Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns

by David Pilling

  “I made a mistake. Belisarius lied to me, and I was fool enough to believe him. Afterwards, I swore to never again put my faith in so-called great men, or dip my toe in politics. I’m sorry, Procopius. If you speak of such matters again, I will have you ejected from my house.”

  He growled and mumbled for a bit, but made no objection when I steered the conversation into calmer waters: the weather, my recent profits, the lamentable state of a recent shipload of mares from Hippo Regius.

  Procopius’ illness and foul temper stemmed from his disappointment in Belisarius. Like me, he had trusted the general, and hoped he would restore the former glory of the decaying Roman state. Belisarius’ military victories had blinded us to the weaknesses of the man.

  He continued to adore his wife, even though her affair with Theodosius had become the scandal of the age, and in doing so made himself ridiculous. The conqueror of North Africa and Italy, reduced to a hapless cuckold.

  It seemed fortune had deserted Belisarius. His reward for his loyalty in Italy was to be despatched to the East with a small and inadequate army. He had won great victories against the odds before, but Nurshivan was no fool, and refused to encounter the Romans in the field.

  With half a mind on his wife’s infidelity, Belisarius fought a desultory campaign. He eventually managed to push the Sassanids back into their own country, and bring Nurshivan to the negotiating table. A treaty was signed, whereby the Sassanid king promised not to attack Roman territory for five years.

  The wax was hardly cooled before Belisarius hurried back to Constantinople, to finally confront his faithless wife. I had forbade Procopius from uttering treason in my house, but it was difficult not to be fascinated by the morsels of court gossip and scandal he fed us.

  “Belisarius is a broken man,” he confided to us during one of his infrequent visits, “would you believe, while in the East he tried to cultivate the friendship of Photius! He imagined Photius would help him bring about the downfall of Theodosius. Oh yes, our golden general finally accepts the truth of his wife’s infidelity. How he wept over her! It was pathetic to witness. Shameful. A great man and a great soldier, reduced to slavery by a woman.”

  Photius was the son of Antonina, a deceptively godlike young man who had done his best to kill me, in the days when I mattered to the great ones of the Empire. I was astonished to hear Belisarius had forged an alliance with such a worthless character.

  “So low had he fallen,” Procopius continued, “and has fallen lower still. I overheard his confrontation with Antonina.”

  “Eavesdropping,” remarked Arthur. Procopius glowered at him, but went on with his tale.

  “He accused her of betraying him, and making him a laughing stock. She stood firm against the assault, and responded with a sally of her own, claiming that Belisarius owed her his life and career. Justinian, she said, was unimpressed with her husband’s performance in the East, and had been on the verge of recalling him and accusing him of treason.”

  “Only Antonina’s intervention – so she said, with that winning smile of hers – had persuaded the Emperor to relent, and saved Belisarius’ head.”

  I could well imagine Antonina playing our endlessly suspicious little Emperor like a lyre, but thought Belisarius far too shrewd to be manipulated.

  “Surely he did not believe it?” I exclaimed, “Justinian would not dare touch Belisarius. The general commands the loyalty of the army, and the love of the people.”

  Procopius bared his yellowing teeth. “I told you, he is a broken man. He not only believed it, but was beside himself with gratitude. He actually went down on his knees before Antonina and licked her feet! Imagine it, Coel, the man we followed through seven kinds of Hell in all those campaigns, abasing himself like a half-witted slave before a woman like that!”

  I could scarcely credit any of it. Procopius was a bitter and disillusioned man, and probably guilty of exaggeration, but he told the truth in one respect: the star of Belisarius was gradually falling.

  It disgusted me, to think of my old chief reduced to such a condition, but told myself it was none of my affair. He had made the great decision of his life at Ravenna, and was now suffering the consequences.

  Years passed. The Emperor and his courtiers continued to plot and conspire against each other, and my business continued to prosper. Arthur married a sweet-faced young girl named Flavia, the daughter of a minor nobleman, and I looked forward to a gradual slide into peaceful old age.

  In my heart, I knew I was allowing myself to be deceived. There would be no hearth and home for me in my old age, no laughter of grandchildren. Those who carry Arthur’s blood are not suffered to rest.

  I knew the end was coming when news reached Constantinople of a massive uprising in Italy. Roman rule was precarious, and the men Belisarius left behind to govern the country had failed to stamp out the stubborn embers of Gothic resistance.

  By now Vitiges was dead, having expired in honourable captivity in Constantinople. Instead of submitting, the Goths had chosen a new leader. The Roman armies in Italy had already suffered defeats at his hands, and he was said to have scraped together enough men to threaten Florence.

  His name passed through the streets of Constantinople like an evil rumour, or a portent of dread.

  Totila.

  4.

  All manner of stories circulated about the new King of the Goths. Some said he was the product of a tryst between a German witch and the Devil, and carried the marks to prove it: a pair of horns, sharp fangs in place of teeth, nails like curving daggers, and other such nonsense. Others claimed he had unearthly powers, and was capable of raising dead warriors to life with a snap of his fingers.

  In reality Italy was not being overrun by an army of the undead led by a witch-king, but a resurgent nation in arms led by a fierce and charismatic young nobleman. He was clever, too, and whipped up support by liberating slaves and distributing land to peasants.

  His army, small at first, performed daring raids on Roman garrison troops, ambushing our patrols and plundering convoys before vanishing back into the hills and forests of northern Italy.

  “The wretched man must be caught, and soon,” said Procopius, “before these little victories start turning into major ones. Rome can ill-afford to fight another Spartacus.”

  “A few battered patrols and burned wagons don’t amount to much,” I said complacently, “Constantian and Alexander will bring this Totila and his little army of rebels to battle soon enough, and there will be an end of the matter.”

  Constantian and Alexander were the Roman generals Belisarius had left in charge of Italy. I didn’t know much about Constantian, but Alexander was notorious: a former financial official turned soldier, who had distinguished himself by accusing the Roman army of defrauding the state. He tried to save money by slashing the wages of the soldiers in Italy, abolishing the free corn ration to the poor in Rome, and levying crushing taxes on towns and cities.

  Unsurprisingly, Alexander was hugely unpopular, and I confidently expected him to be murdered sooner rather than later. Not, however, before he and his colleague had dealt with the rebels.

  Word of the fateful battle reached Constantinople on a suitably gloomy, overcast day, borne by an envoy in a single leaking galley crawling up the Bosphorus. The envoy had been wounded in the fighting, and gave a vivid account of it to the crowds gathered on the harbour.

  “I escaped the slaughter with this,” he cried, pointing dramatically at the bloodstained bandage wrapped round his head, “but thousands of our brave soldiers were not so fortunate. O Romans, was there ever such a defeat as this? Even Hannibal, whose name still carries a ring of terror down the centuries, never inflicted such shame on Roman arms.”

  “Get on with it,” shouted Arthur, who had accompanied me to the harbour. Other impatient voices rose in agreement, and the pale-faced envoy hurried on with his narrative.

  “As I say, twelve thousand of our finest soldiers marched from Ravenna to crush the ignoble Go
ths and their upstart princeling. They marched on Verona, but lately seized by the enemy, and retook the town by a clever stratagem at dead of night. One Artabazes, a Persian in our service, distinguished himself in this fight.”

  “Bugger Persians,” someone yelled, “what about our lads? One of my sons is out there, serving in the army.”

  The envoy scowled. “Alas, our generals failed to press the advantage,” he continued, “and Verona was lost again the very next day. Our army retreated to Faenza, to await the assault of the Goths.”

  The rest made for grim listening. Totila’s army was roughly half the size of ours, but they fought like men inspired, led by their warlike chief on a massive white horse.

  “He wore gold-plated armour, shining like the sun,” the envoy claimed, “and wielded a lance with expert skill. Every time his lance struck, a Roman died.”

  It seemed our troops withstood the first wild charge of the Goths, but their morale was sapped by the mindless avarice of General Alexander, who had seen fit to cut their pay again before the battle.

  When a band of three hundred Gothic cavalry suddenly appeared, charging into the rear of the Roman army, all discipline and valour was cast to the wind. Our men scattered and were mown by the pursuing Goths, who took the opportunity to exact bloody revenge for all their past defeats.

  The survivors fled to the nearest Roman outposts, where they holed up in terror of the enemy. Brave men, reduced to so many frightened mice by a single defeat.

  There were cries of anger and dismay among the crowd, and loud demands for something to be done – a familiar wail, one I had heard too many times to take much notice of. Those who uttered it were seldom the ones ordered to buckle on sword and shield and march away to salvage Rome’s bruised national pride.

  Arthur’s reaction surprised me. His usual easy demeanour had vanished, and he was visibly upset, fists clenched, tears sparkling in his green eyes.

  “Rome must hit back,” he said through gritted teeth, “with everything we have. Troops, ships, money – all our resources must be pooled towards smashing the Goths!”

  “I didn’t know you loved Rome so much,” I replied, though it was a welcome glimpse into my son’s mind.

  Embarrassed, he hurriedly wiped away his tears and stalked away. I battled a rising tide of anxiety as I watched him go.

  Arthur was the descendent of a long line of warriors, and now his hereditary instincts were coming to the fore. I had done my best to dissuade him from joining the army, but always suspected my efforts were in vain. The day would come when the call of the trumpets would prove too strong for him to ignore.

  “Not yet,” I muttered, hastening after him, “not yet.”

  It was selfish, but I was determined not to lose my only child. There had rarely been any harsh words between us, but that night we argued into the small hours. His heart was set on joining the cavalry, and I used every low stratagem I could think of to stop him.

  “Think of your wife,” I cried, pointing to the ceiling (Flavia, sensing the tension between her husband and father-in-law, had retired to bed early), “she is with child. For their sake, if not mine, you cannot leave now.”

  Flavia was indeed carrying my grandchild, though another eight months would elapse before the infant came into the world. Arthur seemed strangely indifferent to his wife’s condition, and had greeted the news of her pregnancy with a rather forced display of joy.

  “It will be difficult for Flavia, I accept,” he replied sullenly, “but she will suffer no more than any other soldier’s wife. How can I stay here, growing rich and fat, while thousands of my fellow countrymen are fighting and dying in Italy?”

  I ventured to approach him and lay a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me,” I said earnestly, “you may think this hypocrisy, coming from me, but the Romans are not your fellow countrymen. We are imperial citizens, yes, and I served for a number of years in the Roman army. But we are British. The blood of Nennius and Coel Hen runs in our veins. You owe Rome taxes, but not your life.”

  Arthur frowned down at me from his great height. Constant exercise with horses, and a good diet, had filled out his spare frame, and he had grown into a big, powerful young man.

  In short, he was my grandsire come again. In my mind’s eye I could easily picture him on the ridge at Mount Badon, rallying the British troops for a final charge, the Pendragon banner rippling above his head.

  I shook away the image. This Arthur would live out his days in peace and comfort, not end them on some stricken battlefield, betrayed by his own kin.

  “I want to do my duty,” he said, though some of the passion had gone out of his voice.

  I patted his brawny shoulder. “So you shall. Your duty is here, with your family. Let Italy take care of itself. This Totila won’t last long. Belisarius will crush him like the insect he is.”

  I expected the Emperor to react quickly to our defeat at Faenza, and sent his one brilliant general to Italy without delay. However, mean-minded and suspicious as ever, Justinian kept Belisarius in Constantinople, where he could be watched, and put his faith in the generals who had already failed him.

  More distressing news flew across the Adriatic. Totila conducted a superb campaign, gaining more battles and driving our forces out of Tuscany. He avoided our well-defended cities, especially ports, but instead concentrated on seizing control of the countryside. He moved fast, far too fast for our befuddled generals, always turning up where he was least expected, carrying out lethal raids and ambushes that sapped our strength and fed his legend.

  I listened to the news of Totila’s progress with mounting frustration. Though I had left the army behind, and Belisarius, it still filled me with anger to hear of how all our conquests were being thrown away, like good grain from a sack, by the fools and incompetents we had left to guard Italy.

  “God and all the Saints,” I shouted when I heard that virtually the whole of southern Italy had submitted to Totilla, “what is happening out there? Where are our troops?”

  “Running away, according to the latest reports,” Arthur said gloomily, “or hiding behind strong walls. Totila avoids pitched battles, and our men are too frightened to make him fight one.”

  The news from Italy was dispiriting, but soon overwhelmed by private sorrows.

  Flavia gave birth in late summer. The labour was harrowing, lasting almost twelve hours, during which time I sat downstairs with Arthur, drinking heavily and trying to block out the poor girl’s shrieks.

  “She was never strong,” said Arthur, who also punished the wine, “I should have picked out some plump farmer’s daughter from the hills. Wide hips and never a cross word.”

  The midwives did their best, but were unable to save the child. My granddaughter was stillborn. Her pitiful little body lies buried in the great cemetery on the Western side of the Bosphorus. The tiny grave is marked by a white marble cross, upon which is inscribed her name:

  ELLIFER

  My mother’s name. Perhaps it was blasphemy to give a name to one who never drew the breath of life, but in my grief I cared nothing for the condemnation of the church.

  Flavia barely survived the trauma of childbirth, and was broken in spirit by the loss of her child. I feared Arthur might not comfort her, but he was kind in his way, and stayed by his wife’s bedside until her strength returned.

  Our house was a sad, melancholy place, haunted by the ghost of the dead girl. In the midst of all this, when every day was a trial to be endured, a most unexpected visitor arrived at my door.

  My old chief, Belisarius.

  5.

  He came alone, which was dangerous for a man in his position, with so many enemies, and dressed in a plain grey woollen tunic and brown hooded mantle.

  I had not seen the general, save from afar during parades, for over four years. Our last meeting had been in Ravenna, when he apologised for his deceit, and permitted me to retire from the army.

  My servant informed me there was a man at the do
or, who insisted on seeing the master of the house.

  I was in my private study at the time, next to my bedchamber, trying and failing to work on a set of accounts for the previous month. Thoughts of my dead grandchild clawed at me, and the painful memory of her funeral.

  “Did he give a name?” I snapped.

  “No, sir,” the servant replied, “but he claims to be an old soldier, who served with you in Africa and Italy.”

  I rubbed my eyes, sore from hours of staring at numbers. This wasn’t the first time some down-at-heel veteran had visited my house, claiming to be a comrade of mine from the wars. I found it difficult to turn them away, these crippled old beggars, cast aside by the Roman state after their usefulness was expended. My clerk disapproved, but more often than not I ended up giving them a purse of money and a few kind words.

  “Ah, show him in,” I said, pushing away the rolls of parchment on my desk, “and fetch a jug of wine and two cups. The cheap stuff, mind.”

  Moments later, an imposing figure stood framed in the doorway. I had expected the usual skulking, whining beggar, probably missing some body part or other, but this man had a presence about him.

  His face was yet hidden under the hood. “Well, Coel,” said a strangely familiar voice.

  My servant had already brought the wine. I smiled up at the figure in the doorway, and poured two generous measures.

  There was a sheathed dagger in the left-hand drawer of my desk. “Come in, come in,” I said jovially, inching my left hand closer to the drawer, “I see you know my name. Might I ask yours?”

  “Flavius Belisarius,” said the other man, pushing back his hood.

  I froze. The man standing before me was recognisably Belisarius, though his face had aged considerably since I last saw it at close quarters. His thinning black hair was rubbed away completely from the top of his scalp, and his close-shaved beard was now almost entirely grey.

  Belisarius was always an aesthetic-looking man, more priest than soldier by appearance. The deep lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes had proliferated, and the weathered skin was stretched too tight over his long, narrow skull. He looked like a man who knew too much, worked too hard for little reward, and scarcely enjoyed a moment’s comfort or peace of mind.