First, he tried negotiation, sending envoys under a flag of truce to drip lying offers of peace into Narses’ ear. The eunuch scornfully rejected them all, but made his own offer in return, claiming he would spare the lives of Totila’s warriors if the King surrendered and delivered himself up as a captive. Totila, unsurprisingly, failed to respond.
He switched tactics, sending the pick of his warriors into the space between the armies to make challenges of single combat. Some of these were accepted, and the Masterless Men amused themselves by laying bets on the winners.
I vividly recall one such duel. Totila sent out a truly gigantic warrior, one of the biggest men I ever saw, and this giant rode back forth before the Roman lines, bellowing out his challenge.
For a long while none cared to step forward and accept. He spat in contempt of Roman cowardice, and was about to turn his horse, when an officer broke away from Narses’ bodyguard and galloped into the open.
I could not see the officer clearly – they were tiny, doll-like figures at this distance – but he was dwarfed by his opponent.
“Four siliqua on the giant,” offered the man next to me, producing a handful of silver coin and weighing it in his hand.
“Done,” I said, and we shook hands. It may seem a foolish wager, but mere size is not all. I didn’t have the money anyway.
The two warriors rode to midway between the armies, and there faced each other. Cheers and shouts burst from Roman and Gothic throats as they clapped in their spurs and charged together.
At the last moment, the Roman officer swerved sideways, avoiding the other’s lance, and rammed his spear under the giant’s ribs. It ran clean through that enormous body, and burst out of his spine.
The Goth stiffened in the saddle, and for a few seconds kept his seat as his horse slowed to a canter. Then, to catcalls from the Romans and groans from the Goths, he slowly toppled to one side and collapsed to earth like a falling tree.
“Four siliqua,” I said, grinning as my beaten opponent threw his money at my face.
Still the Gothic reinforcements had not arrived. Narses might have advanced against the inferior numbers of the enemy, but he lacked the dash and fire of Belisarius.
“In chess,” I could hear his piping voice in my head, “one does not simply throw all one’s pieces forward in an all-out assault.”
Totila resorted to an extraordinary piece of theatre. He rode out alone from his army, clad from head to toe in golden armour that outshone the sun, and mounted on a huge white stallion. Bound to his shoulders was a cloak made of some rich purple stuff. It streamed behind him as he cantered towards our infantry.
A kind of awed silence fell across the Masterless Men. I had no reason to love Totila, but was struck dumb by his valour. It was like something from Greek legend – a king in golden armour, riding forth to attack an enemy host single-handed.
The King of the Goths had no intention of throwing away his life. When he came to the midway point, near where his giant was struck down, he suddenly reined in his stallion.
Totila uttered a piercing cry of defiance and tossed his lance high into the air. He caught it, whirled it above his head, and started to make his horse prance in circles, as I had seen performers do in the Hippodrome.
“Is he a king, or a circus act?” growled Asbad.
It didn’t end there. Mocking applause broke from the Roman ranks as Totila continued to toss and catch his spear, throw himself backwards in the saddle before suddenly regaining his seat, and make his horse spin and dance.
He performed for the best part of an hour, an impressive feat for a man covered in armour. When he was done, he gave a last shrill cry and spurred his sweating horse back to the Gothic lines, to a storm of cheers from his adoring troops.
I heard later, from one of Narses’ bodyguards, that the eunuch made the following remark:
“Very impressive. Is it my turn now?”
His officers laughed, but Totila had succeeded in delaying the battle. His long-awaited two thousand auxiliaries had finally emerged from the mountains, somewhat disordered from their forced march, and joined his infantry in the centre.
The Goths were still in a grim position. To me, it seemed obvious Totila had to withdraw. He could have holed up behind the walls of Rome, as Belisarius did when confronted with overwhelming numbers, and dared Narses to prise him out.
The Goths, however, only respected a monarch who displayed strength and daring on the battlefield. A tactical retreat was not in their belligerent nature. Like the Vandals, they remained to the last a warlike people.
Totila willingly embraced his doom. He ordered his cavalry forward, eight thousand or so lancers with horse-archers on the flanks, and formed them into five big squadrons. It was an awesome sight, hundreds of steel-clad riders forming into lines across the plain, banners flapping overhead.
In a vain bid to intimidate the Romans, Totila had his infantry yell war-songs and beat incessantly on their drums.
“Noise won’t break the Roman wall,” I said confidently, “and nor will those horsemen. Run away, you foolish Germans! You don’t stand a chance.”
The cavalry started to move, rolling forward at a slow trot. Totila had put himself in the central squadron. His royal standard, displaying two crossed golden axes against a red field, was clearly visible. He had put off his golden ceremonial armour for a standard helmet and cuirasse, but wore royal robes of purple and gold, and a scarf embroidered with precious stones wound about his head.
Faster, faster, the tide of steel and horseflesh moved, shifting into a trot, a canter, and then a full-blown gallop. This was warfare as the poets understood it, a glorious last-ditch charge against the odds, brothers in arms, sweeping forward across a fair plain to conquer or die.
Sadly for the Goths, they were up against Narses, who possessed not an ounce of poetry or romance in his corrupt little soul. Safe behind a triple line of bodyguards, he sat on a chair mounted on a cart – he was unable to see over their heads otherwise – and calmly watched his enemies ride into the trap.
“Now,” I murmured when I judged the Goths were within range of our archers.
The summer sky was briefly darkened by a storm of arrows. I saw the front ranks of the Gothic cavalry founder, horses and men tumbling to earth, but the rest came on, galloping straight over the bodies of their comrades.
It was impossible not to admire their courage. The unarmoured horse-archers were destroyed in moments, melting away under the relentless hail of arrows. The few survivors wheeled their ponies and fled, leaving hundreds dead and dying behind them and spreading a tremor of panic through the watching Gothic infantry.
The lancers thundered into the Roman infantry. I chewed my lip as our shield-wall buckled and retreated a few steps under the impact of that wild charge, but the Goths lacked the weight of numbers to break it.
A peal of trumpets rang across the field. Reserves of footmen were sent in to bolster our sagging line, while the archers poured forward to shoot into the flanks of the struggling Goths.
Narses was conducting the battle with calm skill. He had carefully planned his strategy and predicted the moves of his opponent, who was a brave man and an inspirational leader, but no great tactician.
The Goths fought with the unyielding courage of men who expected to die. Their flanks were swiftly shot to pieces, and they could make no headway against the wall of shields, but still they fought on. Time and again they rallied around their standards, swinging swords and axes until every man was shot or speared from the saddle. Their long-haired, blood-slathered corpses lay in heaps, the flower of a nation’s fighting men, slaughtered by their own brave folly.
“Senseless massacre,” remarked Asbad, “Totila is not fit to command. A good leader leads his men to profit, not death.”
“Or glory,” said Agremond, who had no love for his chief. His hand moved slightly towards his dagger. I tensed, waiting for him to make his bid for the leadership of the Masterless Men. If he drew s
teel on Asbad, I was fairly certain others would follow.
His hand fell away. Agremond’s nerve had failed him at the crucial moment. Frustrated, I turned my attention back to the battle.
The Gothic squadrons were broken up, shattered beyond repair, over half their number lying stretched on the bloodied grass. A few hundred men, the best of them, fought on doggedly in isolated groups. Eighty or so formed up around the royal banner, resolved to defend it, and the person of Totila, to the last.
Asbad craned his neck, his eyes narrowing as they searched the field. “There,” he said, pointing at the distant figure of Totila, fighting like a madman alongside his remaining bodyguards, “keep him in your sight.”
The courage of most men has its limits. A few of the Goths wheeled their horses and fled, galloping back the way they had come, over ground liberally scattered with dead and dying.
This was enough to break the wavering spirit of the Gothic infantry, who had done nothing but stand and watch the methodical destruction of their comrades. The ordered lines of spearmen and archers rapidly disintegrated into a mob of fugitives, casting aside their weapons and streaming south towards the Flaminian road. I had seen a rout before, even participated in a few, and recognised the all-consuming terror that drove trained soldiers to panic and run for their lives.
Asbad had no interest in the fate of the infantry, though their discarded gear was of some value. He kept his eyes fixed on the carnage to the north, where the last of Totila’s warriors were being overwhelmed and cut down.
“There!” he shouted, jabbing his finger at the royal standard, “there is our quarry!”
The standard was moving away from the battlefield, while Totila’s few surviving guards dragged their master out of the fighting and threw him across a horse. He was badly wounded, one hand clutched to his bleeding side, and in no condition to prevent them leading him away. Otherwise he would have happily stayed to meet his end on Roman blades.
I thought Asbad fixated on mere plunder, but he had it in mind to slay a king. “Forward, if you wish to be rich men!” he shouted, clapping in his spurs and urging his horse down the rocky slope.
Seeing his intention, the Masterless Men gave a great shout and spurred after him. I followed, grateful for the opportunity to get closer to the battle – and Arthur – and to put an end to Asbad.
The Gothic army was in full flight, thousands of fleeing horse and foot scattered across the plain. Asbad and his men galloped through them, riding over those who failed to get out of the way in time, hacking down the few who showed fight.
I made no attempt to strike at the fugitives. There was only one man I wanted to kill that day, and I kept my eyes fixed on his back.
The Masterless Men intercepted Totila and his guards on the western edge of the plain. Only five men remained to the wounded king, but these five prepared to sell their lives dearly, forming a protective circle around him.
Asbad hung back while his followers tore into the hopelessly outnumbered guards. The skirmish was brief and bitter, and nine Masterless Men died before the five were slain. They died well, those men, and their bloody-handed killers honoured them by immediately plundering the corpses. The thieves growled and snapped at each other, fighting for the possession of rings ripped or cut from dead fingers, like wild dogs squabbling over a kill.
Seeing Totila alone and defenceless, Asbad struck. He charged in, spear levelled, and impaled the king’s body, through the gap between the dented plates of his cuirass.
Totila slumped over his horse’s neck, coughing blood, while Asbad wheeled away in triumph.
“I killed the king!” he shouted excitedly, “I killed the king!”
His celebration was short-lived. I galloped in behind him, judging my aim carefully, and unleashed a scything cut at his neck.
It was a sweet blow, perhaps the finest I ever struck. My sword was an ugly, ill-balanced thing, but with a finely honed edge. It cleaved smoothly through the back of Asbad’s thick neck and neatly sliced off his head.
The head span away, eyes glazing, mouth still stretched in a frozen grin. I saw it land and bounce a couple of times, before a fleeing horse trod on it. The skull burst like a rotten melon, scattering what passed for Asbad’s brains all over the trampled earth.
None of the Masterless Men made any effort to avenge their chief. They were distracted by plunder, and three of the most avaricious, including Agramond, were already tearing at the body of Totila. They fought over his rich vestments, spattered with blood and mire, and Agramond dragged the jewel-encrusted scarf from his helm. He would have made off with it, but one of his comrades struck at him with a sword, cutting off his left arm at the elbow.
The bloodied scarf fluttered to earth, along with Agramond’s severed limb. I was minded to leave the thieves to their work, but then we were overrun by a tide of yelling horse-archers.
They were Huns, despatched by Narses to capture Totila and bring him back alive as a valuable prisoner. Furious at seeing him dead, they set about butchering his killers.
Outnumbered and outmatched, the Masterless Men were slaughtered. I clung to my horse’s right side, determined not to raise my head, and was swept away in the swirling mass of fighting men and screaming horses.
“Kill these pigs! Just kill them!” someone howled, and I saw a Roman officer cut with his spatha at a robber’s face. The heavy chopping edge sliced away the top of his victim’s head, leaving only the lower part of the jaw intact.
The officer wore lamellar armour over his chest and thighs, liberally stained with blood, and had lost his crested helmet in the fighting. I would have recognised his lean, greying, sharp-nosed face anywhere this side of Hell.
“Bessas!” I shouted, my voice cracking as I tried to make myself heard, “Bessas – it’s me, Coel! Roma Victor!”
Bessas reined in, blood dripping from his sword, and looked around. He was never one for smiling, but I thought the corners of his sour little mouth hitched up a little when he spotted me.
“So it is,” he said, as though my presence was nothing remarkable, “and after all this time you still neglect to salute a superior officer!”
15.
Bessas was in command of the Huns, and managed to restrain them from killing me. Instead they sated their bloodlust on my erstwhile comrades, killing them all with ruthless efficiency.
I had spent many months in the company of the Masterless Men, but cannot honestly pretend I felt a shred of pity for them. They were criminals of the lowest stamp, thieves and murderers and rapists, and rode with Death constantly grinning at their shoulders. At Taginae, his skeletal hands gathered them up.
When all was over, and the Huns had gathered up the body of Totila, Bessas escorted me to the Roman lines. Dusk was falling as we picked our way over the wreckage of the Gothic army. Weary but victorious Roman soldiers were moving among the piles of bodies, looking for fallen comrades and finishing off wounded Goths.
“A familiar reek,” he remarked, lifting his long snout to sniff the rank air, “blood and death and terror. You and I have sampled it on a fair few battlefields, eh?”
I was in no mood to reminisce about past campaigns. “Bessas,” I said anxiously, “what do you know of my son? Did he survive the battle?”
“Never fear. Arthur came through it without a scratch, and distinguished himself into the bargain. Did you see him repel that first Gothic charge? I found myself wondering who his real father was.”
He spoke in jest, and I was relieved enough to laugh with him.
We reached the northern edge of the battlefield, where the Gothic cavalry had broken their teeth on the Roman shields. The Roman infantrymen had broken up into their respective tribes, and something like a festival atmosphere had settled over the army. Men laughed and joked around their campfires, their good humour fuelled by the barrels of ale and mead and wine Narses had supplied them.
There was a slightly hysterical edge to their laughter. These men were the ones who had surviv
ed, and come through the battle unscathed. If you listened hard, you could hear the distant screams of their wounded and dying comrades in the medical tents, where our surgeons were practising their art.
I noticed Bessas was taking me to the grand central pavilion, where the banner of the double-headed eagle flew in triumph.
“I have no wish to see Narses,” I said, halting, “he thinks I’m dead. Let him.”
“You could not hope to deceive him for long,” replied Bessas in his matter-of-fact way, “and you must come, if you wish to see your son. Arthur is in the general’s pavilion. Narses has invited him to dinner, along with any other officers who distinguished themselves today.”
I might have feared a trap, but this was Bessas, one of the most honest men in the Roman army (even if that wasn’t saying much). With a sigh, I followed him to the pavilion.
Narses was still guarded by his toy soldiers, richly-armoured gallants with plumes in their silver helmets. I responded to their suspicious glances with a sneer and a rude gesture, and laughed when one reached for his sword.
“Careful,” I said, “the rust might make the blade stick.”
He went red, but Bessas caught my arm and led me inside before any further pleasantries could be exchanged.
The interior was just as tastelessly opulent as I remembered from my last meeting with Narses at Ancona. Added to the rich carpets and stench of incense was the warbling of a young male singer in the corner, accompanied by a girl plucking on a lyre. They looked like siblings, with the same angelic faces and crisp blonde hair, and were probably slaves, bought by Narses at great expense from the market in Constantinople.
Their gentle music was all but drowned by the coarse laughter of soldiers, sitting or sprawling on a number of divans arranged in a rough circle in the middle of the pavilion. The wine was flowing, and had been for some time judging by the drunken conversation and coarse jests flying about.
Narses was lounging on the smallest of the divans, wearing a plain white robe with a silver circlet on his brow, as though in grotesque parody of an emperor. His friend, John the Sanguinary, sat at his right hand, dressed in a manner which might have been considered extravagant by an opium-addled Persian whoremaster.
Caesar's Sword: The Complete Campaigns Page 61
