Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  Fond dreams, for an ageing ex-charioteer and thoroughly mediocre junior officer in the Roman army. Besides, my life was forfeit: I had somehow contrived to make an enemy of most of the great ones in Constantinople, including the Empress Theodora, her friend Antonina, and the scheming eunuch Narses. It was only thanks to the protection of Belisarius, who had smuggled me out of Constantinople before the net could close around me, that I still breathed.

  Even in Italy, far from the imperial court, my enemies had struck at me. Antonina, as was her habit, had accompanied her husband Belisarius on the campaign, and brought her vile son Photius. Photius had tried to kill me at least once, at the Battle of Membresa, and there had been other attempts on my life.

  “I must leave,” I said suddenly, blurting out my thoughts, “I must quit the empire. It is my only chance of survival.”

  Procopius nodded slowly. “I am inclined to agree with you. I have never known a man with a such a talent for making enemies. Powerful enemies. I think your escape can be arranged, but not now. After this campaign is over, perhaps. Belisarius will not let you go just yet. He needs you.”

  It seemed absurd, the idea that Belisarius was so reliant on one lowly officer, but I had the value of being loyal. The common soldiers loved their general, who had led them to one victory after another, but his captains were a treacherous, backstabbing crew, jealous of his success and always looking to criticise his decisions.

  “He may yet promote you to centenar,” said Procopius with a sly wink, “or even higher, depending how desperate he gets.”

  Shortly afterwards the walls of Naples became visible, a shimmering white line on the horizon to the west, and Procopius was distracted by a trail of dust to the north.

  “Gothic scouts, possibly,” he muttered, “let us investigate.”

  I was surprised by his ardour, for he was not a military man, but we swung north until more horsemen came in view. Two columns arranged in double file, advancing at the trot in the direction of Naples.

  I did a swift head-count. “Two hundred,” I said, “and they are ours. See, they fly Roman banners. Someone else has been out, stripping the garrisons of men.”

  Procopius was piqued, for he regarded the task of collecting reinforcements as his alone. He thought John the Sanguinary was responsible, and cursed the young nobleman for an insolent wolf-cub (among other things) all the way back to Naples.

  We arrived to find the city in ferment, and one name rippling through the crowded streets:

  Antonina!

  The mere sound of it filled me with dismay. Belisarius had smuggled his wife out of Rome, away from danger, and sent her south with a strong guard to await the outcome of the war in the peaceful tranquillity of Naples.

  He little knew his wife. Antonina had taken up residence in the governor’s palace, from where she immediately despatched agents to gather men from the surrounding province. To do her credit, she had no intention of wallowing in comfort while her husband fought to defend Rome, and did her utmost to send him military aid.

  I was wary of entering the palace, reluctant to let Antonina know my presence in Naples, but I misjudged my own importance: she was already embroiled in fresh plots and intrigues, and betraying her husband on a nightly basis with one Theodosius, a staggeringly handsome young man and Belisarius’ godson. I was no longer of relevance to her, though I continued to tremble in fear of receiving an assassin’s blade in my back one dark night. Like her friend and ally, the Empress Theodora, she was terribly unforgiving.

  At last, when over five hundred levies had been gathered, it was agreed that our cavalry should advance north towards Rome along the Appian Way, escorting the train of wagons, loaded with corn and wine, for the relief of the city. Meanwhile our fleet, carrying three thousand Isaurian infantry, would sail for the port of Ostia. This was the plan devised by John the Sanguinary, and none cared to contradict it.

  “If all goes awry,” remarked Procopius, who had taken a dislike to John, “then at least we shall witness a swift end to the career of a most unpleasant and unpromising young officer.”

  Procopius was of a vindictive nature, and relied on gut instinct to assess people: I could never fathom, for instance, why he took such a liking to me.

  I shared some of his dislike of John, who struck me as arrogant and vainglorious, but there was no other senior man present in Naples to lead our troops north. Besides, his pretty ways and noble birth appealed to Antonina, and she had no hesitation in naming him our commander.

  I joined the cavalry, placing myself among the Heruls, whose ways I knew well, and our relief force set out north.

  To Rome.

  3.

  We followed the Appian Way, the ancient paved highway, worn smooth with centuries of use, linking Rome to southeast Italy. I fully expected us to be attacked, and to have to fight our way to Rome over mountains of Gothic corpses, but our progress was uninterrupted.

  Occasionally I glimpsed Gothic scouts on the horizon, but no body of enemy soldiers appeared to block our line of march.

  “Vitiges is looking north,” Procopius said confidently when I voiced my fears to him, “all his attention is fixed on Rome. He pays no heed to what is happening behind him. Fool! Belisarius is lucky in his enemies. Not one of the barbarian kings he has faced is his equal in war.”

  This was true enough, though Vitiges, King of the Goths, enjoyed a reputation as an able and ferocious soldier. I had never even seen him, though he was said to be a typical chieftain of his race, tall and auburn-haired and dripping with gold ornaments.

  John the Sanguinary was far less of a toy soldier than he appeared. He was careful to despatch scouts, to look for any sign of the Goths, and when we were some five miles from Rome they returned at the gallop.

  “General Belisarius has sallied out from the Pincian Gate,” one of them reported breathlessly, “almost his entire garrison is engaged with the Gothic host, in pitched battle on the plain before the city.”

  John’s carefully plucked eyebrows shot up. “Not as cautious as you thought, eh?” I remarked, and returned his frown with a grin. In days of old he might have had me flogged for such insolence to a superior officer, but the legendary discipline of the Roman army was much decayed.

  “It is a distraction,” said Procopius, “Belisarius must have learned of our arrival, and has engaged the Goths to give us time to reach Ostia and meet up with the fleet. When he learns we have safely passed through the enemy lines, he will withdraw back inside Rome.”

  John hesitated. The city lay to the north-east, and we were following the section of highway that led straight to the port of Ostia. Just visible to the north was the section of ruined aqueduct that Vitiges had partially repaired and turned into a fortress, guarding the approach to Rome.

  “You,” said John, flicking a finger at me, “remind me of your name.”

  “Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur,” I replied promptly.

  “Ah, yes. The general’s tame Briton. I have heard something of you. Brave and loyal, they say. Let us test those qualities. I want you to take five hundred men – the ones we levied in Campania will do – and ride north-east to assist Belisarius. Meanwhile the rest of our force will continue north and press on towards Ostia.”

  I stared at him, suddenly regretting my insolence of a moment earlier. “But, sir,” I protested, “I am a mere infantry officer, and have never commanded more than ten men in the field.”

  He smiled lazily at me. “Then here is an unrivalled opportunity to prove your worth. You ride rather well for an infantryman. Let us see how you lead.”

  John was the commander, and there was no gainsaying his orders. I turned away, trying to ignore the jealous stares of the more senior captains who should have been sent in my stead.

  Procopius touched my shoulder. “He thinks you will fail,” he whispered, “but I have every confidence in your ability. Do well, and you may receive your promotion sooner than we thought.”

  My orders were to lead my new c
ommand north, straight through the heart of the Gothic camp, and do as much damage to the enemy as possible before withdrawing. I was fairly certain John didn’t care about our fate – I was a mere Briton, a barbarian from the distant north, and my men were the scrapings of local garrisons – but wanted to ensure he got his two thousand cavalry to Ostia.

  Feeling giddy, I put myself at the head of the levies and glanced up at their banner or bandos, flapping limply in the slight wind above my head. It displayed the double-headed Roman eagle, worked in gold thread against a red field.

  I had followed the eagle in one bloody campaign after another, from North Africa to Sicily to Italy. For much of that time I had fought as a common soldier, free of the burden of rank and responsibility. My one stint as an officer, as a decanus in charge of a handful of Heruls and Isaurians, had been mercifully brief. Arthur’s blood ran in my veins, but not his natural talent for leadership.

  Now John the Sanguinary had tossed me command of a complete detachment of Roman cavalry. My guts rumbled as I felt five hundred pairs of eyes fastened on me, watching, waiting. Swallowing, I raised my arm and nodded at the trumpeter to give the signal to advance.

  I led them on at the canter, skirting the ruins of the aqueduct and aiming for some open, flat ground with a large timber stockade to the north-west. If the Goths should suddenly spring on us, at least we would have room to manoeuvre.

  Tattered Gothic banners displaying their crude symbols of the horse and the bull flapped from the walls of the stockade, and the upper levels of the aqueduct-fortress. I glimpsed a few helmeted heads, and expected the timber gates of the stockade to yawn open at any moment, disgorging thousands of screaming Gothic cavalry. They are fine horsemen, though they have no mounted bowmen as good as our Huns and Heruls, and enjoyed a massive advantage in numbers: over a hundred and fifty thousand Goths were encamped around the walls of Rome, an entire nation in arms.

  Nothing happened. The Gothic sentries ducked out of sight, as though frightened of a mere five hundred Roman cavalry, and we thundered on past endless rows of empty tents and doused cooking fires.

  It was unnerving. The whole of that vast encampment, spread out on the fields south of Rome, was emptied of troops. It was not deserted: we rode past tents full of sick and wounded men, and somewhere a war-horn sounded the alarm, but there weren’t enough soldiers left to oppose us. We might have plundered the baggage wagons and set the rest of the camp on fire – and plenty of Roman captains would have forgot their duty and done just that – but I stuck to my orders.

  The sound of a gathering storm lured us north, towards the walls of Rome. As we drew closer, the sounds became more distinct; the rumble of hoofs, shrieks of terrified horses and dying men, the scrape and clash of weapons - war-cries, screams, conflicting orders, war-horns sounding advance and retreat, the zip of arrows and barrage of drums. All the noise and chaos and terror of battle. It was a familiar, heady, intoxicating din, both terrifying and appealing, quickening a man’s blood at the same time as driving him almost mad with fear.

  I halted on a little rise overlooking the battlefield, drinking in the sight and sound of slaughter.

  Thus far in the Italian campaign, Belisarius had suffered only one defeat in battle against the Goths, and this was down to the cowardice and indiscipline of the Roman citizens who insisted on fighting alongside our men. He had learned his lesson, and I can compare the battle I witnessed before the walls of Rome that day as akin to a skilled boxer in the arena holding off a heavier, clumsier opponent: our horse-archers swarmed forward, isolating bands of Gothic footmen and riding around them in circles, shooting them down in droves. The slow, heavily armoured Gothic cavalry lumbered forward to support the infantry, but our men swiftly retreated in good order, behind the safety of our phalanxes of infantry, drawn up in disciplined squares before the Pincian Gate.

  Despite his overwhelming advantage in numbers, Vitiges’ only chance of victory was to break the iron wall of our infantry. He threw his horsemen against the lines of shields time and again, like waves lashing at a rocky shore. Time and again the Goths were repulsed, leaving the broken bodies of men and horses strewn about the bloody, churned-up ground. Any gaps in the Roman infantry squares were quickly filled, plugged with fresh bodies from the reserves Belisarius had drawn up behind the front lines.

  I could see his banner, fluttering above the heads of the infantry. His golden-armoured figure would be at the head of his bucelarii, the elite Roman cavalry, waiting for the Goths to tire so he could lead them forward in a shattering, all-out charge. It was the same tactic he had used against the Sassanids at Dara, and the Vandals at Tricamarum, and on both occasions proved devastatingly successful.

  It was midmorning, and the fighting had been going on some time. I thought Belisarius had advanced dangerously far outside the gates, beyond the defensive cover of the ditch. The Goths were concentrating their attacks on the exposed flanks of his infantry, and if these were smashed the entire Roman army might be rolled up.

  Directly in front of my position, not thirty feet away, were the rear lines of the Gothic reserves. They were mostly infantry, mailed and armed with long spears and heavy round shields, and had their broad backs to us.

  I had to act before they noticed our presence. For a terrifying moment I was seized with indecision, the curse of men promoted beyond their station and ability. The blood ran cold in my veins. My fingers froze on the hilt of Caledfwlch, and the order to charge dried up in my throat.

  Shaking with terror, I had enough presence of mind left to nod meaningfully at the trumpeter. He raised the curved bugle to his lips and blew a long, sharp blast, causing my horse to rear and toss her head in panic. I fumbled with her reins, my fingers slipping, and she bolted, straight towards the Gothic lines.

  “Roma Victor!” I croaked. The strangled cry was taken up by my men, and then they were surging after me, baying like hounds racing in for the kill.

  We were among the Goths before they knew what had hit them. I managed to regain control of my horse, and steered her with my knees, Herul-style, stabbing right and left with Caledfwlch.

  My strange initial panic had passed. The Gothic spearmen scattered, their ordered ranks dissolving into a mob of confused and frightened men, taken unawares as they watched the battle unfold before the gates of Rome.

  They outnumbered my levies at least three to one, but we had the advantage of surprise. I did my best to make it count, urging my horse deeper into their squadrons, bellowing like a mad bull. Caledfwlch was slippery to the hilt with barbarian blood, and my men did terrible execution, fanning out to strike down the fugitives with spears and spathas.

  We carved a lane right through the centre of the Gothic army, until I found myself in the heart of the storm, surrounded by fighting men, on foot and horseback, stabbing and hacking at each other. Great clouds of dust rolled and billowed across the field, tinted by red mist. Bodies lay everywhere, twitching and bleeding in their death-throes, and the ground was littered with broken weapons, fallen standards and bits of abandoned gear.

  A division of heavy Gothic cavalry were entangled with some of our infantry and a unit of horse-archers. My levies had crashed into the heaving, surging combat, and now all was confusion, officers losing sight of their commands as Roman and Gothic banners dipped and mingled in the throng, a meaningless riot of colour.

  I was fighting for my life, and had little idea of the general progress of the battle, but was later able to piece events together. Belisarius had deliberately advanced too far beyond the Pincian Gate, and exposed his flanks to a Gothic counter-attack.

  Vitiges seemed to have forgotten who he was fighting, and blundered straight into the trap. At about the time my levies were making short work of the Gothic spearmen, Belisarius had sounded the retreat, and his entire army was trying to withdraw back to Rome. Smelling blood, the Goths pursued with wild abandon, thinking they had the Romans at their mercy.

  I knew little of what was happening, having lo
st touch with most of my command in the general chaos. The trumpeter and standard bearer had stuck close to my side, and I looked around for some high ground, where I might try to rally my scattered men.

  A blast of trumpets and bucinae rose above the hellish, ear-splitting noise of battle. I glanced north, and saw the Roman banners moving away, back towards the grey walls of Rome. The eagle was retreating.

  The Goths uttered a great shout of triumph, and the sea of bodies around me suddenly lurched, as though a powerful current had run through it. I found myself carried along, helpless against the tide, crouched low over my horse’s neck as enemy warriors stampeded past me, chanting their war-songs.

  To raise my head in that heaving mass meant death. Somehow my horse kept her footing, and not one Goth stopped to turf me out of the saddle. They had a greater quarry to chase.

  When the din had died down a little, I risked glancing up, and found myself alone. The plain around me was deserted, save for a few scattered corpses and the occasional riderless horse, peacefully cropping at the trampled grass.

  I gently turned my shuddering horse about, and looked upon the destruction of the Gothic army.

  The Romans had fled with all speed to the Pincian Gate, hotly pursued by the enemy. To the west, close to the banks of the Tiber, lay the Flaminian Gate, which Belisarius had ordered blocked up with rubble. I had done my part to seal the gate, sweating in the Italian sun as I heaved lumps of stone onto the pile under the arch.

  Unknown to me, and certainly to the Goths, Belisarius had ordered the stones removed during the night before the battle. As the Gothic cavalry rushed towards the walls, hoping to cut down our fleeing soldiers and force entrance into Rome, a single trumpet-blast rang out on the parapet.

  The Flaminian Gate rumbled open and the bucelarii charged out, a thousand lancers in shining lamellar armour, their bright pennons and streamers flying in the wind.

  They hit the Gothic cavalry in flank. Horses and men vanished under the impetus of their storm-charge, and entire squadrons were smashed to pieces, the survivors scattering in all directions. The bucelarii were supremely disciplined, and did not pursue, but plunged into the crumbling ranks of the Gothic infantry.