chair.

  “A messenger just arrived by boat from the north. The Goths have deposed Theodatus and elected a new king in his stead. The new man is called Vitiges.”

  This name meant nothing to me then, but my hand still trembles to write it. In place of the weak and timid Theodatus, the Goths had chosen a humble officer of obscure origin but considerable ability and force of will. Like Stozes, Vitiges had a gift for unifying a defeated people, and stirring them to fresh defiance.

  Procopius hurried to the palace to discuss this new threat with Belisarius and his generals. I stayed, finishing off my wine and sadly tracing another name in a puddle of stale liquid on the table.

  Elene.

  12.

  In common with most deposed kings, Theodatus didn’t last long. The Gothic nobles met at Regeta to pass his
sentence of deposition and to proclaim the new king. As was their custom, they raised Vitiges on their shields, and his name was chanted by the assembled mass of soldiers.

  Vitiges’ coronation took place even as we marched from Naples and advanced on Rome. Reluctant to weaken his already slender forces, Belisarius left three hundred men to garrison Naples, and a similar number at the fortress of Cumae, the only other stronghold of note in Campania. These necessary losses were more than compensated by the eight hundred Goths he had enlisted at Naples, though like many of our foederati troops they were treacherous and fought only for money. It was one of the miracles of Belisarius’ glorious career, that he achieved so much despite being almost always outnumbered, and with men who cared little for his causes.

  Our army marched along the newer road, called the Latin Way, though for the sake of romance we might have used the broad pavement of the Appian Way, which followed the same route just a few miles to the west. Procopius was seized with a kind of ecstasy at being so close to this famous highway, and galloped off to survey it without waiting for Belisarius’ permission.

  “It is a wonder of the world!” he enthused on his return, “even after nine centuries of use, the pavement is unbroken, and the flagstones smooth and polished like glass. Oh, that I should live to tread the same path as the legions of old, as Caesar and Mark Antony and the heroes of the Republic!”

  I was keen to see the Appian Way for myself, but Belisarius allowed his soldiers no time for sightseeing. He had to reach and seize Rome before the Goths rallied under their vigorous new king.

  It was now the beginning of December, and the fair summer was a distant memory. We struggled along the icy roads, buffeted by cold winds and pelting rain that soaked man and beast to the bone. I remember glancing over my shoulder and being struck with fear at how puny and vulnerable our little army appeared, bogged down in winter rain and ice, more like a wandering band of fugitives than a mighty host bent on conquest.

  Belisarius had hopes that the Roman senate, along with the nobles and Catholic clergy, headed by Pope Silverius, would not support the election of Vitiges, and welcome us into Rome without a fight. Vitiges, like his predecessor, held to the Arian heresy, and was no friend to the Catholic faith.

  His other great hope was that the deposed king, Theodatus, would escape and raise an army to reclaim his throne, thus splitting the Gothic nation. While the two factions tore each other apart, Belisarius could quietly take possession of the Eternal City. Then, after the Goths had all but destroyed each other, he would march out and sweep the survivors into the sea. Italy would be free of barbarians, and the heartlands of the Empire restored to her rightful rulers.

  It was a good plan, but ruined by the prudence of Vitiges. After hearing news of the revolt against him, Theodatus had fled Rome and headed alone towards Ravenna, hoping to raise support there. Vitiges sent an officer after him, a young man who apparently held some private grudge against Theodatus. The officer pursued the fugitive night and day and eventually overtook him at the fifth milestone from Ravenna. There, Theodatus went down on his aged knees and begged for mercy, but the youth had none, and murdered him on the spot.

  Word of Theodatus’s death reached Belisarius at Albano, where he had made camp before making the final advance on Rome, just a few miles to the north-east. He camped near the crumbling remains of the Castra Albana, a series of military camps built by some long-dead Emperor to station his legions near Rome. A flourishing town had sprung up the ruins, but the inhabitants locked and barred their gates against us.

  I was desperate to clap eyes on Rome, but Belisarius remained in camp for a full day and night, waiting for a response to the latest message he had sent to Pope Silverius and the senators.

  Once again the campaign hovered on the edge of catastrophe. If the Romans followed the example of the Neopolitans, and held true to their Gothic conquerors, we would be faced with the task of reducing the strongest city in Italy.

  Vitiges had withdrawn to Ravenna, where dire rumours reached us of the enormous host he was collecting from all corners of the Gothic nation. Unknown to us at the time, he was also in talks with the three Kings of the Franks who had previously sworn a pact with Justinian. In return for various bribes and promises, they agreed to betray the Emperor, and secretly send as many troops as they could spare to aid Vitiges.

  “There are no clever stratagems that will fool the Romans,” said Procopius, “Belisarius has used up his supply of tricks and good fortune. There are four thousand Goths inside Rome, and over a hundred and fifty thousand of the brutes mustering at Ravenna and other places.”

  “A hundred and fifty thousand?” I scoffed, “that is an absurd figure. The entire Vandal nation in arms at Tricamarum was no more than fifty thousand. No people on earth can muster that many warriors.”

  He gave a mournful little shake of his head. “You forget, Coel, I have agents and spies planted all over the country. The Goths and Ostrogoths and their foul kinsmen are as numerous as locusts. If Vitiges draws all his power together, Belisarius cannot hope to face him in the field. Our pathetic little army would be crushed underfoot. Our only hope is to take Rome, strengthen its walls and endure the worst that the Goths can throw at us.”

  “To what end? Even if we take the city, how long can we possibly hold it against such a monstrous host? Does Belisarius hope for reinforcements from the Emperor?”

  “Yes. Justinian envies his golden general, and is far too willing to listen to liars and flatterers who would have him believe that Belisarius is a traitor, but he cannot simply abandon us to our fate.”

  He held up a narrow finger. “One defeat, Coel. The Roman Empire stands perpetually on the edge of oblivion. One defeat is all it would take to tip us over the edge. Justinian cannot afford to throw away twelve thousand men.”

  “I remember Narses saying something to that effect,” I said, “on the dockside at Constantinople, as we watched the fleet assemble for the expedition to North Africa. There was a time when Rome could muster ten legions for a campaign.”

  “Precisely. Now we can barely scrape together as many as three, and most of our troops are barbarians and sell-swords. We are living in the latter days, Coel. All is vanity.”

  I looked at him in surprise. Belisarius had used those very words to me, in the garden at Carthage, and the defeated Vandal king, Gelimer, had wailed them as he was paraded through the streets in Constantinople. Then I remembered that Procopius was closer to the general than I, and must have picked up the saying from him.

  Our pessimistic mood lasted until an envoy finally arrived from Rome. He brought the news we longed for. Pope and Senate had decided to resist the Goths, and welcome the arrival of Belisarius with open arms.

  Belisarius was on his feet and barking orders almost before the envoy had finished speaking. Infused with his spirit, our army shook itself into life and prepared to advance the last few miles to Rome.

  Even as our soldiers broke camp, Belisarius turned from a meeting of his captains and beckoned at me.

  “I must apologise,” he said, offering me his hand, “I meant to speak with you after the capture of Naples, but lacked the opportunity. Procopius told me you were the man who explored the aqueduct and discovered the secret way into the city. Yet another fine service you have performed, for which Rome thanks you.”

  He vigorously shook my hand. I reddened, but he waved away the modest protests forming on my lips. “There is something else. Words are not enough. You are far too capable and useful a man to languish in my Guards, watching over my tent at night. I will give you a commission, and make you a captain of horse.”

  It sounded very fine, but in reality he made me a decanus, that is, a low-ranking officer in charge of ten cavalrymen. He was far too canny a soldier to place a man with no experience of command in charge of anything greater. The next rank up was centenarius, commanding a hundred men, which would have put me in a position to do some serious harm to our own side if I proved incompete
nt.

  Still, it was another mark of favour, and another slap in the face of those who wished me ill. I never knew what was said between Belisarius and Procopius in private, but suspect that Procopius may have suggested that I needed a permanent bodyguard of my own. Belisarius knew I had enemies, though he was still blind to the deceits and intrigues of his wife.

  “Thank you, sir,” I replied, bowing my head. I glanced sideways and spotted Photius standing among a little knot of officers. Our eyes met for the first time since our brief combat at Membresa. I gave the hilt of Caledfwlch a meaningful pat. The message was clear: your time will come.

  The men he gave me were of the race of the Heruli, the tribe of Germanic foederati troops I had lived and trained with for a time outside Constantinople. Belisarius knew my history, so it was probably a deliberate choice.

  I had picked up some of their language, and my wrists and arms still bore the faded blue tattoo-marks inked onto them by Girenas, one of the few close friends I made among that clannish people. Poor Girenas had succumbed to the disease that swept through our fleet on the voyage to north Africa, but the marks were enough to overcome the initial suspicion and reticence of the men in my new command. They were good soldiers, disciplined after their fashion, with decent gear and horses, and lacking an officer since their previous decanus was killed during the street-fighting in Naples.

  My men were attached to a cohort commanded by Bessas, and so now I was one of his subordinates instead of the ambivalent position I had held as a member of Belisarius’ personal guard.

  “Some men might regard this as a demotion,” he said, grinning at me, “swapping the easy life of a glorified bodyguard to serve as a junior officer of horse? You will have no easy time of it, I assure you.”

  “I have no desire for an easy life, sir,” I replied stoutly, and remembered to salute. He sneered at me and moved on, roaring at his captains to get their troops into line. I knew Bessas as a brave and capable officer, if bloodthirsty, and trusted by Belisarius. In later years I would discover another, much darker, side to his character.