Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  I had seen the bucelarii at work before, at Tricarum, where their repeated charges broke the back and the spirit of the Vandal host. Belisarius had spent much of his personal fortune on their training and equipment, his elite cavalrymen, modelled on the heavily armoured lancers used by the Sassanids in the East. Any one of them was a match for ten ordinary soldiers, and was an expert with lance, bow and sword, as well as a consummate horseman.

  As at Tricamarum, I was privileged to watch them from a distance. They tore the Goths apart, slaughtering the hapless infantry like pigs and giving them no respite to rally and re-form. At the same time Belisarius led his personal guard in a counter-attack from inside the Pincian Gate, and the tottering Gothic host was caught between two fires.

  By now some of my levies had returned to the standard, though at least half were missing, either dead or plundering the undefended camp.

  “What do we do, sir?” asked my standard bearer. He was just a lad, beardless, fresh-faced and trembling with excitement, and clearly dying to strike his blow.

  Hundreds of Goths were fleeing back across the plain, making for the safety of their stockades and entrenchments. They looked like a panic-stricken mob, all discipline and courage gone, their banners and weapons left sprawling in the dust.

  I had seen enough of war to know what happened to those who tried to get between fugitives and safety. Even the worst coward can show fight if denied his last refuge.

  “We withdraw,” I said, ignoring his look of disappointment, “back to the Appian Way.”

  I gave the order, and led my remaining men west, to rejoin John the Sanguinary.

  4.

  We caught up with the convoy on the last stage of its journey to Ostia. I reported the news of Belisarius’ victory before the gates of Rome, though forbore from mentioning my own modest role in it. A vain man himself, I sensed John was quick to spot vanity in others, and would not give him an excuse to think me arrogant.

  “You did reasonably well,” he said when I had finished my report, “and it is good to know the general has made our task that much easier. Plenty of Goths killed, eh?”

  “Hundreds, sir,” I replied, “but merely a drop in the ocean. Belisarius lacks the numbers to inflict a significant defeat on them.”

  He stroked his oiled beard, and gazed west, towards the sea. Our fleet was hugging the coast, on its way to meet the convoy on the southern bank of Ostia: the northern bank, along with the harbour, was still in the hands of the Goths.

  John had to devise a way of getting the supplies of corn and wine into Rome. His gaze switched from the west to the convoy, the long, meandering line of ox-drawn wagons lumbering along the highway.

  “Those beasts will be done in by the time we get to Ostia,” he muttered, referring to the teams of oxen. Our advance was rapid, and the drivers were pushing the animals hard, lashing and cursing them with equal vigour.

  To the rear of the convoy, escorted by twenty Hunnish lancers and drawn by a team of white horses, was Antonina’s litter. The silk curtains were closed, protecting her from the dust and stink of the convoy, and I imagined her lithe form reclining on cushions inside.

  Perhaps her new lover Theodosius was lying beside her. I envied the man, without wishing to swap places with him: only a fool, or one blinded by lust and ambition, would dally with that lethal woman. If Belisarius found out, as he surely would eventually, he would feed Theodosius to his dogs. Usually a merciful man, I had seen Belisarius when his temper was roused, and still shuddered at the memory of the Vandal spy he had impaled on an iron stake outside the gates of Carthage.

  The convoy reached the meeting point at Ostia without mishap, to find the fleet already disembarked and three thousand Isaurians encamped along the southern bank. They were in good spirits, though the journey from Constantinople had been long and fraught with danger, and grateful to be on dry land again after months at sea.

  John summoned a council in the evening, which all captains were required to attend. No-one invited Antonina, but she came anyway, borne on a divan carried by four sweating Huns. I avoided her gaze, and she never even glanced at me. Her lover Theodosius, young and handsome in the old-fashioned Greek style, with curling fair locks and a neatly trimmed beard, stood behind the divan in a silver helm and cuirasse polished to mirror-like perfection.

  Despite his soldierly appearance, everyone present knew what he was, and ignored him. No officer worth his pay was about to heed the suggestions of Antonina’s bedmate.

  The council had barely started before an alarm sounded, and there was a disturbance to the east: men shouting, horns blowing, and the sound of racing hoofs.

  “What’s happening, there?” shouted John, and for a moment it appeared we had fallen prey to an ambush. I glimpsed a rapidly approaching line of torches, heralding the arrival of a band of armed riders.

  The alarm and consternation died down when their unfurled banner became visible, displaying the familiar double-headed eagle of Rome. Under it rode another familiar sight, Belisarius himself, mounted on his white-faced bay. She had carried him through all his campaigns, from Syria to North Africa, Sicily and Italy, and enjoyed almost as much fame as her master.

  We cheered the unexpected arrival of our general, but he was in no mood for ceremony. Lathered in dust and sweat, he wore a plain grey robe over his armour, and the flanks of his shuddering horse were slick with blood. He had a hundred Veterans at his back, hand-picked from his personal guard.

  “How many men?” he snapped at John without exchanging greetings, his voice hoarse and taut with anxiety.

  John was used to more courteous treatment, and blinked before replying. “Ah…five thousand, sir,” he managed, “three thousand foot, and two thousand horse. I led the cavalry myself in a forced march across Campania after landing at Otranto…”

  Belisarius wasn’t interested. “Five thousand!” he yelled, throwing up his hands, “God and the Saints, that is nowhere near enough! Why has the Emperor forsaken me? Have I not served him to the best of my ability? I gave him North Africa, I conquered Sicily without losing a single man, I have defended Rome against the worst that the barbarians can throw at me, and still he denies me the reinforcements I ask for!”

  An embarrassed silence fell over the gathering of officers. Belisarius was beside himself, drawn and haggard and thinner than ever, his armour hanging awkwardly off his bony, meatless frame. What he said was almost, if not quite, treason, and there were many listening who might twist his words for their own ends.

  He must have been desperate to take such an appalling risk, quitting the safety of Rome and riding through the Gothic lines with just a handful of guards. Perhaps he did so in the certain belief that Justinian had despatched a mighty army to save Rome, and grief and disappointment were etched on his face.

  Antonina broke the silence. “My lord,” she said, “the Emperor must have sent every man he could find. There are rumours of plague in some of our provinces, and the imperial treasury is well-nigh exhausted.”

  He gave her an evil look, narrowing his eyes when he spotted Theodosius, but said nothing. The general’s regard for his wife was well-known – indeed, it degraded him in the eyes of many – and even in his rage he would not rebuke or contradict her in public.

  “King Vitiges has sent three ambassadors to Rome, asking for a truce,” he said, calming a little, “and I have granted it. For the present, hostilities have ceased. Hence I was able to ride here tonight.”

  He turned to John. “I came to urge you to bring your supplies into the city with all speed, while the truce lasts. It must be done now. Tonight. The Goths cannot be trusted, and may betray us at any moment.”

  John spread his hands. “Now, sir? But our oxen are exhausted, and in any case the only road available to us is narrow and in poor repair. Our wagons cannot travel along it safely at any great speed.”

  “You have a fleet, man,” Belisarius said impatiently, “use boats to transport the supplies.”

  �
�But they would have to be towed upriver, sir,” replied John, “and the only road that follows the stream is on the northern bank, in the hands of the enemy.”

  I should have known better than to intervene, but wanted to impress Belisarius, and remind him of my presence. “We could use our sails,” I said, stepping forward, “and turn to oars when the wind drops.”

  John regarded me with disdain. “The Goths will be patrolling the northern bank, man. Regardless of the truce, do you think they will simply let us sail along the Tiber into Rome? Our crews would have to negotiate a hail of arrows.”

  An idea struck me. “Then protect the rowers with shields and wooden mantlets. The Goths have no vessels of their own, and can do nothing but shoot at us.”

  The ghost of a smile appeared on Belisarius’ ravaged features. “I should make you a general,” he said, pointing at me, “perhaps I will yet.”

  “I made the Briton a centenar, sir,” put in John, no doubt seeing an opportunity to gain the general’s favour, “a temporary command, of course.”

  Belisarius nodded. “I confirm the appointment,” he said, “with all my heart. If only all my officers were so dependable as Coel, and so loyal.”

  He called for a remount, and changed horses while I gently swelled with pride. I had never craved officer rank, particularly, but it was something to be rewarded for my efforts, and to know I still basked in the general’s favour.

  I glanced sidelong at Antonina, wondering at her thoughts. Her soft grey eyes briefly rested on me, and then flickered away, their secrets veiled. Theodosius, I noticed, had taken a step back from her divan, and studiously avoided looking at her. That young man, I remember thinking, would soon have to cause to regret stepping into the viper’s bed.

  Belisarius rode back to Rome, leaving his officers to arrange the transport of the convoy. John wasted no time in rousing the men, ignoring their grumbling and swearing, and ordering them to load the smallest of our boats with provisions.

  I lent a hand, and oversaw the construction of wooden mantlets to protect the rowers. “It was your idea, general,” John snarled at me, “and can be your responsibility. If none of our vessels make it to Rome, I will make sure part of the blame falls on your shoulders, have no doubt of that.”

  Once again I had succeeded in alienating an important man. Procopius would have surely remarked on it, my innate ability for making enemies among the rich and powerful, but he had returned to Rome with Belisarius.

  The river was narrow and winding, and our boats had to creep along in single file, propelled by oars, since there was no wind. John placed me in the first boat, doubtless in the hope that a Gothic arrow would find its way into my gullet. I stood beside the steersman, shivering in the chill night air, straining my eyes to look for signs of movement on the northern bank.

  “They cannot fail to spot us,” I muttered. Our vessels were lit by lanterns hanging from the mast-heads, to guard against losing their way in the dark. The object was not stealth, for there was no way of hiding our progress from the Goths, but speed. Rome had been starving when I left, the citizens forced to eat grass (and each other, if the rumours of what went on in the poorest districts were to be believed) and it was vital our supplies got through.

  Occasionally I glimpsed a light on the northern bank, and the dim shapes of horsemen. The Goths were tracking us, but no arrows came flying over the water. The truce was holding.

  I learned later how desperate King Vitiges was for a settlement. Despite being vastly outnumbered, Belisarius had re-conquered much of Italy and confounded all efforts to prise him out of Rome. The Goths were also suffering from famine, for Belisarius sent out frequent raiding parties to disrupt their supply convoys. With an artfulness that surprised me, he also spread false rumours of the size of the Roman reinforcements about to land in Italy. Had Vitiges known how pitifully few and overstretched the empire’s resources were, he might not have been so eager to come to terms.

  Even while our boats were rowing up the Tiber, the Gothic ambassadors were striving to persuade Belisarius to abandon the struggle for Italy and accept a compromise. Procopius was present at the negotiations, and told me what passed between the Gothic spokesman and Belisarius.

  “My sovereign,” said the former, “is guided by the virtues of moderation and forbearance, and sincerely wishes to bring an end to the mutual miseries of this war.”

  He went on to describe the justice of the Gothic cause, and their legal right to possess the kingdom of Italy, citing dubious precedents from history. Belisarius scornfully denied them all, and then the Goth made this startling offer:

  “Though convinced that even our enemies must inwardly feel the truth of the arguments we have urged, yet we are willing to prove our peaceful intentions, by granting you Sicily, that fertile and extensive island, so convenient, by its position, for the maintenance of Africa.”

  Belisarius laughed at this – he rarely had cause to laugh – and I like to think he had me in mind when he made his reply.

  “Your generosity in yielding a province which you have already lost requires an adequate response. I will resign to the Goths the island of Britain, an island much larger than Sicily, and once part of the Empire. May you profit from her!”

  The spokesman retreated, red-faced, to hammer out a new set of proposals with his colleagues. Back and forth the discussion went, for over a week, by which time our fleet had arrived safely in Rome.

  Our progress down the Tiber had been swift and sure, and entirely without incident. I thanked God for that, for had we come to grief John would have no hesitation in laying the blame on my head.

  Belisarius was overjoyed at the arrival of the supplies of corn and wine, and ordered the dormant mills and bake-houses to set to work again. He was careful to ensure there was enough bread for all, and sent soldiers into the streets to dole out fresh loaves and barrels of wine.

  He summoned me into his presence, at his house near the Pincian Gate, and confirmed my appointment as centenar.

  “You have distinguished yourself,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder, “as I trusted you would. Coel the Briton, one-time champion of the racetrack, who fought loyally for the Empire and brought the supplies safely into Rome! Soon your fame will eclipse that of your grandfather.”

  I was surprised he remembered Arthur, whose name was but a faint echo in the East.

  “Some of our mercenaries from Germania tell tales of him,” he explained, “though they seem to have got him confused with their own heroes. There are all sorts of tales of Arthur hunting a gigantic boar, fighting giants and riding monstrous fish to explore the depths of the ocean. Amusing nonsense, but I am interested in the truth behind it all. He was a great captain of horse, is that not so?”

  I nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, sir. His Legion were the greatest horse-soldiers who ever lived. They smashed Britain’s enemies in twelve great battles, and held the land safe, without Rome’s aid, for over twenty years.”

  “But Arthur was betrayed and killed in the end, yes? And Britain was left without a protector.”

  “That is correct, sir,” I replied sadly, “my mother and I fled from Britain in the aftermath of Camlann, where Arthur’s Legion was destroyed. I know nothing of the current state of Britain, whether it has been conquered by barbarian tribes, or split into dozens of warring kingdoms.”

  Belisarius looked at me for a long moment. He was an expert at concealing his thoughts, and I could only wonder what he had in store for me. With the fate of Italy rested on his creaking shoulders, he must have had good reason to prolong an interview with a nobody like myself.

  “Britain has stood alone for too long,” he said at last, “it is time all the lost satellites of Rome were brought back into her orbit. We have taken back North Africa, and shall keep Italy, no matter what the Goths throw at us. If we can reconquer Italy, then why not Gaul, or Britain?”

  I stared at him, striving to read his expression. Was he serious? It was impossible. Belisarius
had achieved extraordinary things, but to take back the whole of the Western Empire was a dream even Constantine the Great had not entertained. The Empire barely had enough soldiers to defend its own shrunken borders, and the expeditions to North Africa and Italy had been an astonishing gamble. Thus far, thanks to good fortune and the skill of Belisarius, the dice had landed in our favour.

  And yet…we had watered the soil of Italy with the blood of thousands of Goths, and our own losses had been minimal. If all the barbarian nations of the West came against Belisarius, united in arms, I would still give him an even chance of victory.

  “Trust in me, Coel,” he said with an encouraging smile, “there is no limit to what can be achieved. God has granted us one victory after another. Your homeland may yet be saved.”

  He said no more, and I left his presence in a daze, striving to make sense of this unexpected glimpse into the general’s secret character. I had never credited him with any ambition beyond carrying out the orders of his master in Constantinople. He might have made himself King of Africa after defeating the Vandals, but declined the opportunity and hurried home to assure Justinian of his loyalty.

  Your homeland may yet be saved. These words replayed, over and again, in my mind that night. I could not sleep, and in the small hours of the morning cursed Belisarius for his vagaries. What had he meant? He was not a man to waste words, or to honey them with lies and insincerity.

  Or so I thought.

  5.

  To my relief, Belisarius sent John the Sanguinary away from Rome, despatching him north-east with two thousand cavalry to the town of Alba Fucens, beside the shores of the Fucine Lake.

  John was instructed to observe the truce and refrain from the slightest act of aggression. However, if the Goths broke the treaty, he was to ride out without delay and overrun the province of Picenum, a region of Italy between the Appenines and the Adriatic Sea. In this way Belisarius anticipated the renewal of war, and planned in advance while continuing to negotiate with the Goths.