Their voices died away when Photius announced our presence by stamping his feet and raising his hand in salute. His mother’s eyes snapped open, and she sat upright on her couch. Curse the woman, but I believe she actually winked at me.
“Photius,” said Belisarius, rubbing his bristly jaw, his tired eyes flicking between me and my captors, “what is this? Why have you brought the faithful Coel here, loaded down with chains?”
“It gives me no joy to be here,” replied Photius, still standing stiffly to attention, “but there is one who can explain better than me.”
Presidius shuffled into the hall, followed by his Persian guards. They were big, striking men, with oiled and plaited beards and ornate armour, and wore curved scimitars at their hips. Hired, no doubt, with some of the tainted gold Antonina had tipped into his purse.
“Sir,” he trilled, mopping his sweating chops with a plump hand, “it grieves me to inform you that this officer, Coel, has brought disgrace upon himself and the honour of Roman arms. Seven nights since, as I lay asleep in my quarters, I saw him steal into my bedchamber and remove a pair of golden daggers from my chest. The daggers were virtually all that remained of my fortune, the majority of which, as you know, I had to leave behind in Spoleto.”
The guardsman carrying the daggers stepped forward and produced them with a flourish from inside his cloak, holding them up for all to see.
Belisarius screwed his eyes shut and rubbed his face, clearly struggling to comprehend this fresh and unwelcome development.
“For God’s sake,” he muttered, “as if we did not have enough to occupy our time. Photius, could you not have waited until tomorrow before bringing this to my attention?”
“I am sorry, sir,” Photius replied smartly, “but I felt the matter was best deal with quickly. The dishonourable and criminal conduct of this officer casts shame on us all.”
Belisarius looked to his officers for help. Bessas and Troglita were dumbfounded, but Constantine appeared to be in the grip of a fever. He held onto the table for support, his face grey and drained of colour. I have already hinted at what an emotional and unstable man he was, ruled by his passions, and how he regarded me with something like hero-worship for rescuing him at Membresa. Now he was exposed to the sight of his idol, stripped of honour and dignity and charged with a crime abominable in its vulgarity. Theft! Any Roman officer worth his salt would open his veins before even thinking of committing such a low act.
To do him credit, though it worked against me in this instance, Belisarius never shirked his duty. As commander-in-chief and de factor governor of Rome, he was responsible for dispensing justice, and obliged to hold a court-martial.
He wearily ordered the table to be cleared away, and held the trial there and then, seated as chief justice with Bessas and Troglita as subordinates. A slave was sent to rouse Procopius from his bedchamber next to the general’s quarters, to act in my defence.
The secretary came, grumbling and rubbing his eyes, and looked startled at the scene laid out before him. Just a few short hours ago, we had been sitting and prosing around a camp-fire, and now here I was on trial for my life.
“Coel,” said Belisarius when I was brought before his chair, “this is a grave matter. Have you anything to say?”
“Just this,” I replied, looking him square in the eye, “the charges against me are patently false. You know me, sir, and that I have never looked for private gain. I have very little in this world, but that little contents me. The notion that I would steal into another officer’s bedchamber and take his possessions is absurd.”
Procopius loudly cleared his throat and looked to Belisarius for permission to speak. It was granted with a nod from the chair, and he turned to fix Presidius with a malicious eye.
“Are we to believe,” he said, speaking slowly and clearly, every word dripping with sarcasm, “that Coel, a fine officer who has done nothing but distinguish himself in the service of Rome, decided to implicate himself in such a clumsy and foolish crime? And that Presidius” – here he stabbed an accusing finger at the quaking Italian – “simply lay there in bed as the thief went about his work, too frightened to challenge him or raise the alarm? Would not a soldier of Rome, even such a mediocre one as this, have made some attempt to defend his property?”
Presidius nervously rubbed his hands, and attempted to summon up the ghost of his old arrogance.
“My courage is not on trial here,” he squeaked, “I was somewhat mazed with drink, and the sudden appearance of the thief surprised me. He was gone almost before I could speak.”
“Ah!” Procopius clasped his hands. “You were the worse for wine. So drunk, in fact, you neglected to lock and bar your door before retiring?”
Presidius gave a nervous little jerk of his head, and replied this was so.
“And you are certain the thief was Coel?” Procopius pressed, “mazed, as you put it, with drink, you were able to see him?
“I keep a candle burning through the night,” replied the other, his voice unsteady and thick with deceit, “the light fell across Coel’s face as he ran from the room. I am certain, beyond a shred of doubt, that it was him.”
Procopius paused for a moment, frowning and pulling at his lower lip. “Seven days,” he said at last, “you waited seven days before bringing this charge against the accused. Why wait?”
“Rome was under threat, and every man was needed to meet the Goths in the field. I did not wish to harm our cause with an unnecessary distraction.”
It was feeble stuff, and I could see Procopius champing at the bit to tear Presidius’s story to shreds, but now Photius intervened.
“Consider, sirs,” he said, “Coel is a poor man, and getting on in years. Despite his fine record of service, he is still unmarried and childless, with no property and no money save his soldier’s wage. His only possession is an old sword of little value beyond the sentimental. He sees a brother officer, a lesser man than he in terms of merit and ability, but possessed of wealth in the form of two golden daggers.”
He snapped his fingers. “Something breaks under the strain of envy and greed. He casts aside his honour, the honour that has brought him nothing save a couple of minor promotions and a host of old wounds, and stoops to base robbery. Presidius came to speak with me earlier this evening. Acting on his information, we arrested Coel and found the daggers on his person.”
“Liar!” I shouted, goaded beyond measure, but his guards hauled me back. My fingers convulsed, aching to wrap around his throat.
Belisarius didn’t know what to make of it. He might have thrown out the charge of theft as ridiculous and ill-founded, if not for the involvement of Photius. Once again, Antonina proved to be the blind spot in his judgment. For his darling wife’s sake, he had always looked on her son with affection, and struggled to believe that he would willingly participate in some crude plot against a fellow officer.
The general drew himself up. “This affair shall be deferred until tomorrow evening,” he said, “for now, we have far more pressing matters to attend to. Until then, the daggers shall be restored to their owner, and Coel shall be confined to barracks.”
I felt relieved at his judgment. Deferring the trial until the next day, when he was refreshed and could think clearly, was just the respite I had hoped for. Viewed in the cold and unforgiving light of day, the case against me would seem even more flimsy.
Constantine, the fool, chose this moment to intervene. “This trial is a sham,” he declared, stepping between me and Belisarius, “and I can prove it with my own testimony.”
“Be silent, man,” snapped Bessas, but Constantine ignored him.
“Presidius is mistaken,” he said, “for it was not Coel who stole into his chamber and took the daggers. It was me.”
A stunned silence fell over the hall. I stared at Constantine, and for a second wondered if he had run mad. Then the truth dawned: he was sacrificing himself on my behalf, as payment for rescuing him. He had often promised to clear the de
bt between us, in spite of my protests, and here was his opportunity.
To my eternal shame, I let him do it. I opened my mouth to deny his testimony, but the words stuck in my throat. Survival was all, and my instinct for self-preservation proved stronger than my sense of honour.
The affair was now clearly beyond Belisarius. He gaped like a landed fish at Constantine, raised his hands, and lowered them again. Photius and Presidius were at a total loss – this wasn’t part of their scheme – and Antonina’s face was a mask of barely concealed fury. Seeing her so distraught went a little way to compensating for my shame.
The game was slipping away from her, but she was not quite swept from the board. With a rustle of silks, she rose from her couch and approached Belisarius’ chair.
“A crime has been committed,” she said, resting a pale hand, glimmering with silver rings, on her husband’s shoulder, “it is your duty to see that justice is done, and the offender punished. Whoever he may be.”
Her eyes briefly met mine. There was no patronising mockery in them now, just sheer hatred burning like twin flames in the depths of her irises.
For once, Belisarius resisted her will. “I make no judgments tonight,” he said, gently patting her hand, “we must have more time to consider the facts. It is a complex case, and Coel deserves a fair trial.”
Constantine panicked. “No!” he shouted, “we will have a judgment now!”
God help me, he drew his sword and rushed at Belisarius. The general’s instincts saved him. He threw himself sideways out of his chair – a half-second earlier, and the blade would have plunged into his heart.
The whole incident lasted mere seconds, but is engraved on my memory in a sequence of tableaus, like friezes carved from stone. Bessas and Troglita leaped on Constantine and bore him to the ground. His sword clattered on the tiles as it was wrenched from his grip.
Panting, but unhurt, Belisarius got to his feet, gesturing at his wife to stand back. She looked genuinely frightened, though whether from concern for his well-being, or the loss of prestige she would suffer if he died, I could not tell. Events had now spiraled beyond her control, and she was incapable of wresting back the initiative.
Or so I thought. For assaulting a superior officer with intent to kill, Constantine had condemned himself to death. It was a split-second decision, and perhaps by doing so he hoped to absolve me completely. Certainly, the focus was now on him.
He was entitled to a trial, just as I was. While Bessas and Troglita held Constantine down, Antonina took her husband to one side and spoke urgently to him. I cast a hopeless glance at Procopius, who looked solemn and gave a little shake of his head, as if warning me not to do or say anything unwise.
When Antonina had finished, Belisarius stood still and silent for a moment, staring bleakly at the floor. Then he raised his hand and summoned two of his guards. They were half-hidden in the shadows to the rear of the hall, and I had failed to see them until now.
“Take that man to a side-room,” he said, pointing at Constantine, “and strangle him.”
21.
Constantine’s death was my salvation. Unwilling to risk any more scandal, Belisarius refused to credit the charges against me, or to listen to any more pleas from Photius and Presidius. He dismissed us all, and gave orders that for the time being I should stay in Procopius’ quarters, with a guard on the door. The golden daggers were restored to Presidius, who had never really lost them, and Caledfwlch to my keeping.
The execution without trial of Constantine cast a long shadow over Belisarius’ reputation. All the suspicions that he was a pawn of his wife, easily manipulated by her – and through her, by the Empress – were confirmed, and for a time he lost the respect of his captains. Only his record of virtually unbroken military success, and his enduring popularity among the men, saved him from being ousted. Bessas, for one, never quite held Belisarius in the same high regard again, though he continued to serve under him.
Ridden with guilt, for I knew that my failure to speak at the right time had helped to damn Constantine, I was escorted to Procopius’s quarters and given a bed in an antechamber.
There I remained for three days, sweating on my fate. Procopius was absent for most of the time, being required to attend on Belisarius. When he returned, usually late at night, he was tired but polite enough, though the old intimacy that had existed between us was gone. I had become a dangerous man to know, too dangerous even for him, and the shadow of the noose hung over my head.
On the third evening of my confinement Procopius returned with four of Belisarius’ guards at his back, and summoned me to the general’s presence.
“What is to become of me?” I asked, rising. Procopius looked grim, and the guards regarded me with hostile eyes, as though I was responsible for their master’s shame.
“You will find out soon enough,” the secretary replied curtly.
We trooped down the shadowy corridor to Belisarius’ own bedchamber, which had six guards on the door instead of the usual two. Evidently he felt threatened, and feared that erstwhile comrades might make an attempt on his life. I gave a wry smile. Now Belisarius knew how I felt all the time.
We entered to find him in his nightgown and perched in a window seat overlooking the northern walls of Rome. Hundreds of lights glimmered in the darkness beyond, the campfires of the Gothic army.
He turned from his vigil to regard us somberly, hands folded behind his back, like a disapproving schoolmaster.
“My wife is not here,” he said without greeting or preamble, “I have decided to send her to Naples, and she and her ladies are preparing for the journey. She will be safer there, and can wait out the rest of the war in peace.”
“You will be glad of that,” he said, nodding at me, “I know now that Antonina is no friend of yours. It pains me to discover the enmity between my wife and one of my best officers. Despite that, you are also going to Naples.”
I stood silent, waiting patiently for an explanation. Unless he had run mad, presumably he did not mean to send myself and Antonina off together.
Belisarius turned back to the latticed window. “Look at that,” he murmured, indicating the Gothic fires, “they are inexhaustible. No matter how many of the barbarians we kill, fresh men spring up from the earth to replace them. All the while our numbers dwindle, and our supplies run low. Did you know the citizens have started to eat grass, Coel?”
The question startled me. “I had heard something, sir,” I replied unsteadily, “but witnessed nothing of the sort.”
“It is true,” he said, nodding sadly, “the poor are reduced to eating herbs and grasses, and eating the flesh of mules. The meat is tainted, since the animals died of disease, and now a pestilence is sweeping through the poor quarters of Rome. I have ordered fresh corn to be distributed, but there isn’t enough to feed all. My physicians do what they can, but nothing can stop the sickness from spreading.”
He ran his hands down his bearded cheeks. “God forgive us. What misery and destruction we have brought to this city. All for some vain, foolish dream of restoring the glory of the Western Empire. Glory! What glory? We have brought nothing but death. No, do not absolve your guilt by blaming mere soldiers, who must follow orders and do their duty. I, Belisarius, have brought nothing but death. Yet I must perform my own duty, and see the game through to the end.”
I had never heard Belisarius speak his heart so honestly. He seemed to have forgotten our presence, and looked up with a start when Procopius gave a discreet little cough.
“Coel,” said Belisarius, “our poor, persecuted Briton. You must have often cursed the day your mother fled your homeland and came halfway across the world to find refuge in Constantinople. Some refuge. It is a miracle you are still alive, but I must ask you to perform another duty. You will leave Rome, tonight, in the company of Procopius, and make your way through the Gothic lines. Once you reach Naples, you will send out orders for our garrisons scattered about Campania to send part of their men to muster
at the city.”
“We must have reinforcements,” he said, leaning forward to stare intently at me, “if the Emperor sends none, then I have no choice but to weaken our garrisons elsewhere. You will handle the military aspect of the mission. Procopius is tasked with devising some way of getting provisions into the city from the south. Our stores of corn will soon be expended. Without fresh supplies, the Romans may soon revert to even older practices than the worship of pagan gods, and start eating each other.”
The quest was a daunting one, with much risk involved, but at least the shadow of execution had lifted. Whether Belisarius wanted me out of the city just to perform a useful service, or because my presence was an embarrassment to him, I could not be certain. Whatever his motives, I was grateful to go.
I had one question. “What of Photius, sir? Is he to accompany his mother to Naples?”
Belisarius gazed at me for a full minute before replying. “No. He stays here.”
Where I can keep my eye on him, he might have added, but I didn’t press the issue. Antonina’s scheming son would remain stranded in Rome, where I sincerely hoped he might catch a Gothic arrow in his throat before too much longer. Meanwhile I was being given an opportunity to escape well beyond his reach.
Procopius and I, along with six Huns as an escort, left the city soon after midnight via the gate of Saint Paul. This gate was located at the beginning of the road that connected Rome to Ostia, the fortified coastal town that the Goths had seized shortly after the beginning of the siege.
It was a black, moonless night, and we departed like thieves, clad in dark cloaks and mantles and with mufflers wrapped around our horses’ hoofs.
At first we led the beasts on foot, wishing to spare them in case we needed to escape pursuit later. The lights of the Gothic camp were at their fewest here, since they already held Ostia and there was no possible escape for us in that direction.
Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns Page 42
