“Arthur was a tyrant,” he says firmly, “an uncrowned king who ruled by mere force of arms, and without legitimate authority. I care not how many battles he won against the heathen. He shall play no part in my narrative. I draw a veil over him.”
I know the true reasons for Gildas’ silence. Arthur executed a number of his kinsmen, British princes who rebelled against Arthur’s authority and (God grant the abbot never reads this) forged treacherous alliances with the Saxons.
Treachery. It has been the constant theme of my life. Of all the betrayals and disappointments, the one that hurt me most, and defined the remainder of my life, was the one committed by Belisarius in the throne room of Theoderic’s palace in Ravenna.
To do him credit, he made some effort to explain his actions to me, on the eve of his departure for Constantinople. Justinian had recalled him, not in disgrace – even he could not deny Belisarius’ achievements in Italy – but not in triumph either. The general’s enemies at court, headed by Narses, ensured Justinian’s gratitude was forever poisoned by envy and suspicion.
“I am sorry,” were his first words to me, when he summoned me to his quarters in the palace, “sorry for deceiving you. It was necessary. You must understand.”
We were in the old royal chambers, once the private residence of Vitiges and his queen. In common with the rest of the palace, the floors were decorated with startling mosaics of many hues and complex designs, and the walls pillared and colonnaded in white marble.
The ex-King of the Goths was now an honoured captive, destined to be taken back to Constantinople aboard Belisarius’ flagship. Like Gelimer before him, he would be paraded along the Mese in chains before the cheering populace as the latest trophy of war. His ultimate fate would be decided by Justinian, who had done little to defeat the brave Gothic king, and much to undermine the efforts of his own troops.
“Why?” I asked simply, “why was it necessary?”
Belisarius had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I needed to persuade Vitiges that I really intended to betray the Emperor. It was the only way of securing Ravenna without a siege. There was no better of making him believe the lie than sending an envoy who also believed it.”
“Unworthy of me, I know,” he said helplessly, spreading his arms, “I daresay you expected better of your general. But it was a legitimate ruse of war. Consider, Coel. The city freely opened its gates to us, and not one Roman soldier died. Italy is restored to the Empire. We have achieved everything we set out to do here.”
“At the price of your honour,” I pointed out.
The scene of chaos in the throne room, after Belisarius had ordered his Veterans to arrest the Gothic councillors, was still vivid in my mind.
It was all pre-planned, and Bessas and Hildiger rushed forward before I knew what was happening. The old men were seized, bleating feebly in protest. Vitiges tried to make a fight of it, but he was unarmed, and two of our Huns cracked his head against a pillar. He slumped to the ground, bleeding from his mouth and nostrils, and was quickly trussed up and dragged away.
Belisarius plucked the crown of Italy from its cushion between finger and thumb, and held it at arm’s length.
“This degraded object,” he said contemptuously, “shall adorn no more ambitious heads. Take it away.”
He tossed it to his soldiers, who laughed and threw it about among themselves. Finally a grinning officer seized it and tucked it into his belt, to the good-natured groans of his men.
“My honour?” said Belisarius, back in the present, “what is that worth, compared to the glory of Rome? Those fools in Ravenna thought I was prepared to betray Caesar. They will have ample leisure to reflect on their mistake.
“So did I, sir,” I reminded him, “time and again you promoted me, above my ability, and made a false promise regarding my homeland. You told me the Western Empire would be restored under your stewardship. That I would return to Britain at the head of an army, to drive out the barbarians threatening to destroy it. You made me dream impossible dreams, all for the sake of your ambition.”
“No,” he replied sternly, wagging a finger, “for the sake of Rome. Yes, I lied to you. I apologise. But you deserved the promotions. I have no more loyal and capable officer in my service.”
“Had. I intend to resign my commission and retire from the army. Immediately.”
His eyes widened. “Do nothing in haste, Coel. Your career…”
“I care nothing for my career. I am sick of it all. The army. The constant intrigues and betrayals. I want no more part of it.”
Belisarius tried to persuade me otherwise, to assure me of my continued worth to him, but I stood firm. The treachery of Ravenna had broken something inside me. To be promised so much, and then have it snatched away and revealed as mere illusion, a trick to fool barbarians, was more than my pride could bear.
“I would remind you,” he said when all his arguments were exhausted, “that a soldier of Rome is required to serve for a minimum of twenty-five years. You are nowhere near completing your term. The penalty for desertion is death.”
I faced him calmly. “Then you will have to put me on trial, sir. I will not remain a moment longer in your service. In any case, I am not a young man, and Rome has had the best of me.”
He was right, of course: I didn’t have the option of voluntary retirement, but I counted on him feeling that he owed me something. I had spilled enough of my blood on his behalf, in North Africa and Sicily and Italy, and he would gain little from forcing me to stay on.
“Very well,” he said at last, “if you are determined on this course, I shall not hinder you. There will be no trial. But you will lose my friendship.”
I said nothing, and I could see my silence wounded him. He could count the number of officers whose loyalty to him was absolute on the fingers of one hand. Their number had just diminished.
2.
I waited until the fleet had departed for Constantinople, laden with prisoners and plunder from the long campaign, and then hired a small private ship to take me home.
Me, and my son. Arthur had buried his mother in a private ceremony – I was invited, but had no wish to go – and was at a loss. He owed allegiance to no-one, having merely posed as a Gothic officer, and had no wish to serve in the garrison Belisarius left behind to guard Ravenna.
I found him sitting on an upturned barrel on a jetty, watching the last of our ships depart. He had kept his armour and sword, and I felt such a pang as I looked at him. Elene was dead, but I could not forgive her for cheating me of him: of all those lost years, when I might have loved and raised him as my own, like a normal father.
“Come with me,” I said, “to Constantinople. There is nothing to keep either of us here.”
A gentle breeze ruffled his hair as he gazed out to sea. “I have seen the imperial city,” he murmured, “from afar. Mother always refused to go back there.”
“For good reason, but you have no reason to fear it. We can both prosper there. I have lost the favour of Belisarius, but do not lack for money.”
This was true. My friend Procopius had looked after my interests during the campaign, and taken care to set aside my share of the plunder from all the cities and fortresses our army had sacked. Along with my back pay, and the sale of the fine horse and armour Belisarius had presented me with at Fermo, I was, if not rich, at least comfortable.
Arthur smiled. He was a handsome boy, my superior in every respect.
“Mother wanted me to kill you,” he said, “she never uttered your name without cursing it. And now here you are, offering me a chance of a new life. What would we do, go into business together?”
I nodded. “That is exactly what I have in mind. I am getting too old for the army, and have no wish to see you waste your life following the eagle, as I have. Come home with me, and let us spend my money wisely.”
And so we did. A fair wind blew us across the calm seas of the Adriatic, and barely two weeks later our ship was gliding up the Straits of M
agellan. It was the easiest voyage I ever knew, even though Arthur, like me, was a martyr to sea-sickness. Between bouts of vomiting and wishing we were dead, we came to know each other a little better.
I had never really confided in anyone before, save Procopius, and I had always been careful to feed him carefully selected bits of information. Procopius was a friend, but also a clever and self-interested man, and his first instinct was to use people to his advantage.
Arthur knew nothing of his family on my side: I had told Elene a fair deal, in the days when we were lovers, but she chose to keep her son in ignorance of his distinguished British ancestry. He devoured the tales of his namesake, my grandsire, and of the glorious line of ancient British princes we were descended from.
“This sword,” I said, running my hand along the gleaming blade of Caledfwlch, “has dropped in and out of our family’s history. Nennius took it from Caesar, and then the enchanter Merlin gave it to Arthur. My mother gave Caledfwlch to me, and so, when the time comes, it shall pass to you.”
I weighed the sword carefully in my hands. “It has always been the most precious thing in my life,” I mused, “I went to the far ends of the earth to retrieve it from the King of the Vandals. I believe the soul of Arthur resides in the heart of the steel.”
On impulse, I held it out to him. “I bequeath it to you. Take it.”
Arthur gaped at me, and at Caledfwlch. His face was pale and washed-out from the sickness. “No,” he said weakly, “I can’t take it now. When you are gone, maybe…”
“Now,” I said firmly, “I was never fit to wield Caledfwlch. You are Arthur’s true heir.”
He required some persuasion, but eventually consented to take the sword. I could sense he wanted it for himself, and was anxious to avoid causing any jealousy or resentment by making him wait for my death to claim his birthright.
In truth, I was weary of the responsibility. Caesar’s sword was a heavy burden, and I had always felt like a mere guardian rather than its owner: a stopgap, until a better man came along. Now he had, in the person of my son.
Arthur reverently took Caledfwlch. The pale morning sun caught the polished steel, and for the second time in my life I saw Caesar’s sword burst into silvery flame, a nimbus of light that rippled up the length of the blade and surrounded it in a kind of unearthly glow.
“The Flame of the West,” I muttered. Caesar’s sword bore many names, and now it had another.
The moment was spoiled somewhat when another spasm gripped Arthur’s belly, and he was obliged to turn away to dry-heave over the side. I hoped it wasn’t a bad omen, and patted him on the back until he had finished retching.
You may think me a fool for returning to Constantinople, where I had made so many powerful enemies. Perhaps I was foolish, but I was also sick of running, and living in fear of the glut of degenerates who governed the Empire.
There is a deep core of stubbornness to my character, and I had rejected my old notion of fleeing, beyond the borders of Rome. I gambled on being no threat to the likes of Antonina and Narses now, and of no interest either. Merely an ageing ex-soldier, looking to live out his declining years in harmless comfort. Besides, Constantinople had been my home since childhood, and I wanted to see it again, the jewel of the civilised world.
A plan was forming in my mind. By the time the walls and towers of Constantinople came in sight, and our little ship rowing carefully around the edge of the great fleet nestling in the harbour of the Golden Horn, it was complete.
I would use my money to set up as a horse-dealer, one of the most profitable trades I knew, and supply beasts to the army and the merchant caravans that frequently passed through Constantinople. Not the most honourable trade for the descendent of princes, perhaps, but I was done with honour. It was a foolish conceit invented by those who knew nothing of the world, and the true character of mankind.
Done with honour, and war, and politics: the whole messy, bloody business. I would have my peaceful retirement, come what may.
For a time, God granted me the peace I craved. But nothing in life is permanent, and no man can elude his fate forever.
3.
I remained in Constantinople for ten years, with Arthur at my side. My money from the Italian campaign purchased a fine set of stables on the Asiatic side of the city suburbs, including training grounds and a paddock.
As an ex-cavalry officer, I knew something of horses, and bought decent stock from stud farms in Hispania and North Africa. I bred and raised foals for the chariot races in the Hippodrome, for merchant caravans, and for the army, which had an inexhaustible need for cavalry mounts.
These were good years, perhaps the best of my life. As I hoped, my enemies no longer had any interest in me, and were too embroiled in their own affairs to waste time persecuting nonentities. I heard of the various court scandals and intrigues from afar, and thanked God I was no longer dragged into them.
I forged a successful working partnership with my son. At first he was wary of me, which was only natural, considering the lies Elene had fed him about his father. I took various measures to win his trust, including giving him a share in the business, a degree of responsibility, and a stipend to live on.
Perhaps I was too generous, and left myself open to being exploited by him, but Arthur never looked to take advantage. He was an easy-natured youth, quiet and hard-working, and never complained or demanded more than I gave him.
Always, even when we were alone together, sharing a last cup of wine after dinner before retiring, I was conscious of a certain reserve in him. Maybe it was due to his strange upbringing, wandering from place to place, always among strangers, always wondering where the next meal would come from, but he never revealed his inner soul. The gates to his true self were firmly locked and barred. I could only hope, as the years passed and he ran out of reasons to distrust his father, that one day I would be permitted to enter.
For much of this time, the Empire was at war. Shortly after being recalled from Italy, Belisarius was sent to fight the Sassanids. Under the leadership of their cruel and ambitious ruler, Nurshivan, the Sassanid armies had burst over our eastern frontiers like the pent-up waters of a great dam, flooding Roman territories and threatening to overrun the whole of Syria.
The Roman general entrusted with the defence of the region, Buzes, collected his forces at Hierapolis. After making a speech, exhorting the soldiers and citizens to fight to the last, he fled at night with a few attendants, leaving them to face the fury of the Sassanid host. Hierapolis fell, and the great city of Antioch, and many other Roman towns and cities.
Dire rumours reached Constantinople of the fate of our citizens in the East. Nurshivan was a merciless pagan savage, and committed terrible massacres, regardless of age or sex or degree. After the destruction of Antioch he stripped naked and bathed in the waters of the Orontes, as if to say this was his territory now, and he might do as he wished.
“Only one man can halt the progress of Nurshivan,” said Procopius over dinner one evening, “Justinian knows that, and will pack Belisarius off to the East without delay. He is taking me with him, so we may not see other again for a while.”
He was still a friend, and occasionally visited us when he could spare the time. Belisarius owned an estate at Rufinianae, barely a mile from my house. Procopius usually resided there, attending on his master and secretly working on his own history of our times.
This was a year after the end of the Italian war. I had not seen Procopius since leaving Italy, and a definite change had been wrought in him. He was always lean, and full of manic energy, but now there was something else: a kind of desperate, feverish intensity that seemed to be eating away at him from inside.
“You don’t look well, my friend,” I remarked, which was an understatement. He looked half-starved. The tendons on his scrawny neck stood out, and there was not an ounce of spare flesh on him. He picked restlessly at his food, speaking too quickly and eating too little.
“I am perfectly well,
” he snapped, “never better – never better! It is the Empire that sickens. Can you not see it, Coel? Can you not smell it? The stench of decay and corruption. It is all around us. It hangs in the air over this benighted city like a cloud, carrying plague and damnation and hellfire. Hellfire!”
His knife stabbed at a slice of chicken, missed, and almost overturned his bowl.
“You still can’t wield a blade, then,” I said drily, and was gratified to hear Arthur laugh. We were alone, just the three of us, seated on couches in the triclinium of my modest house.
Procopius sniffed, and crammed the morsel of chicken into his mouth. “You may jest,” he grumbled, still chewing, “but it is the laughter of the damned. So might the Greeks have laughed while Athens burned, or the citizens of Carthage, even as Scipio’s legions battered down their gates.”
Arthur sat upright on his couch and peered out of the window, which commanded a good view of the Bosphorus. “I see no enemy fleets sailing up the Horn,” he said lightly, “should we sound the alarm? Is the city threatened with imminent invasion?”
Procopius frowned horribly, stretching the too-tight yellow skin of his face. “Ignorant boy,” he snarled, “have you read no history? Every great empire eventually destroys itself from within.”
He leaned in closer, until I could smell the foul taint on his breath. “The Eastern Empire will go the same way as the West,” he hissed, “unless God sees fit to strike down Justinian and his whore of a wife. They are an evil couple, sent by the Devil to destroy the last outposts of civilisation with their venality and blatant injustices. Theodora has turned the imperial court into a simmering nest of slaves and vipers and profiteers – a veritable Sodom, the canker in the bosom of the Roman Empire!”
I held up my hand. “Enough,” I said patiently, “I won’t have that sort of talk in my house. It is treason.”
He sneered at my cowardice. “I seem to recall you were happy enough to commit treason in Italy.”
Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns Page 54
