Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  Our army advanced on Rome, and I shall never forget the moment we descended the ridge of Albano, and the Eternal City lay spread out before us.

  She was not quite as magnificent as I had pictured her, shimmering like some dream-city in a deathless summer haze. This was winter, and the city of stone and marble that lay before us was suited to the season. My overriding image is of a great expanse of stark grey and white buildings, with the gaunt silhouettes of the Circus Maximus and Capitol Hill looming over all.

  The fading images of my childhood are dominated by my first clear sight of Constantinople, the mother of cities and apex of the world, straddling the Bosphorus like a vast glittering jewel. By comparison Rome was less grand, less opulent and exotic, and yet had a stern, forbidding majesty all of her own.

  We advanced towards the city from the south, towards the Asinarian gate. Joy of joys, the gates stood open, and a great cheer rolled down the length of our army as the word spread: Rome had submitted, and the object of our conquest was achieved without a blow being struck.

  Bessas’ cohort formed part of the vanguard, and Belisarius ordered us forward to secure the gate. As we rode closer, a man became visible standing alone under the arch.

  He was a Goth of noble status, his long fair hair brushed and powdered until it floated about his shoulders, clad in shining silver mail and a red woolen cloak fringed with white fur. An empty scabbard of red leather hung from his belt, and at his feet lay a fine spatha with a jeweled hilt. Lying beside the sword was a ring carrying a number of large iron keys.

  Bessas summoned me to his side. “Your first duty,” he said, “go and speak to that idiot and find out who he is.”

  I spurred forward, conscious of the eyes of the entire army on me, and raised my empty right hand in greeting, to show that I meant no harm.

  “Welcome home, Roman,” said the Goth, folding his massive arms, “you have been too long away.”

  He was a fine-looking man, blue-eyed and handsome in a ruddy sort of way. I smiled at his mistake.

  “I am a Briton in the service of Rome,” I replied, reining in, “and my home lies many thousands of miles from here. As does yours. Why do you stand under the gate?”

  “To yield up the city. My name is Leuderis, commander of the garrison of Rome. Or I was until my men chose to abandon their posts. They marched out via the Flaminian gate, and even now are fleeing north, like whipped dogs, to seek Vitiges.”

  I rested my fist on my hip. “But you stayed?”

  “Yes. I stayed. Your General Belisarius is free to take me prisoner, or hang me, or whatever he sees fit.”

  “There lies my sword,” he added, nodding at the blade, “and the keys of Rome. You may tell Belisarius that the city is his.”

  13.

  On the tenth day of December, Belisarius entered the Eternal City and reclaimed it for the Empire. He did so informally, wasting no time on formal processions or grand proclamations, though he did have the royal Gothic banners on Capitol Hill torn down and replaced with our imperial standards. For the first time in over a hundred years, the purple and gold flew over Rome.

  He treated Leuderis with honour, and sent him back to Constantinople as a captive, along with the keys to the city. Then he immediately set about the work of putting Rome in a state of defence. The city had flourished again under the rule of Theoderic the Great and his successors, but the walls had been allowed to fall into ruin, and needed to be repaired before the arrival of Vitiges and his hordes of Gothic warriors.

  The bewildered citizens, who had lined the streets to welcome our soldiers, found themselves ignored, save those Belisarius hired as extra labour. He met with the Pope and the Senate, of course, and treated them with all due honour and courtesy, but diplomacy was never Belisarius’ greatest strength. They were a pack of treacherous swine, good for nothing save plotting in darkened corners, and began scheming against Belisarius almost as soon as he marched into the city.

  For days all was intense bustle and activity, and I found myself obliged to pick up a shovel and play the role of workman. Rome’s ancient, decaying ramparts were bolstered and strengthened, bastions and towers constructed, fresh battlements erected to replace those that had collapsed and fallen away, great holes in the walls plugged with fresh masonry, or earth and timber if stone was lacking. The defensive ditch that surrounded the city had been completely neglected, choked with weeds and rubbish, and had to be cleared, deepened and extended. Meanwhile our fleet transported fresh supplies of corn from Sicily, which were stored inside Rome’s many granaries, so we would not starve during the inevitable siege.

  I had imagined that the Romans would be delighted to see the powerful fortifications rising around them, and rush to our aid. It soon became clear they had surrendered the city, not out of patriotic reasons, but as an act of craven self-preservation.

  “Why do you waste your strength, throwing up these walls?” I remember one stout citizen yelling at me as I rested on my spade, “Rome is too large for you to defend her at every point, and the Goths too numerous! You must fly, fly back to the east, before you are surrounded and destroyed!”

  I rubbed the back of my hand across my face, wiping away some of the sweat and grime, and sighed. “We have only just arrived,” I said patiently, “are you tired of our presence already?”

  His eyes bulged, veins constricting on his broad forehead, and he waved his arms at me. “You mock!” he shouted, “let us see how you laugh when the Goths spread your naked body on the blood-eagle and split your ribs open!”

  This was the first I had heard of the Goths indulging in this particularly gruesome form of execution, said to be practiced by the wild tribes of the Scotti in the furthest northern reaches of Britain.

  “You must be a learned man,” I remarked, picking up my shovel, “or else prey to a fevered imagination. Now I must go on with my work.”

  He continued to rave at me, and my comrades, as we piled up a great heap of earth and stones to form a rampart near one of the city’s northern gates, close to the Mausoleum of Augustus. I was fascinated by this enormous circular tomb, built by the first Emperor to house the earthly remains of the imperial family, but as yet had enjoyed no leisure to study it. Belisarius kept his soldiers hard at work, and none worked harder than the men of Bessas’ cohort.

  Procopius, of course, crawled all over the ancient ruins and monuments like an endlessly inquisitive ant, gasping and exclaiming at each new find. I rarely spoke to him now, thanks to my new duties, but he occasionally sought me out to enthuse about the wonders of Rome and its history. I believe Belisarius ordered him to check on me, out of concern for Caledfwlch.

  “That sword is a sacred trust,” Procopius would often say, “personally I would have wrenched it from your grasp long ago, and sent it for safe-keeping in Constantinople. It should be gathering dust among the other heirlooms of Empire, safely guarded in the deepest vault of the Great Palace.”

  “You are welcome to try and take it from me,” I said with a slight edge of warning in my voice, “Caledfwlch never leaves my sight. This sword is my constant companion. The only true and lasting friend I have ever known.”

  He sniffed. “I am not in the least bit surprised. You are a surly brute, entirely devoid of manners and graces, and it is like you to make friends with a bit of metal.”

  While we laboured and sweated to turn Rome back into the impregnable fortress she had once been, storm-clouds were gathering in the north of Italy. Vitiges had mustered his great host near Ravenna, every bit as strong and numerous as Procopius feared, and began his march on Rome.

  The ground must have quaked under the tread of so many men. I quaked in my camp-bed at night, picturing hordes of barbarians converging on the city, long lines of gleaming spears and black banners.

  The folly and arrogance of Justinian were thrown into stark relief. Our proud, ambitious little Caesar had sent us all to our deaths, while he sat in his splendid palace at Constantinople, safe and comfortable and s
urrounded by every conceivable luxury.

  At his side sat Theodora, that evil woman, as spiteful as she was beautiful, who had done her best to murder me. Her painted face faded from my mind, replaced by the ugly features of Narses, the dwarfish eunuch who had tried to break me and make me his agent. Was he behind the recent attempts on my life, or were Antonina and Photius still the Empress’s creatures? Who did Elene serve, and would I ever see her again?

  I will see you again, before you die…

  Those were her last words to me, at the ruins of the aqueduct outside Naples. It was the height of folly to suppose that she had meant them with affection. Any love that existed between us was dead, destroyed, like everything else good in my life, by the cruelty of my enemies.

  Everything except Caledfwlch. Try as they might, they could not take the sword from me. I hugged the blade at night, and in the small hours fancied that I could hear the voices of the trapped souls inside, whispering to me.

  Belisarius had no intention of sitting and waiting inside the city for the Goths to come to him. Despite his slender resources and numbers, he dispatched troops to conquer the surrounding countryside and capture towns and fortresses, hoping the presence of so many Roman garrisons would impede the Gothic advance.

  The region of Samnium submitted to us, and the city of Benevento opened its gates. Procopius visited Benevento, and was transported to new heights of ecstasy when he discovered the gigantic tusks of an ancient boar, some twenty-seven inches long and still sharp as a dagger. According to local legend, it had taken thirty warriors to bring down this demonic pig, which reminded of similar tales of the Twrch Trwyth in Britain.

  Bessas was sent out with some light horse to capture the hilltop town of Narni, strategically important as it occupied a key position on the Via Flamini, the road that connected Rome to the Adriatic Sea.

  I and my little troop were part of Bessas’ company, no more than two hundred strong, that rode out north of the Flaminian gate. The town itself was a pretty place, overhanging a narrow gorge over a river, and might have proved difficult to take had the citizens not yielded it up without a fight.

  “God grant that Vitiges comes soon,” Bessas grumbled, “I have not smelled blood since Naples. These people are too easily conquered.”

  We were soon to enjoy a surfeit of blood. In February another detachment of cavalry was sent out, this time commanded by Constantine – the grateful officer Procopius and I had rescued from the stake at Membresa – with some of Bessas’ troops in support.

  Constantine’s orders were to enter Tuscany and take the towns of Spoleto and Perugia. Again, the Italian citizens surrendered both places readily enough, and hailed us as friends rather than conquerors.

  Perugia was some fifty miles north of Rome, and directly on the Gothic line of march from Ravenna. Constantine was over-confident, and neglected to post scouts while he secured the town and chose men to leave behind as a garrison.

  A spearman patrolling the northern wall was the first to see them. “Horsemen to the north!” I heard him shout, his voice tinged with panic.

  I ran up the steps onto the walkway, followed by my men, and leaned over the wall to look north, where the sentry pointed his spear.

  There was a considerable haze of dust approaching from that direction, steadily growing larger as it rolled across the network of fields and woods outside the town, silhouetted against a backdrop of dreaming hills.

  The dust cleared a little, and I made out a troop of horsemen, eighty or so, riding in skirmish formation.

  “Nothing to worry about,” I muttered, willing it to be true, “probably a scouting party, miles ahead of Vitiges’ main army.”

  “You are wrong, sir,” said one of my men – the Heruli are a miserable lot, and insolent with it – “look there. More riders.”

  I could have cursed him, but he was right. My eighty horse-archers swiftly became a hundred, and then two hundred, and behind them sixty or so heavy cavalry, in scale mail and helmets with streaming horse-tail plumes, carrying large round shields and spathas as well as their long spears. This was surely no band of scouts, but part of the Gothic vanguard. The rest of their massive host could not be far behind.

  We might have stayed behind the walls of Perugia and left the Goths to ride around uselessly outside, for they had no infantry or siege equipment.

  “Vitiges will not waste time laying siege to Perugia,” I said confidently, “he will bypass us and march on to Rome.”

  Constantine, however, was not one for skulking behind walls. Trumpets sounded through the streets, summoning us to arms. Forcing down my excitement, I led my men to the stables where we had left our horses. We mounted and rode back to the northern gates.

  Our commander was already drawing up his men on the fields outside. He was an excitable figure, splendid as any Roman general in his polished armour, riding up and down in front of our line and howling at our men to get into position.

  We numbered almost three hundred riders, a few more than the Goths, and like them a mixture of horse-archers and mailed lancers. I led my men to join the rest of Bessas’ soldiers on the left wing, a hundred or so Huns and Heruls.

  Our little army was drawn up in three divisions. I glanced north, and my mouth dried up as I observed the Goths forming up for battle. Their own lancers were in the centre, with horse-archers spread out wide to right and left. A few of the braver souls rode forward to taunt us, shaking their spears and yelling insults.

  “Soldiers of Rome!” Constantine shouted, his face scarlet with the effort of shouting, “fear not these barbarians! Put your faith in God, cast your javelins at them, bring them down with your lances, and you shall have victory!”

  I had heard Belisarius make similar speeches on the eve of battle, and it was obvious that Constantine was consciously aping the general, even down to his splendid armour and style of oratory. Now he wanted to take his hero-worship and mimicry a step further, and win a great victory on the battlefield.

  To speak plain, Constantine had chosen to endanger his men simply to gratify his ego. He drew his sword with a flourish and shouted the order to attack.

  His tactics were unsubtle: straight at the Goths, hit them between the eyes – between the legs, as Bessas later described it with one of his feral grins – and scatter them to the four winds.

  Our left wing surged forward, with me and my ten Heruls in the front rank on the extreme left. To my right, our Hunnish lancers whooped and shrieked like the savages they were, urging their heavy horses into a gallop. Constantine galloped ahead of them, bent low over his beast’s neck.

  We spread out as we charged, to match the loose formation of the Gothic horse-archers. Half their number had peeled away to avoid contact and shoot into our flanks, while the rest spurred forward to engage us head-on.

  The most difficult skill a horse-soldier can learn is the art of shooting a bow from the saddle while controlling the horse with his knees. I had spent hundreds of hours in the camp of the Heruli trying to master it, with limited success.

  This was real combat, not a drill-yard, so instead I plucked one of the two light javelins hanging from my saddle and drew it to my shoulder, aiming at the contorted face of the Goth streaking towards me.

  He had put aside his bow and drawn a thin, curved sword. I let fly with my javelin. He wrenched his pony aside in time to avoid it, and the missile plunged harmlessly to his left. I had time to draw Caledfwlch before we closed, and then it was blade to blade as both sides surged together.

  All was chaos and noise and terror, horses shrieking, men shouting, steel clashing. I parried the Goth’s wild lunge, stabbed at his face, missed, punched him with the grip of Caledfwlch, yelled in pain as I bruised my knuckles on his bony jaw. It was enough to unseat him, and he fell away, vanishing among the conflicting waves of riders.

  A red-bearded face flashed before me. I drove the point of my sword at it and felt my wrist shudder with the impact. Blood spattered up my arm. I felt a surge of e
xultation – got one! – and looked around for my men. They were close behind me, spearing Goths with controlled fury and lethal efficiency.

  “On them!” I shouted, though they hardly needed telling, “cut them to pieces!”

  The rest of the fight is a blur. I killed another Goth, I think, and suffered a minor wound on the shoulder, but events are often compressed in my memory. Now it seems to me that only seconds passed before the Goths broke and fled. Constantine’s headlong charge had taken them by surprise, and our lancers were more numerous and superior to theirs.

  My men were eager to pursue the beaten enemy, but I held them back, not wishing to lose them among that great mass of men and horses retreating towards the hills. Constantine also kept a tight rein on his troops. His trumpeters sounded the recall, summoning back those of our men who hared after the Goths, while his silver-armoured figure rode back and forth, triumphant, over-excited, the light of victory shining in his eyes.

  He spotted me, biting back curses as one of my soldiers wrapped a bandage round the cut on my shoulder, and galloped over.

  “Coel!” he shouted, holding aloft his bloody sword, “my friend and saviour, it is good to see you! What a fight, eh? Look at them run! Have you taken a nick, then?”

  “It is nothing,” I said with forced modesty, and truly it was not, a shallow gash from a Gothic spear, but I have never been very good at enduring pain.

  He glanced at it with fleeting concern, and then his mind flitted back to higher matters. “Look at that!” he exclaimed, indicating the battlefield, “how many Goths did we kill, do you think? A hundred, at least!

  I did a quick head-count. Certainly there were more Goths stretched out on the field than Romans, but unlike them we could ill-afford the casualties. I was tempted to say so, but it seemed a shame to spoil Constantine’s little victory.