Siege of Rome

by David Pilling

  We charged blindly through the storm. The gold and silver figures of Belisarius and Photius disappeared, swallowed up inside a wall of dust. We roared in fury and drove our horses to the limit, determined not to lose sight of our beloved general for long.

  The muffled yell of a trumpet sounded away to my right. Horsemen exploded into view, armed with javelins and oval shields. Stoza had thrown in his mutineer cavalry to meet our charge.

  For the first time I found myself facing Romans in battle. I had no time to dwell on the irony of that, but switched my grip on the kontos, lifting it high as a horseman galloped straight at me. He hurled his javelin, but it was a poor throw. The slender dart bounced harmlessly off the boss of my shield and span away.

  The impetus of his charge drove him onto my lance. I stabbed at his head, and the wickedly sharp steel tip took him in the throat and thrust out the back of his neck. I was trained for this, and gave the kontos a sharp twist, withdrawing the tip even as the mutineer fell from his saddle, blood pumping from the neat hole in his neck.

  Now all our ranks were broken up, the fight dissolved into dozens of individual combats. Dust flew into my eyes. A shape hurled itself at me, screaming like a devil, and I felt something hammer against my ribs. The pain made me cry out and double over. A javelin had hit me in the side, but my fine scale armour had preserved me from worse than bruises.

  My kontos was virtually useless in this sort of close fighting. I hurled it away and ripped out Caledfwlch, feeling my courage return as my fingers closed around the worn ivory grip.

  Most of my comrades fought with spathas, long swords with a heavy chopping edge. Caledfwlch was a gladius, a much shorter and rather antiquated weapon, intended for stabbing rather than hacking with the edge. Many of the guards thought me vain for persisting with such a relic, but I found the shorter blade gave me an advantage at close quarters.

  I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, just as the shrieking wind tore away the veil of dust and sand before us. At last I could see the rebel infantry, or what was left of it. Belisarius’ wild storm-charge had smashed great holes in their ranks, sweeping away squadrons and littering the ground with broken and mutilated bodies.

  Many of the ill-armed levies had fled the field, but a few stubborn mutineers and Vandals remained, formed up in isolated groups around their standards. Our cavalry swirled around them, casting spears and javelins in their faces. Belisarius’ guards were trained to use the short bow while mounted, and thumbed arrows into the helpless rebels. They would die where they stood, these men, or face the agony of crucifixion as a just punishment for those who betrayed the Roman state.

  I turned my horse away, thinking to take a breath of air and some water from my pottle. Now the brief battle was all but won, there was no need to take undue risks. Our men would whittle away at the rebels until their ragged shield-walls broke and we could charge in for the final slaughter.

  My horse carried me clear of the stench and din of battle, until I found a relatively quiet spot. The wind was still churning up sand-devils and blowing clouds of dust across the plain, so I felt strangely alone, shielded from the slaughter happening not more than thirty feet away.

  I had forgotten about Photius. He might have killed me then, but was unable to restrain himself from letting out a cry as he raced in to cut me down from behind.

  My water pottle was halfway to my lips when I heard the cry. I dropped it and hurled myself out of the saddle. His spatha sliced through thin air as I crashed onto my side, painfully jarring my recently healed arm.

  “Pig!” I heard Photius snarl. He galloped past and wrenched his horse around for another tilt at me. I glimpsed the young man’s face under his helmet, his handsome features contorted almost beyond recognition with berserk fury.

  Some instinct made me glance to my left. Another horseman was coming at me, one of my comrades from the First, his kontos lowered at my breast.

  The ground shook under my feet as he charged. Somehow my nerve held. Instead of panicking I held my ground and watched that gleaming lance-tip streak towards me. At the very last second I dived to my left.

  Death missed me by inches. I hit the ground hard, staggered to my feet, spitting dirt, and turned to face where I imagined Photius was.

  Too late. He was on me like an avenging angel, spatha raised to strike. I had no time to lift my little shield or ward off his blow with Caledfwlch.

  His blade crashed against the side of my helmet. Searing pain filled my skull. I tasted blood in my mouth. The world vanished, replaced by darkness and flashing lights.

  Then there was nothing.

  7.

  I must have lain unconscious for several hours. When I woke, night was slanting across the battlefield, and the thumping pain in my head was as nothing to the stench of death in my nostrils.

  Happily, Photius was not half the swordsman he thought he was. His blow had sheared the side-flap from my helmet, and scored a nasty gash on my head, but failed to split the bone. It was enough to knock me out cold, and fool him into leaving me for dead, but I suffered no other damage save a headache and loss of blood.

  I peeled off the crumpled shell of my helmet and struggled into a kneeling position, groaning and carefully exploring the wound on my head. The bleeding had stopped, and the right side of my skull was covered in a layer of half-dried, congealed gore.

  There was no sign of our army. The freak storm had died down, and I was able to see the hundreds of bodies, men and horses, that carpeted the plain. Most of them were rebels. Belisarius had smashed Stoza’s host and moved on, either pursuing them into the deep desert or withdrawing to Carthage. I briefly felt bitter that he had left me behind, but that was naive: victory came first, and Belisarius could not afford to be sentimental.

  The feeble groans of the dying echoed across the field as I got to my feet. My head swam, and I swayed dangerously, like a new-born calf attempting to stand.

  My hand instinctively went to my hip, searching for the reassuring touch of ivory. The scabbard was empty. Gulping in panic, I glanced down and spotted the sword lying near where I had fallen. It seemed Photius was ignorant of the legend of Caesar’s sword, and had not thought to take it.

  Other voices reached my ears as I bent to pick up Caledfwlch. The moans of dying men were mingled with the shrill yelps of desert hyenas, prowling among the bodies and fighting each other for strips of carrion. Some of the vile beasts tore at the bodies of men that yet lived. I saw a few vultures flapping about, their great leathery wings lending them the appearance of witches.

  Their human counterparts were at work. Some of the braver or more desperate citizens of Membresa had ventured out of the city, carrying knives and cudgels. Now the fighting was over, it was time to plunder the dead as some recompense for being robbed by Belisarius.

  I had witnessed the aftermath of battles before, but never from a position of danger. If I didn’t get off the field and find somewhere to hide until dawn, I would end up with a slashed throat, and Caledfwlch would fall into peasant hands.

  My wound made me sluggish. I had scarcely begun to limp away when a high-pitched, nasally voice cried out somewhere behind me:

  “There is one of them! Bring him down!”

  I broke into a staggering run. More voices piped up, like a flock of excited crows descending on a kill.

  A number of thin, wiry figures in loose grey robes suddenly appeared before me, as though they had sprouted out of the ground. They were peasants, their seamed, leathery faces twisted into bestial snarls, gnarled hands gripping sickles and pitchforks and other makeshift weapons.

  I fell into a guard position, holding Caledwlch ready to stab at any that came too near. The peasants were not dissuaded, and slowly closed in around me.

  “This one has some fire left in him,” one grunted, “bring him down with your spear, Sama.”

  The vinegar-faced brute named Sama drew back his arm and left fly. Fortunately, he was a handless buffoon, and the sharpened stick tha
t he called a spear flew harmlessly over my head.

  I swallowed and moistened my dry lips, cudgeling my brain for something to say. “I am a Roman officer,” I croaked, unable to think of anything better, “if you harm me, Rome will have her vengeance. Let me go, and you shall be rewarded.”

  Months later, when I repeated this little speech to Procopius, he laughed until the tears flowed down his cheeks.

  “Poor Coel,” he chuckled, dabbing at his eyes, “your continued survival is proof that God has a certain dry wit.”

  He was right, damn him. I should have spared my breath. Staying strong and silent might have made the peasants hesitate, but now they knew I was desperate. And scared.

  “Take him!” cried one who seemed to be their leader, a round-shouldered man with a greasy tangle of beard poking from under the scarf that hid the lower part of his face. He had a certain authority, and his robe and fringed mantle were made of finer stuff than the coarse wool of his fellows.

  He was also no fool, and hung back while the others rushed me all at once. There were seven of them, too many to repel even I had been fit.

  I had no option but to try. A man wielding a pitchfork came screaming at me, jabbing the prongs at my face. I batted the clumsy weapon away and sheared the skin off his knuckles, making him drop the fork and howl in agony.

  A flat-headed wooden club cracked against my shoulder. Once again my armour saved me. I swung around to stab at the clubman, and someone grabbed my hair from behind. That was futile, since it was shorn to a smear of stubble, Roman military style. I jerked my head backwards and connected sharply with a jaw.

  My satisfaction at the muffled curse that followed was short-lived. Something struck me in the stomach, expelling all the breath from my lungs. Fingers closed around my wrist, and I was unable to lift Caledfwlch.

  “Slash the Roman thief’s throat!” someone yelled. I felt cold steel pressed against my neck.

  “No, no,” cried their chief, “let him live for now. Spare him for the games.”

  The men holding me grumbled, and the one with the knife had murder in his eyes, but the round-shouldered man was clearly in command. From his superior dress and manner I judged him to be some elder or dignitary from the city.

  Despite his authority, he still had to wheedle a little. “Think, brothers,” he said in a voice dripping with insinuation, “how we might put this fine Roman officer to the test. Will he last longer than the usual thieves and cut-purses? The Romans make their soldiers tough, so they say. They will not beg for mercy, nor reveal any secrets under torture. Let us challenge that proud boast.”

  His words made me quail, but I tried to maintain a stoic front while the peasants laughed and nudged each other. It seemed that the prospect of breaking my body with various unspeakable tortures held more appeal than simply killing me on the spot, quick and clean.

  “Give me his sword,” ordered their chief. I stifled a cry as Caledfwlch was torn from my grip and handed reverently to him, like an offering to a priest.

  “Pretty,” the devil murmured, his deep-set eyes squinting at the blade as he inspected it, “a fine toy for my children to play with.”

  I worked up some pointless defiance. “If you have managed to breed,” I rasped, “then there is hope for every ape in Africa.”

  “I shall enjoy you,” he said, tucking Caledfwlch into the sash around his waist, “I shall enjoy you very much indeed.”

  They took me into the city, a sprawling and ramshackle place, designed in no particular order or pattern that I could see. As I have said, it had no walls, or drains either judging from the stink. The people were mostly white-skinned Africans mixed with a few Moors. They spat and jeered at me as I was pushed through the streets.

  “Look at the great Roman warrior!” they mocked, “see the power of Caesar, and tremble! Shall we bow down before you, soldier, and offer tribute?”

  Roman rule was not popular in North Africa, largely thanks to Justinian’s grinding taxes. Belisarius had all but crushed the revolt, and the people of Membresa would soon become part of the Empire again, so this was their last chance to express their resentment of imperial rule.

  I was the focus of that resentment. Had it not been for the chieftain, who held back the mob with an extraordinary flow of eloquence – and if that failed, a heavy stick – I would have been torn to pieces long before we reached the prisons.

  These were a block of crude single-storey cells built against the eastern wall of the largest residence in the city, a domed and porticoed house that I assumed to be the governor’s dwelling. They were all full, but a space was made for me by the simple expedient of clearing out all the inmates from one cell and cramming them into the others.

  “Courage,” one of the other prisoners gasped as he was dragged past me, “the general will save us.”

  He was dirty and blooded, but with a start I recognized him as Constantine, one of Belisarius’ captains. Another casualty from the battle, left for dead on the field and taken prisoner.

  I was shoved into a dark, foul-smelling chamber with a few wisps of dirty straw scattered on the earthen floor. The iron gate swung shut behind me.

  “Rest there, Roman,” cackled the jailer, a grey-toothed savage with a cast in one eye, “rest there until we decide to play with you.”

  A few more insults were thrown at me, along with a final burst of spittle, and then they left me alone to brood.

  At least, I reflected as I slumped to the floor and rested my back against the slimy wall, I had been in worse places. The dungeons of the Praetorium in Constantinople were no less uncomfortable. Nor was the griddle that Theodora would have roasted me alive on, had I not been saved by Narses.

  There was little chance of a rescue here, in this remote fly-blown part of Africa. Men always cling to hope, and I dared to dream that Belisarius would send a troop of cavalry in search of me. If not for my sake alone, then to retrieve Caledfwlch. Julius Caesar’s sword could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands.

  Darkness fell across the city. There was no light in my dingy prison, but the barred door faced out onto the torch-lit market square, which was slowly filling up with people. A few of them hurled curses at me, but most of their attention was fixed on a raised platform or dais being constructed in the middle of the square.

  The night was cold, but an extra chill flowered in the pit of my stomach as I watched the dais take shape. Another team of workmen brought a wagon into the square, pulled by a team of ponies, and lifted three long iron stakes off the back. The gathering crowd cheered as the stakes were hoisted onto the dais and fixed horizontally into three stone bases. They were about eight feet tall, and thrust into the air like lances, razor-sharp at one end.

  My brow furrowed as I watched a type of gallows erected next to the row of stakes. Then I realised it was a crude winch, considerably higher than the stakes, with a rope thrown over the cross-bar.

  More wagons arrived, carrying great stone jars containing some form of strong drink. These were passed among the crowd. People quickly became drunk and quarrelsome, and fights started to break out. No-one bothered to quell them. I ignored the violence and watched the men on the dais. They carried pots full of oil or grease, and were rubbing the stuff on the stakes.

  My skin crawled. I am blessed or cursed with a prodigious imagination, and my mind conjured up depraved images of the torments that would soon be inflicted on my shrinking carcass. I had heard rumours of the foul punishments inflicted on criminals in the more remote provinces, and never imagined that I might be the subject of them.

  “Belisarius will come,” I muttered to myself, over and over, “Belisarius will come…”

  Somewhere a drum started to beat, and the more excitable or drunken spirits in the crowd set up a great howling, like the jackals in the desert.

  A group of watchmen in ill-fitting leather tunics and helmets marched over to the prison houses. My heart lurched as I thought they would come to mine first. Shamefully, I prayed oth
erwise, and God heard my prayer. The watchmen chose one of the cells at the end of the row and dragged out the unfortunates held inside.

  Their wrists were bound behind their backs, and they were kicked and whipped towards the dais. I thought the crowd would set upon them, but instead a lane opened for the prisoners to pass through.

  One of them was Constantine. He looked around, wild-eyed, until he spotted me.

  “The general will come!” he shouted, until a laughing watchman clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “He will not,” I mouthed silently, leaning against the bars of my cell door.

  There were five prisoners. Three of them, including the Heruli, were hauled up the wooden steps onto the dais. The other two were held below to wait their turn.

  The games, as the African chieftain termed them, were not very sophisticated. My gorge rose as I realised what was going to happen.

  By now the noise in the square was unbearable. Wild, blood-curdling shrieks filled the air. The people wanted their entertainment.

  They soon got it. The three men on the dais lost the last shreds of their dignity as their clothes were cut away, and their ankles bound as well as their wrists. Helpless, the first of them was pulled over to the winch, and one end of the rope tied about his neck.

  My mind refused to believe what I was about to witness. The cruelties and debaucheries of the imperial court in Constantinople were nothing compared to this. Even Theodora would baulk at it.

  As a final indignity, and an aid to the obscenity about to follow, the suffering man’s fundament was slit open with a knife, and some kind of paste slapped onto the wound. As he screamed and wept for mercy, for Jesus, for his mother, six strong men seized hold of the other end of the rope and hauled him into the air.

  They might have held him there, suspended by his neck, until he was strangled, but that was not the aim. The cross-bar of the winch overhung all three of the iron stakes, and he was lowered down onto the first.

  I screwed my eyes shut and held onto the bars for support as his scream split the night sky. The agony that poor wretch suffered was unimaginable, and yet it would soon be my turn.