Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  The senators didn’t like it, but there was nothing they could do, and Belisarius refused to brook any further argument. They bowed, their eyes glittering with malice, and waddled out of the room, muttering darkly to each other.

  Belisarius puffed out his cheeks and slumped in his chair. Bessas spotted us, and leaned down to whisper in his ear.

  He suddenly came to life again. His eyes widened as they drank in Antonina, who was already advancing towards him. She swayed slightly as she walked, and I was hard-put not to fasten my eyes on that slender, elegant frame, carved and shaped by nature to entrap men and bend them to her will. She was always a greater natural beauty than her friend Theodora, whose physical charms coarsened with age, and had to be sustained and to some extent replaced by cosmetics.

  It worried me to see the light in Belisarius’ eyes, which shone for no-one on earth save his wife. He was Antonina’s slave, and guided by her in most things save the waging of war. His generals would have lost all respect for him if they thought his strategy was being dictated by his wife, and she was careful never to intervene.

  I had rarely observed the couple at such close quarters. It struck me how she wouldn’t let him get too near, warding off his embrace and kissing him chastely on the cheek.

  “Coel,” he said, noticing me for the first time, “back on your feet, I see. My wife has taken good care of you, then?”

  “The best, sir,” I replied, swallowing the bile that rose in my throat, “my shoulder is on the mend at last.”

  “Shame about your face, though,” he said with a grin. I had forgotten my broken nose, and carefully raised my hand to touch it. The damned thing had set awkwardly. Later, when I had leisure to peer at my reflection in a mirror made of polished metal, I found that my face, never my most attractive feature, now resembled that of an African ape.

  “We overheard your conversation with the senators, husband,” said Antonina, “it seems they have found their courage at last.”

  “Fools,” he growled, “they want me to arm the citizens and lead them out to face the Goths in the open. Our recent successes have convinced them that Vitiges will take one look at their swords and run away.”

  “If the Romans want to fight, let them,” said Bessas, “but without our aid. This city would be a lot easier to defend without the inhabitants whining and snapping at us.”

  “Rome emptied of Romans,” said Belisarius, rubbing his chin, “an attractive thought, though it would render our mission rather pointless.”

  He turned back to me. “Forgive me, Coel. We are neglecting you. Has my wife informed you of your promotion?”

  “The Lady Antonia was good enough to do so, sir,” I said woodenly, deliberately avoiding Antonina’s eye. I knew she was smirking, and longed to do or say something to wipe out her insufferable complacency, “though I hardly think I deserve such an honour. You made me a decanus, and I lost my entire command.”

  “That was none of your fault,” said Belisarius, “we lost over six hundred men at the Praenestine Gate. Many officers and men died. Your conduct, however, was exemplary. You fought at the Salarian Gate, in the defence of Hadrian’s mausoleum, and at the Praenestine Gate. Constantine assures me that the Goths would have taken the mausoleum, if you had not thought to use the statuary to repel them.”

  Using the statues as missiles had in fact been Ubaz’s idea, but he was no longer alive to claim the credit. I glanced at Constantine. At first I thought my unlooked-for promotion was mainly thanks to him, but then I received praise from an unexpected quarter.

  “I saw Coel stand his ground in the last fight,” said Bessas, his craggy face twisted into something like a smile, “even though he was exhausted and nigh-dead on his feet. I have no hesitation in approving his promotion.”

  I only stood my ground because I was pinned to the wall by a dead Hun, but it seemed impolitic to say so. God had seen fit to smile on me, which made a pleasant change from what he usually dropped on my head, and so I ate up the honey while it lasted.

  18.

  The siege wore on into spring. Neither side wished to risk another engagement. We could not afford the casualties, and Vitiges’ already dented prestige might not have survived another defeat. The Goths only respect strength in their kings, and expect them to provide victory after victory in the field. To be repeatedly defeated by a handful of inbred Romans and ill-disciplined Eastern mercenaries, as they perceived us, was an intolerable humiliation.

  Vitiges settled down to break our resistance through famine and blockade. He failed, however, to cut off the lines of communication between Rome and the Campanian coast, and in the latter days of April wonderful news arrived: a Roman fleet had arrived at last from Constantinople, carrying a squadron of Hunnish and Sclavonian cavalry.

  The troops had embarked at the end of the previous year, but storms had delayed the fleet’s departure and forced it to winter in Greece. They landed on the northern bank of the mouth of the Tiber, guarded by a fortress called the Port of Rome. The fort, along with the fortified town of Ostia on the southern bank, had once guarded the sea-passage into Rome, but the Goths had seized both. Even so, our reinforcements were able to get past the defences and ride along the ancient stone highway, eighteen miles in length, to the gates of the city.

  Our elation was short-lived. “Is that all?” exclaimed Procopius as we watched the riders enter the Salarian Gate, “a few hundred light cavalry? There must be more!”

  There were sixteen hundred in total, mostly horse-archers. They were a useful addition to our depleted garrison, but the sense of disappointment was palpable. Whether through envy or neglect or sheer poverty of resources, the Emperor had responded to Belisarius’ begging letters by sending a bare minimum of aid.

  Procopius, never Justinian’s greatest admirer, was beside himself with rage. “He wants Belisarius to fail,” he snarled, “the flatterers and traitors at court have poured so many lies into him, he can scarcely tell truth from falsehood any more. That evil whore of a wife has corrupted him with every form of degenerate vice. I tell you, Coel, Justinian is not fit to be called Caesar. He is not fit for anything save emptying the dung-pits of his slaves!”

  I clapped my hand over his mouth. We were standing in the street just inside the gate, where anyone might hear us, and Procopius had just uttered enough treason to condemn him several times over.

  “For God’s sake, mind your tongue,” I whispered, “if Belisarius overheard half of that, he would have no choice but to place you on trial. Do you want to hang?”

  “Belisarius would not lay a finger on me,” he sneered, pushing me away, “I know too much, and am far too valuable to him. Besides, I am sure he shares my opinion of our beloved ruler.”

  “Has he actually said as much?”

  “Not as such, but I know him, Coel. I have been his private secretary for many years, and I can read his thoughts. It wouldn’t take much for…”

  His voice trailed away, thank the Lord. Even he baulked at voicing the unspeakable, though I had occasionally heard our men talking of it in low voices when in their cups.

  Why were they fighting against desperate odds in the service of a distant Emperor who sent them little help, and who appeared not to care if his soldiers lived or died? Who was their real leader, the man who fought and suffered alongside them, who had led them to one improbable victory after another?

  Belisarius, of course. Why could the soldiers not raise a general to the purple, instead of Justinian? It had happened before, many times, during the turbulent years when the Roman Empire tore itself apart. Unlike Justinian, who sat idle in Constantinople and lived in luxury while his people suffered, Belisarius was the very image of a soldier-emperor, in the mould of Hadrian and Trajan and Marcus Aurelius.

  My history was patchy, but I seemed to recall that very few emperors whose authority relied on the army lasted very long. Being a learned historian, Procopius was well aware of this, but even he was starting to indulge treasonous thoughts. They
would curdle over the years, until his brilliant mind became tragically unhinged, and he wrote a series of disgraceful secret histories damning Justinian and his court in the most lurid and ridiculous terms. The histories were hidden, for once published his life would have been forfeit. I read a few fragments, and am very thankful they remain locked away in some obscure vault. May they never, God willing, see the light of day.

  Enraged at the ease with which our reinforcements had slipped past his outposts, Vitiges tightened his grip on Rome. His fleet blockaded the seas, and he made great efforts to cut off all contact between the city and our garrisons in the south. To that end he seized two ruined aqueducts which lay seven miles from Rome, the arches of which covered a substantial part of the country. His workmen turned these ruins into a makeshift fortress, blocking up the gaps with stone and clay, and inside it he placed a garrison of seven thousand men.

  We were now surrounded on all sides. With every day that passed, our supplies were reduced, and fresh Gothic reinforcements were seen on the horizon. As Belisarius had predicted, his Frankish allies had sent thousands of auxiliaries to aid Vitiges, and more troops were pouring in from Dalmatia and other Gothic provinces.

  The atmosphere inside the city grew desperate. Even Belisarius’ ingenious water-mills could not replenish our dwindling supplies of grain, and he was forced to halve the bread ration doled out to the citizens. Any civilization is only a few meals away from collapse, and the people of Rome were already demoralised by the long months of siege and Belisarius’ refusal to let them fight.

  In their extremity, the Romans started to forget Christ and revert to their ancient gods and pagan idolatries. I watched in disbelief as people sought comfort from a particularly shameless breed of charlatan known as soothsayers, who claimed to be able to read the future in mystic omens and the spilled guts of animals.

  “It’s all harmless enough,” Procopius assured me as we walked the streets together one afternoon, “let them believe in their omens and auguries. Such heathen antics are to be deplored, of course, but anything that keeps the mob quiet must also be tolerated.”

  I was off-duty, and inclined to spend most of my few leisure hours in his company. His lively conversation made a welcome change from attempting to communicate with the men of my new command, a hundred rough Isaurian spearmen from the wildest and most lawless regions of their native mountains. Belisarius had seen fit to put me in charge of a detachment of infantry, either because he didn’t trust me with cavalry, or because there was nothing else available. I preferred to believe the latter.

  We were walking near the Forum, the large rectangular plaza in the centre of Rome, surrounded by various splendid temples and government buildings. There were a number of soothsayers at large, emaciated men and women in patched robes, loudly proclaiming their nonsense while groups of wide-eyed, half-starved citizens looked on in fear and wonder, devouring every word.

  I stopped to observe a particularly large crowd gathered in front of one of the temples. It was a small, square monument to Janus, the two-faced god who looks to the future and the past, with ornate decorations on the roof, a latticed window and double doors made of rusted iron to front and rear. A garland of twisted rope hung over the doors at the front.

  “The doors to the Temple of Janus have been closed for centuries,” said Procopius, “it used to be the custom that they would stand open in times of war, and were closed in times of peace. Rome was usually at war with someone, so they more or less always stood open.”

  Some demagogue was standing on an upturned barrel beside the doorway, screaming at the crowd to break the garland and smash the doors open.

  “The fortunes of war have turned against us!” he bawled, spraying the mob with spittle, “and why, has this happened? Because we turned away from the old gods, who once watched over Rome during the high days of the Caesars, when our great city was the centre and heartbeat of the world!”

  Some of the like-minded souls in the crowd cheered, and he raised his fist in salute. “For too long has the statue of Janus sat in darkness! He presides over the beginning and ending of wars, and there shall be no end to this war unless we open these doors and allow light into his temple!”

  The mob surged forward and ripped away the garland, tearing it to pieces and stamping on it. Some of them wielded hammers and picks – I suspected that this little demonstration had been arranged beforehand – and started beating at the rusted iron doors.

  “This is against the law, you know,” said Procopius, “the worship of pagan idols was abolished when the Empire formally adopted Christianity. If an officer of the law was present, he would have no choice but to arrest the culprits.”

  He gave me a sly look. As a soldier, it was technically my duty to enforce the laws. I was also the only soldier in sight, and had no intention of risking my neck by standing between the Romans and their absurd deities.

  In any case, the doors were rusted firmly shut, and stood up against their blows. Janus remained in darkness, and for all I know still sits inside his little temple, neglected and forgotten, biding his time until the light of Christ fades from the world and men turn back to the old ways.

  There was no end to the trouble caused by these Romans, who we had been sent to rescue from barbarian slavery. Their senators, urged on by the mass of the people, continued to harass Belisarius, pleading with him to let them march out and confront the Goths. Some of his officers added their voices to the chorus, arguing that the Goths would not expect us to sally out in force.

  If our men, who should have known better, had kept quiet, then Belisarius might have safely ignored the yelping of the Romans. As it was, he started to buckle. This alarmed me, for the last time he yielded to the protests of others, and gave battle against his better judgment, was at Callinicum against the Sassanids. That battle had ended in defeat, though Belisarius managed to stage a fighting retreat and save the greater part of the Roman army.

  At last my fears were realised. Belisarius gave way to these combined demands, and declared his intention to march out in force and attack the Goths.

  19.

  Belisarius was cautious, else I would not be here now, blinking wearily at this parchment and praying for strength to ignore the rheumatic pains in my wrist. My candle burns low, and the shadows lengthen.

  The general split his army in two. Led by himself, the main part sallied out of the Pincian and Salarian gates to engage the Gothic troops north of the city, while a band of cavalry under two officers named Valerian and Martinus attacked the Goths encamped west of the Tiber, on the Plains of Nero, to prevent them helping their comrades to the north.

  These men were reinforced by the Roman citizens, a disorderly rabble of poorly-armed militia, and a detachment of Moorish cavalry. Belisarius did what he could to ensure that the Romans came to no harm, and gave them strict orders to act as a last-ditch reserve. They were to take up position to the rear, at the foot of the city walls, and not move unless the officers summoned them.

  Belisarius spent the morning arranging his men near the gates, but waited until after midday before ordering the attack. The century of Isaurians in my charge were part of his main army, again under the overall command of Bessas, who seemed to have taken a liking to me.

  Unlike the Heruls, I had little in common with the Isaurians, who I found to be sullen and intractable, and fond of playing at dumb insolence when I gave them orders. They made great play of struggling to understand my accent, cupping their ears and exchanging baffled glances when I addressed them.

  At last, on the evening before the battle, I lost patience and had the chief offender tied to a barrel and flogged by two of his comrades until the blood flowed down his hairy back. After that, they seemed to regard me with a degree of grudging respect, and I felt a little more confident leading them into battle.

  Cleverly, Belisarius commanded his men to stand down and take some food, hoping to deceive the Goths into thinking he had put off the attack. The ploy worked,
and the Gothic squadrons arrayed for battle on the plains north of the walls started to break up.

  “Open the gates!” Belisarius shouted. He and Bessas were in command of the infantry, while he had entrusted his six hundred Hunnish cavalry to a trio of officers from Persia and Thrace.

  The smaller Pincian Gate was flung open, and our cavalry streamed out of the city. Bessas led the infantry through the Salarian Gate at a more orderly pace, column by column, to deploy in squadrons just beyond the outer ditch. We were not to advance, but act as a reserve to cover the retreat of our cavalry in case they were defeated and thrown back.

  In truth, I doubt Belisarius had set his heart on winning that battle. The Goths were too many, and he had only consented to fight in order to prevent a mutiny among the officers and senators. He was handed a stark choice of sacrificing the lives of his men in order to please their vanity, or refusing their demands and risking a full-scale revolt.

  His leadership and authority were on a knife-edge at all times, just one wrong decision removed from catastrophe. Such had the ancient Roman virtues of discipline and respect for higher authority fallen away in these degenerate latter days.

  I was privileged, if that is the word, to observe a battle from afar rather than risking my neck in the midst of one.

  All went well for a time. Our Hunnish and Sclavonian horse-archers skillfully charged and retreated, avoiding contact with the superior numbers of Gothic lancers and spearmen and showering them with arrows. Despite their appalling losses, the Goths held their line and refused to advance. They had learned to be wary of Belisarius, and feared moving forward in case they fell into some clever ambush.

  There was no ambush. Belisarius’ one aim was to kill as many Goths as possible before ordering a general advance. Sweat clouded my eyes and rolled down my back, already boiling inside layers of leather and mail, as I imagined our meagre squadrons being ordered forward to engage that great mass of barbarians.