Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  At the same time the wavering Gothic infantry broke under our relentless assaults. Abandoning their standards, they flooded towards the narrow stone bridge. Our triumphant cavalry rode among them, hacking and stabbing, carpeting the ground with bodies.

  Before the siege began, Belisarius had constructed a gigantic wooden tower at the eastern end of the river, to guard against the enemy attempting a crossing. The Goths had seized the tower and held it ever since, but now panic seized the garrison. They quit their posts, running down the steps outside the tower or leaping from the parapet into the fast-flowing waters of the Tiber. Many drowned, or were shot down as they tried to swim to safety. Soon the river was full of floating corpses, gently swirling in circles as they were washed downstream.

  I watched, my nostrils filled with the heady stench of blood and death, as the runaways from one side of the river collided with reinforcements from the other. The bridge was too narrow to bear them all, and large numbers of Goths were pitched howling into the Tiber.

  Weighed down by their armour, many swiftly sank from view. Others tried to struggle out of their heavy mail hauberks before they were dragged under. I almost pitied the wretches as they floundered helplessly in the water. Some of our men dismounted and enjoyed great sport on the riverbank, shooting arrows and casting spears at the Goths, until the Tiber was choked with human wreckage.

  The Goths on the Tuscan side of the river were powerless to help their comrades, and could only watch the slaughter from afar. I saw the royal standard start to move away from the field, and briefly glimpsed Vitiges himself under it, a stocky, compact figure mounted on a chestnut mare. His guards closed up around him as he left the field.

  “Roma Victor!”

  The ancient war-cry echoed and re-echoed across the field. The Goths were beaten, and the victory of Belisarius was complete. Rome was ours.

  7.

  I expected Belisarius to unleash his cavalry and send us in pursuit of the retreating Goths. Instead, ever cautious, he despatched a mere thousand horse under a captain named Hildiger, with orders to shadow the Goths and obtain reinforcements from our garrison stationed at the seaport of Ancona.

  Belisarius was right to be careful. A wounded beast is dangerous, and the Goths still outnumbered us, even after losing half their army at the Milvian Bridge. Vitiges fled north, to his capital at Ravenna, and covered his retreat by leaving men to guard certain towns and fortresses: four thousand at Auximum, two thousand at Urbino, and another three thousand scattered among smaller places.

  Belisarius despatched me with Hildiger to track the Goths. Hildiger was a capable and experienced officer, of mixed Germanic ancestry, and I was to act as his second-in-command.

  “Another promotion,” said Procopius, who was present in the general’s pavilion in his official capacity as secretary, “though an unofficial one. Pro tem, as it were. Continue to do well, and you might find yourself in charge of an army.”

  “In which case, God help the Empire,” I replied. Procopius snorted with laughter, but Belisarius was not amused.

  “I have no time for false modesty,” he said sharply, “we have a war to win, and I need officers who are not only loyal and obedient, but confident in their own abilities. Am I right to place my faith in you, Coel?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied stiffly. What else could I say? Privately, I suspected him of favouring me for political rather than military reasons, and not forgotten his words during our last meeting.

  Your homeland may yet be saved.

  I thought it cruel of him to encourage my dreams, and to make vague promises he had no means of fulfilling. Belisarius had always been honest and generous in my dealings with him, and this was out of character.

  For the moment, all I could do was accept the promotions he foisted on me, and follow his orders.

  “From Ancona, you will march with all speed to Rimini,” he said, tracing the route with his index finger along a map of central Italy, “avoid the Goths at all costs. Under no circumstances are you to engage them, is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hidilger, “when we reach Rimini, what then?”

  Rimini was the city on the shores of the Adriatic, just a day’s march south from Ravenna. John the Sanguinary had taken the place after a brief siege, and now held it with his two thousand cavalry.

  “Order John to depart,” Belisarius went on, “and use his cavalry to harry the flanks of the Gothic army as they advance towards Ravenna. The soldiers from Ancona will garrison the place. Once this is done, you will return to Rome.”

  “Coel,” he added, looking up at me, “I want you to stay at Rimini, as captain of the garrison. The Goths will do their utmost to retake it. Hold it for me, until I march to your relief.”

  I tried not to swallow, or display any sign of nerves. “Yes, sir.”

  “The general favours you a great deal,” remarked Hidilger afterwards, as we sat on the Tuscan side of the Tiber and watched our men file across the Milvian Bridge. It was the morning after the battle, and the river was still choked with bodies. The ground on the eastern side was also littered with dead Goths. The air was rank with the putrid stench of death and the buzzing of millions of flies.

  Hidilger prodded me in the chest. He was a typically thickset German officer, big and blonde and heavy-jawed, and brooked no nonsense.

  “If Belisarius rates a man’s ability, then I respect his judgment,” he grunted, “but get no ideas above your station, you hear? You are my subaltern. Contradict me in front of the men, question my decisions and orders, and I’ll take you apart with my first. Got that?”

  I didn’t relish being on the wrong end of his blocky, swollen fist. “Of course, sir,” I replied.

  In truth, I knew how to handle men like Hildiger: I had served under Mundus, an even bigger and more intimidating German and a far greater soldier, and done well enough.

  We advanced north as Belisarius instructed, following the Flaminian road, and avoided the Goths by swinging east, to force a passage through the mountains. These were guarded by the fortress of Petra Pertusa, but we gave its walls a wide berth, and made our way through narrow, rocky defiles and winding paths, guided by maps and a native shepherd Hildiger had the presence of mind to bribe with a handful of silver.

  Vitiges was either blind to our presence, or too much in a hurry to reach the safety of Ravenna to care overmuch. A mere thousand horse presented little threat to his army, and he made no attempt to prevent us reaching the sea-port of Ancona.

  My relief at laying eyes on the city was tempered by the sight of the military camp spread out on the landward side of its walls. At first I thought another Gothic army had landed in Italy, and was seized by despair, but then I saw the Roman banners fluttering among the neat lines of tents.

  “More reinforcements from Constantinople,” said Hildiger, “they must be. Strange. Belisarius made no mention of their arrival.”

  Mystified, he ordered me to ride down to the camp and seek an audience with their commander. I obeyed, and took six men for an escort.

  In fine old Roman style, the camp was surrounded by a ditch and a stockade, and I was hailed by the sentinels on the gate.

  They were Heruls, and I merely had to display the faded tattoos on my right arm to gain their approval.

  “Welcome, friend,” one of them called out, “bring your men inside, and we will see about gaining an audience for you with the general.”

  Wondering at their general’s identity, I led my escort inside, and accepted the wineskin and lump of dry biscuit offered by the guards.

  I was puzzled, and cycled through names in my head. All of Rome’s best commanders were already in Italy, or at least those I knew of. I judged there to be at least five thousand men inside the camp, probably more. The Emperor’s judgment was not always perfect, but he surely wouldn’t entrust an army to some inexperienced officer or court favourite.

  Where, for that matter, had Justinian managed to find the men? He had always starved Be
lisarius of money and soldiers, claiming the Empire’s limited resources were already stretched to breaking point. Belisarius’ achievements, given this lack of support, were all the more remarkable.

  The Heruls soon returned. “The general will see you,” said their captain, “but only you. Your men stay here.”

  I shrugged, trying not to show my disquiet. “Very well. But I go armed.”

  The captain made no objection, and took me through the camp towards the large pavilion in the centre. I took careful note of the men, their tents and gear and provisions, and all was as it should be: neat and orderly and disciplined. The men looked content and well-fed, and made for a grim comparison with the drawn, hungry and desperate look of our soldiers in Rome after months of siege.

  The imperial eagle flew above the pavilion on a tall striped pole, and the walls of the pavilion itself were made of gold and purple silk, a princely bower for an important man to recline while his soldiers slept under rough canvas.

  Two tall swordsmen in richly-decorated armour and plumed helmets guarded the entrance. They were doryphori, elite soldiers trained in Constantinople, better-paid and equipped than the rest of the army. Only very rich men, aristocrats usually, could afford to hire them as part of a private retinue or bodyguard.

  The Herul captain exchanged salutes with the guards – they barely looked at me – and ducked inside the heavy silken folds of the pavilion.

  I followed, heart thumping, and found myself inside a miniature palace. A cloying, sickly sweet scent of perfume and incense filled the air. The ground was covered by layers of thick rugs, all of them intricately woven in the Eastern style, displaying twisting patterns of flowers and ovals, diamonds and hexagons, alongside naked humanoid shapes – gods and monsters and men - that seemed to writhe when the eye fell on them.

  The carpets were strewn with purple and gold cushions, and the marble busts of four Emperors stood in each corner. Tellingly, they were four of the worst Emperors the Empire had ever known, masters of every kind of cruelty and depraved excess: Caligula, Nero, Caracalla and Elagabalus.

  In the middle of this opulent, slightly queasy splendour, was a large divan and an elaborately carved table made of some dark polished wood.

  The occupant of the divan smiled at me, and raised his goblet in salute. He was an ugly, crippled, dwarfish eunuch, as corrupt in mind as he was in body.

  “Hello, Coel,” said Narses.

  8.

  I stiffened, my hand flying to the hilt of Caledfwlch, half-expecting to feel the sharp kiss of steel in my back. Narses’ guards were just outside, well within striking distance.

  A high-pitched little titter came from the divan. “Oh, really,” said Narses in that piping squeak I remembered so well, “don’t be so jumpy. What, you think I mean to have you killed?”

  He wiped his mouth, and mopped some wine spillage down the front of his loose robe. “If I wanted you dead,” he added, discreetly stifling a belch, “you would already be enjoying the company of your ancestors. I imagine you and your grandfather would have a lot to say to each other.”

  I shuffled away from the entrance, keeping a wary eye on Narses. He was impossible to trust, the wiliest and greasiest politician in Constantinople, intelligent, devious and merciless. His enemies tended to underestimate him, judging him by his feeble, stunted form. His enemies tended to die.

  Narses was my enemy, or so I thought. The last time we met, in Constantinople, he had demanded I hand over Caledfwlch to his keeping. Naturally I refused, and so earned his enmity.

  He took another sip of wine. “Quite a coincidence, you coming here,” he said, “God means to bring us together, it seems. I cannot help noticing that I am making all the conversation.”

  “Perhaps God has sent me here,” I hissed, “I could kill you, here and now. Try calling for your guards. I would reach you first.”

  I half-drew Caledfwlch, exposing several inches of bright steel. Narses’ little eyes flickered, but his languid manner didn’t change.

  “What is all this talk of killing?” he asked, gently placing his cup on the table, “I have an inexhaustible list of enemies, entire ledgers full of names, but had not counted yours among them.”

  I lost my temper. “You tried to have me murdered in Constantinople! Your assassins laid siege to Belisarius’ house while I recovered from my wounds, and then stalked me through the streets. You sent Elene and a treacherous guardsmen to hunt me through the ruins of the aqueduct outside Naples. God preserved me from the blades of your hired killers.”

  My anger was somewhat contrived. I didn’t know if he was behind all these attempts on my life, and wanted to draw the truth out of him. Hard experience had taught me a degree of artfulness, though I was never a match for the likes of Narses.

  He looked surprised, and even a little hurt. “Dear me,” he exclaimed, shaking his large head, “it seems there has been a misunderstanding. I bore no grudge against you for refusing to hand over Caesar’s sword. After all, it is the most precious thing in the world to you. I merely saw it as an interesting relic.”

  “As for the various bungled efforts to kill you,” he went on, ticking them off on his stumpy fingers, “I did indeed have men watching you in Constantinople, but they were there for your protection. I can only assume Belisarius told you otherwise. Regarding Elene, I would not be so coarse and lacking in manners to send one of your ex-lovers to put you in the ground. No, that was Antonina’s doing.”

  I had suspected as much, but it was good to have my suspicion confirmed. That said, I would have been a fool to place too much faith in his words.

  “I see Belisarius has made you an officer,” he said, “I am guilty of misjudging him. He is a far more subtle man than I thought.”

  “What do you mean?” I demanded. If Narses wished to turn me against Belisarius, he was going to have a hard time of it.

  “He has made you his ally, showered you with favour and promotion, and succeeded in persuading you that he is your only true friend. All lies, Coel. It seems our golden general is not immune to deceit. I have always been your friend. Did I not rescue you from Theodora’s bed of pain?”

  I hesitated. It was true Narses had saved me from being broiled alive by the Empress.

  “You did it to spite her,” I snapped, “not out of any concern for my wellbeing. I will not be poisoned by your venom, snake.”

  Narses sighed, and ran a hand through his beard. “I cannot do right, it seems. I am accused of being a typical lying politician, and yet when I tell a man the truth, he throws it back in my face. Ah, well. You will learn. Belisarius is using you. Shaping you to his own ends.”

  His squealing voice had an oddly seductive, persuasive quality, but still I refused to listen. “What are you doing in Italy?” I asked, “why has the Emperor furnished you with an army, instead of sending the troops to Belisarius? You have no military experience.”

  Narses shifted into a more comfortable position on the divan. “Perhaps not, but I am a reasonably competent chess player. Chess is a game of war, is it not? One moves the pieces on the board, tries to predict the strategy of one’s opponent, to outflank and outmanoeuvre him. It has the advantage of being bloodless, though occasionally a game ends in blows.”

  I almost laughed. It was absurd, the notion of this twisted little half-man leading a Roman army into battle. He was fit for nothing but court intrigues, and should have remained in the lethal warren of the imperial court in Constantinople, where he reigned supreme.

  Narses noticed my amusement, and gave one of his lazy smiles. “Seven thousand men, Coel,” he said, “the Emperor gave me all the troops he could spare. Why not send them to Belisarius, you ask? Because it is possible to be too successful, and emperors have fallen victim to over-mighty subjects before now. In short, Justinian trusts me, but not Belisarius.”

  “Then he is a fool indeed,” I retorted. I was keen for the interview to end, but at the same time wanted to know the eunuch’s plans, and the Emperor’s r
easons for sending him to Italy without informing Belisarius.

  Narses sighed again, and sat upright, swinging his short legs over the edge of the divan. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me, and that I would have to provide some evidence of my good faith. Like everyone else, you judge me by my appearance and reputation.”

  I started to mouth a denial, but Narses raised his hand. “Please. I don’t blame you. What right-thinking person would believe an abomination like myself? I ought to have been exposed at birth, and left to die.”

  He gazed levelly at me. “My evidence is this. The woman Elene, your ex-lover, is inside Ravenna. She disappointed Antonina once too often, and threw herself on the mercy of the Goths to escape retribution. King Vitiges has taken her as an agent and a bedmate. She is still an attractive woman, and knows how to snare a king, especially one in such desperate need of comfort.”

  This shook me a little, but it had a ring of truth: besides, Narses had no conceivable reason to feed me lies regarding Elene.

  “I care little where she is,” I replied, “or what she does. Elene means nothing to me.”

  Narses sniffed, and tapped his fingertips together. “She is not alone. Arthur is with her. Her son. Your son.”

  Silence reigned inside the pavilion while I digested this. The reek of incense was starting to curdle my guts, and I suddenly felt dizzy and light-headed.

  “Arthur is not mine,” I managed at last, “she named him after my grandsire to spite me. He is another man’s son. A man she married, long after we had parted ways.”

  “Believe me, Coel,” said Narses, “I spoke privately with Elene in Constantinople, and met the boy. She spilled all her secrets in exchange for a bag of gold. Not a very large bag, in truth. She assured me you were Arthur’s father. There never was a husband. You were the last man to lie with her.”

  He picked up the wine jug, wrinkled his misshapen nose in disappointment when he saw it was empty, and set it down again.

  “She agreed to work for me, sending me the details of Antonina’s private letters, and was useful for a time. When she defected to the Goths, my agents trailed her to the gates of Ravenna.”