Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  For his part, John the Sanguinary had remained inside Rimini until he was certain the Goths were retreating, and then unleashed his cavalry to plunder their baggage train. He also took prisoners from among the wounded and the stragglers, and made a present of them to Belisarius, hoping to assuage the general’s wrath at his treachery.

  Belisarius was not the sort to be won over by such crude bribes, but he let John go unpunished. Instead, while his officers were still distracted by the celebrations, Belisarius quietly dismissed him, and let him depart from Rimini with a small following.

  Whether he did this for political reasons, or to avoid casting a shadow over the joy of his easy victory, I cannot be certain. There were those who grumbled at it, and looked askance at the general, wondering if he was losing his grip on affairs.

  Narses had not marched with any part of the army, claiming that he was quite useless in war, and would only hinder the cause. The morning after the relief of Rimini, he arrived at the gates carried in a litter and escorted by eighteen of his doryphori.

  “So this is war,” he piped when I greeted him at the Arch of Augustus, “it seems a rather more bloodless affair than I expected. I have seen more casualties in the Hippodrome.”

  He sounded disappointed, and fanned himself with a fly-whisk. “A foully hot day,” he said, stifling a yawn, “I long for a cool bath and a massage. Where is our conquering general?”

  “In the fortress, lord,” I replied, “where he awaits your arrival.”

  “Another council of war? How trying. No sooner do we win one battle, then we must start planning the next. I dislike being made to work.”

  His bored manner was an illusion, for all the while his mind was churning out schemes to foil Belisarius, and discredit him in the eyes of the jealous Emperor.

  Belisarius was keen to follow up his victory, and stamp out the last embers of the Gothic presence in Italy. The citizens of Milan, capital of Liguria, had recently revolted against the Goths in favour of Rome, and driven out the garrison. Vitiges could not afford to lose one of the most important cities in northern Italy, and sent part of his army to besiege it.

  At the council in Rimini Belisarius announced that the army would split in two, one part to besiege Ravenna, the other to relieve Milan.

  “I have already sent a thousand cavalry to encourage native resistance in that region,” he declared, “but more troops are needed to invest the city.”

  Narses chose this moment to show his hand. “Milan is far to the north,” he said, “I see no reason to divide our forces, slender as they are, and send one part on some hopeless sortie. Let Milan fend for itself. When Ravenna falls, all the Goths in Italy will lay down their arms.”

  All eyes turned to the eunuch, who revelled in the attention. “Of course,” he added complacently, “if Belisarius wishes to send some of his own troops away, that is his affair. But none of my seven thousand shall go with them.”

  White-faced, Belisarius scraped back his chair and rose to his full, impressive height. “Are you denying my authority?” he asked in the steely tone I had come to know and dread.

  “Not within its proper limits. You have no authority over the troops I brought to Italy. They are mine.”

  Belisarius seemed to have expected some form of resistance. He gestured at Narses, who rose and produced a sheet of vellum from inside his robe.

  “This,” he said, brandishing the vellum, “is a private letter sent by the Emperor to Belisarius. It reads as follows. Hearken to the words of Justinian.”

  He unfolded the letter and read out its contents in ringing tones.

  “In sending Narses, our private treasurer, to Italy, we have no intention that he should, in any degree, control or direct the war; we desire that Belisarius should still remain invested with supreme authority, and be implicitly obeyed in all his undertakings for the public good.”

  The letter bore the imperial seal, and there could be no doubt as to its authenticity. I was surprised and encouraged by it – evidently the Emperor still retained some faith in his general – and looked eagerly at Narses. There was no denying an imperial mandate, and it would be a pleasure to witness a hole bored in the eunuch’s insufferable complacency.

  I should have known better. The subtle mind of Narses had been honed in the deadly intrigues of the imperial court. It took him mere seconds to pick a flaw in the mandate.

  “I am perfectly willing to obey Belisarius in most things,” he said mildly, “but must, in all conscience, avail myself of the concluding clause in the Emperor’s letter.”

  He spread his hands. “Caesar orders that Belisarius must be obeyed in all his undertakings for the public good. I regard the proposed expedition to Milan as not conducive to the public good. Indeed, it is potentially disastrous to our cause. Therefore no Roman officer, of which august body I consider myself a humble and unworthy member, is obliged to obey his orders in this instance.”

  Silence fell over the chamber while Belisarius digested this extraordinary response, and then he banged his fist on the table. “You dare to quibble!” he hissed, glaring at Narses as though he meant to throw the little man from his seat, “I would remind you this is a military camp, not a law-court, and I will have my orders obeyed.”

  Narses matched him stare for stare. “Not, at the danger of repeating myself,” he trilled, “in this instance. My men shall not go to Milan.”

  They argued back and forth, but Belisarius lacked the means to force Narses into obeying orders. He dared not lay hands on the Emperor’s favourite, or take his command away from him. In the end he was obliged to concede, humiliated before his staff, and tear up his plans.

  While our commanders argued, Vitiges had not been idle in Ravenna. His armies were battered and depleted after their recent misfortunes, but he was not done yet. Taking advantage of our hesitation at Rimini, he sent messengers racing through the Alps to beg for aid from their kinsmen in Gaul.

  “I hope none of you are entertaining thoughts of home,” Belisarius said to a gathering of his officers one morning in late summer, “for we are likely to be here some time yet, maybe into the next year.”

  He looked grimmer than ever, and withered our groans with his basilisk stare. “Last night I received word from our men in Perugia. Vitiges has despatched an army under his nephew, Uraias, to drive our troops from that province.”

  “Uraias is a pup,” Hildiger said scornfully, “send me north with a few thousand men, sir. I’ll whip him all the way back to Ravenna.”

  “I have no doubt you could,” replied Belisarius, “but he is not our only concern. Three days ago, ten thousand Burgundian warriors crossed the Alps into Perugia. By now they will have joined the Goths outside the walls of Milan.”

  “We have much more killing to do,” he added during the stricken silence that followed, “before this war is done.”

  12.

  The campaign dragged on into winter. Frustrated and hampered by the machinations of Narses, Belisarius was unable to strike a death-blow against his enemies, and Vitiges was able to recover some of his strength. Reinforced by the Burgundians, his nephew drove our hopelessly outnumbered forces from Perugia and laid siege to Milan. Vitiges continued to dig in at Ravenna, and despatched men to garrison and fortify a chain of fortresses running down the spine of central Italy, down to Orvieto, almost within sight of Rome.

  Belisarius was obliged to reduce every one of these fortresses, as well as other stubborn Gothic outposts scattered about the country. He got little help from Narses, who remained at Rimini, stuffing himself with figs and hatching fresh plots with his friend, John the Sanguinary.

  At last, in the depths of December, the main part of our army laid siege to Orvieto, a massive fortress town a few miles north of Rome. It was built upon the flat summit of an isolated hill made of volcanic tuff, with steep, almost vertical sides making it inaccessible from all sides. The natural defences of the tuff cliffs were reinforced by high walls and strong towers, and the town was
manned by thousands of Goths.

  Confident in their lofty position, and well-supplied with grain, the garrison refused all demands to surrender. For weeks we sat and shivered at the foot of the cliffs, while our siege engines lobbed rocks at the flinty walls, and the Goths responded with showers of javelins and curses.

  All the while I thought of Ravenna, and Arthur. I seemed destined to get no closer to either.

  One frosted morning I was sat outside my tent, sunk in misery as I tried to warm my chapped hands over a fire, when Procopius strode into view.

  “The general wants to see you,” he whispered, his breath misting in the cold air, “hurry along, in God’s name, before my blood freezes over.”

  Procopius was a creature of warm climes, and always suffered in the cold. Despite being wrapped up in several layers of shawls over a fur-trimmed hooded mantle and robe, his lips were blue, and his teeth chattered.

  I followed him to the general’s pavilion, where Belisarius was bathing his feet in a bowl of steaming hot water. He had picked up a cough, and was attempting to drown it in spiced wine.

  “Coel,” he said, peering up at me from his cup, “you look well. The healthiest man in the army. You Britons must have iron constitutions.”

  “Our island is foggy, raw and damp, sir,” I replied, “we are raised to endure cold. It’s the heat I struggle with.”

  He broke off into a fit of violent coughing. “Damn this malady,” he spluttered, wiping his eyes and banging his thin chest, “and damn this siege. Why can’t the Goths simply accept they are beaten, and sue for peace?”

  “They are a proud race, sir,” said Procopius, “and Vitiges is the proudest of them. He won’t be beaten until he lies dead at your feet.”

  Belisarius flapped a hand at him. “To Hell with Vitiges. I didn’t summon you both here to talk of him. Read this.”

  He picked up a tattered, water-stained letter and shoved it Procopius, who unfolded it and read silently, his bony brows knitted together.

  “God curse him,” he said quietly, handing the letter to me, “and consign his twisted soul to Hell.”

  I read but slowly, and had to pick through the words with my index finger. The content was chilling enough.

  Milan had fallen. Belisarius had written urgently to Narses at Rimini, pleading with him to send troops under John the Sanguinary to relieve the siege, but the eunuch had demurred, claiming that John had fallen sick with fever.

  With no relief on the horizon, the Roman governor of Milan, Mundilas, had surrendered to the combined army of Goths and Burgundians.

  “Mundilas obtained terms for himself and his soldiers, but none for the citizens,” I read out, “the barbarians sacked and destroyed the city, slaughtering all the men they could find and taking the women and children as slaves. The bishop, Datius, escaped, but the prefect was captured and thrown into a cage full of wild dogs. The animals tore him pieces and devoured him. Every church was plundered and fired, and the priests themselves massacred at their altars.”

  I folded the letter, unwilling to read anymore. “If there is one consolation,” said Belisarius, “the loss of Milan means the end for Narses. I have already written to the Emperor, complaining of the eunuch’s failure to send men to relieve the city. Justinian will surely recall him to Constantinople, and I will be left with a free hand in Italy.”

  “You may be sure Narses has also written to the Emperor,” said Procopius, “putting his own side of the story, and doing his best to blacken you. He is high in favour at court. I fear Justinian will put more faith in his account.”

  Belisarius winced, stifling another cough, and bade us both sit down. “You two are my friends,” he said, “my real friends. The only ones I can trust. I will tell you something now, and want it to remain a secret between us. Understood?”

  I exchanged glances with Procopius, and we both nodded obediently.

  “Good. Procopius, you are usually the first to know my secrets, but not in this case. For weeks now, I have been in correspondence with Matasontha.”

  Mathasontha was the Queen of the Goths, and consort to Vitiges. It seems they were not a very faithful or loving couple. She responded to his many infidelities by sending treasonable letters to the Romans.

  “She has made me all kinds of offers,” he went on, “anything to put an end to this war, to her advantage of course. I will not bore you with the details, save to mention that she even offered to murder her husband and take me in his stead.”

  He smiled bleakly at our shocked expressions. “A tempting offer, to enter into matrimony with a barbarian murderess. It would also require me to dispose of my poor wife. I refused, as gracefully as I could manage.”

  I wondered what Antonina would have made of it, and whether Belisarius yet knew of her adultery. If so, he could have put her aside and wed Matasontha, but he loved his appalling wife far too much to even contemplate such a thing. Every great man has a failing, and Antonina was his.

  “The time will come,” said Belisarius, “when the whole of Italy is reduced, and we can finally march on Ravenna. I know that city. She is virtually impregnable, and it would take months, years even, to reduce her by siege and blockade. If I can induce Matasontha to betray her husband, and open the gates without a fight, so much the better.”

  “So far my messengers to her have proved loyal, but they are mercenaries. Hired men, who work for gold. None of them has any love for me. I believe you do, Coel.”

  I blinked. Belisarius was staring intensely at me, as though willing me to agree. “I am loyal until death, sir,” I blurted out, unable to think of anything better.”

  He nodded. “I know. For that reason I have promoted you, well above what some may regard as your natural station and ability. For that reason I will use you as my envoy to Matasontha. You have never failed me yet.”

  It sounded like dangerous work, but as always I was in no position to refuse. I bowed my head in acceptance.

  “No-one else must known I am in contact with the Goths,” he said earnestly, “some of my captains would call it treason. Others would use it as an excuse to undermine me. Our ranks are riddled with traitors and conspirators.”

  He dismissed me, promising I would be despatched on my first mission very soon. In the meantime I would go about my normal duties and guard my tongue. I left him talking in hushed whispers with Procopius, feeling more like an expendable pawn than ever.

  Belisarius got what he wanted. Even Justinian could not ignore the disastrous loss of Milan, and as winter drew to a close he recalled the favourite to Constantinople. His friend John the Sanguinary was recalled with him, and I entertained hopes they might be exposed to the Emperor’s wrath.

  However, Narses could not be snared. He managed to clear both their reputations without too much difficulty, and resumed his duties as imperial treasurer, devoting his energies to enriching himself at the expense of the state.

  Free of this hindrance, Belisarius’ old energy and purpose returned in a flood. Orvieto fell at last, starved and battered into submission, and he flung himself into the task of reducing the remaining Gothic citadels.

  I followed him through all the long, wearisome sieges that followed. Our army trudged from one stubborn fortress-town to the next, smashing aside the Goths and their allies when they tried to oppose us in the field. By now, after almost two years of constant warfare, the Roman army was a disciplined and effective war-machine, almost fit to be ranked alongside the illustrious legions of old.

  Then the hammer-blow fell. At the beginning of summer, when it seemed the tottering Gothic cause was beyond hope of recovery, terrifying news sped down from Liguria.

  “Two hundred thousand,” Belisarius said dully, “twice the number of men Vitiges brought to lay siege to Rome.”

  There was a dreadful, flat quality to his voice, a tone of almost careless despair. He had survived everything fate and his enemies could throw at him, and come within a whisper of final victory, but at the last God had deserte
d the Roman cause.

  The frantic, last-ditch diplomacy of Vitiges had borne fruit. Theodebert, King of the Franks, led a vast army over the Alps to join with the Goths and Burgundians in Liguria. The Franks were a numerous people. Their mighty host rolled through the snow-capped mountains like an avalanche, into the fertile plains beyond.

  Belisarius looked sick at the news, and the council of war he had hastily summoned was a decimated gathering: almost half our officers were dead, slain in the never-ending series of battles and sieges.

  We were laying siege to Osimo, a fortified town a few miles south of Ancona. “If these reports are true, we can’t fight such an army,” croaked Bessas, a dried-up, wizened shell of the man he had once been, “we must ask for peace, and hammer out terms with Vitiges.”

  “We can fight them. We will. We must.” said Belisarius in the same lifeless tone. “The Franks are even more undisciplined than the Goths. Do not be dismayed by their numbers. They have few cavalry, save their King and his attendants, and their infantry are peasants, poorly-armed and trained.”

  “Two hundred thousand peasants are a formidable prospect,” said Bessas.

  “I have heard disquieting rumours of their axe-men,” added Hildiger, “they carry double-edged battle-axes, capable of cutting a horse and rider in two with one blow.”

  The news of the Frankish invasion had dealt a severe blow to morale, and Belisarius was unable to raise the flagging spirits of his officers. I said little during the meeting, but was again summoned to his presence afterwards.

  “I can’t trust any of the others to deal with the Franks,” he said, “they are broken reeds, all of them. Even Bessas.”

  He had shaken off his cough, but still looked ill and tired, and trembled slightly as he faced me. “The Franks cannot be allowed to advance unchecked through Liguria. Even now Theodebert is moving towards the River Po. I have troops there watching his progress, but they are far too few to bar his passage.”